Page 29 of Wicked King

Jimmy leaps out next, his revolver pointed at Jia’s head.

“No,” I shout at my right-hand man. “What the fuck is wrong with you, pointing that thing at my fiancée? Put that away now.” My tone brooks no argument, and Jimmy holsters his weapon as he stalks closer, a scowl darkening his features.

The shuffle of her grandfather’s approaching footfalls only deepens the furrow of Jia’s brow. “Stay back, Yéye,” she grinds out.

The little spitfire presses the muzzle to my stomach and Jimmy hisses out a curse behind me. My abs tighten at the invasion of metal, but I don’t flinch. I stopped fearing death ages ago. In fact, some days, I welcome it. The errant thought startles me. I don’t often admit the grisly truth even to myself.

“I will not stay back until you give Mr. Rossi his gun,” the old man calls out. “What are you thinking, child?” he barks.

Jia’s lip quivers, but her eyes remain fixed to mine, lethal rage pounding through the blazing darkness. Her finger closes around the trigger.

Wei Guo steps up to us, but there’s no hesitation from my new fiancée. The gun remains pressed into my gut. “Jia!” He hisses a few sentences in Mandarin, but she doesn’t relent. Knowing little about Chinese culture except for their extreme respect for their elders, this appears completely out of character for the seemingly submissive granddaughter.

“I won’t do this, Yéye.”

“You will, baobèi, because you are an intelligent, mature woman, and you know that my decision is what is best for all.”

She shakes her head, tears blurring the impenetrable darkness.

The old man’s hand closes around the gun, and somehow, he manages to pry her finger from the trigger. Once he’s done that, I reach for my weapon and rip it the rest of the way free of her grasp. I should be furious, but instead, I’m slightly impressed. And way too turned on.

Wei Guo weaves his arm around his granddaughter’s slim shoulders and steers her toward the alley that leads up to her apartment. I stand there in the middle of the sidewalk in stunned silence.

“You sure about that one, boss?” Jimmy sidles closer and drags a hand through his dirty-blond locks. “It looks to me like you just agreed to let the devil into your bed.”

“Don’t talk about my future wife that way, coglione,” I snarl. “Or you’ll be the one with a muzzle in your gut.”

“Shit, relax, boss, I was just messing with you.”

“I’m in no mood.”

“Clearly,” he spits and marches back toward the limo.

Now what the fuck am I supposed to do?

My gaze trails after Guo and his granddaughter, already half-way down the alley. Technically, my duty is complete. I got them to and from the Triad meeting safe and sound. I should just go home and figure out how the hell I’m going to survive my engagement to the little spitfire with my balls still intact.

But for some goddamned reason, my heels are rooted to the ground.

Cazzo… I glance up over the windows of the boutique to the apartment above, and a shadow creeps across the glass.

What the hell?

My shoes are pounding the sidewalk before my brain has a minute to process what I just saw. I whirl around the corner, but Jia and her grandfather must have already gone inside the building.

Pumping my arms, I race down the alley and wrench the door handle. Merda, it’s locked. “Jia! Jia, don’t go inside!” I shout and pound my fists into the glass door.

Fuck this. I pull out my Glock and smash the glass with the butt of the gun. It shatters in a hundred pieces, crystal shards raining down across my loafers. Dio, first vomit, now glass? Just a few hours with this woman, and she’s already ruined my favorite pair of Ferragamos.

I snake my hand in through the broken glass and unlock the door, then race up the steps to the fourth floor, my heart a cacophony of drumbeats vibrating my ribcage.

When I finally reach her floor, cursing the damned walk-up, I sprint down the empty hall. Shit, they’ve already gone inside. Am I completely losing my mind, had I imagined that shadow?

A shrill scream answers my unspoken question and my heart drives up into my throat for the second time today. Dashing across the quiet hallway, I focus on my footfalls, trying my damnedest to keep them light despite the anger compelling every step.

When I reach her door, I pause, fingers clenched around my gun. Drawing in a steadying breath, I don the icy mask I wear for battle, the one I learned at the ripe old age of ten. Life in foster care may not have been an actual war, but it sure as fuck felt like it to a kid. I swing the door open with my gun trained at eyelevel. I’m greeted by a lethal stillness.

Scanning the small studio, I level the muzzle of my gun over every exposed inch of the place. Only two possible hiding spots remain: her bedroom behind the graffitied wall or her bathroom.

---