Page 87 of The Woman in the Warehouse

“You okay?” I asked.

“Fury,” she said, voice raspy, likely from that fuck’s hand being around her throat.

“We got her,” I assured her, finding my hands fucking clumsy as shit as I tried to stab the key into the lock as Jan and Matej clashed together just a dozen or so steps away.

What felt like a lifetime later, the key slipped in, turned, and the chains loosened enough for me to work them free.

Saylor pulled her shoulders forward, cursing at the pain as she tried to work the tension out of her muscles.

I was still kneeling beside her when it happened.

A loud bang.

And white-hot pain piercing through my shoulder and chest, making me pitch toward the ground.

“No!” Saylor screamed, half folding over me, looking at the man who was in the doorway, the one with dried blood around his nostrils, and more of it staining his tee.

It happened so fucking fast, and I was a little distracted by the bullet wedged in my flesh, but I felt Saylor’s hand reach into my waistband, then watched as, like some kind of fucking avenging angel, she lifted my gun, and emptied the fucking magazine into the bastard, her face twisted in rage.

I swear to fuck, she’d never been more beautiful.

I was vaguely aware of the thunk of a body hitting the ground before Saylor’s focus was on me again.

“You idiot,” she said, sniffling hard as tears flooded her eyes. “How are you always getting hurt?” she asked, pressing both of her hands into my shoulder, making the pain intensify.

Behind her shoulder, Matej moved behind Jan, producing a knife from his pocket, then yanking his brother’s head back, and slicing across his throat.

Something about his practiced movements told me Matej knew exactly what he was doing.

If you wanted someone to die fast, you actually tilted a head forward toward their chest, which left their arteries vulnerable. Yanking the head back gave them some protection, made it less likely you would fully sever the artery. Which meant they bled out slowly, gasping for breath as they slowly choked to death on their own blood.

It was a brutal, terrifying way to go.

And maybe it was cold-blooded of me, but I felt that was a fitting fucking end to the bastard.

“Fuck,” Miko’s voice called as he rushed into the room, phone already to his ear. “It’s Anthony,” he said, voice tight. “Shot. Shoulder. Babe, please, let me look,” Miko demanded, trying to move Saylor out of his way.

It was Elio who rushed in, reaching for Saylor, and moving her away, his arms staying wrapped around her as she tried to fight him, my blood covering her hands, so she couldn’t even reach up to brush the tears off of her cheeks.

“Pulse is fast, but steady,” Miko said, likely talking to Salvatore. “No, no, not the heart. Right side. It’s too high to have hit the lungs. Don’t hear any air in it,” he said, leaning over my wound to listen as I slow-breathed through the pain.

“No, it’s not wedged. It’s a through-and-through. Okay. Alright. No, we’re not in the city. We’re on Staten Island. Yeah, I know. Okay. Yep. Let me give you to Gio Morelli. I need to go get supplies. Babe,” he called to Saylor. Elio released her, and she flew to me, dropping down on her knees. “Keep the pressure on,” he said, giving her an encouraging nod, then looking to Matej.

“Emergency supplies,” Miko demanded, and Matej spared one last look at his brother on the floor. If not dead, then close. Then he ran after Miko into the rest of the house.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Saylor said, sniffling hard.

“Not my first rodeo,” I said, reaching toward my pocket.

“What are you doing? Stop moving,” she demanded as I pulled my phone out, swiped the screen, then pulled it to my ear.

It rang once before Sam picked up.

“Anthony?”

“I got her,” I said, then hung up, deciding it was a good time to conserve my energy.

“Was that my mom?” Saylor asked, pressing hard into my chest and shoulder.

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