Page 30 of Twilight Mask

“Boss, get down,” the guard says, leaping forward and drawing a gun. But he’s too late, and much too slow.

I hit the ground hard and roll toward a parked truck. Car alarms blare as gunshots bang out into the morning, loud like cannons on the otherwise silent block. I curl up and cover my head as glass rains down around me, and there’s a brutal, pained scream, which better not be fucking Adam. The shooting goes on for way too goddamn long before it stops, and a car door opens.

The assholes. I yank my gun from my waistband, roll onto my belly, and as soon as a guy in a black ski mask steps onto the sidewalk, I shoot him twice in the shin and again in the head as he falls backwards. Arrogant prick was going to finish us off, but now he’s dead, and his friends abandon him as the car swerves, burns rubber, and shoots away. I take a couple shots but miss.

“Adam,” I say, turning toward the wreckage of the sidewalk. At first, all I see is blood, half from the dead attacker and half from the Polish bodyguard. Then I spot the big crime boss climbing to his feet, hidden behind an old metal mailbox, the blue paint chipped and rusted from years of neglect, but apparently enough to save his life.

“The bastards,” the big man growls as he pushes past me and rushes to his bodyguard. “Jakub, I told you to stay home.” He cradles the dead man’s head, strangely tender. Around us, bystanders begin to poke their heads out, and I notice more than one calling 911.

“We need to go,” I tell him, gently taking his arm.

But he shoves me back. “Jakub was a friend. I’ll stay with him.”

“The police are on their way. They’ll have questions.”

“And I know nothing about what happened here, except there was a botched robbery.”

I hesitate, not happy about leaving him. But I know better than to get mixed up with the police. I hurry to the dead attacker and yank off his mask: wavy dark hair, olive complexion. I’d say Italian, which is confirmed when I yank his wallet out and check his ID: Raffaele Bianchi.

Dark thoughts swirl. This had to have been the Biancos, and they wouldn’t bother with a hit like this if they didn’t think it was worth the risk. Which means we’re on their radar before we’re ready, and that’s a very, very bad thing.

Someone talked. I don’t know how else the Biancos would’ve heard, much less would’ve known about my meeting with Adam. Very, very dark thoughts swirl, as I hurry away from the scene of the shooting, already planning my next ten moves.

Chapter 14

Laura

Ifeel like a little kid again as I sit at my mother’s kitchen table. She bustles around the stove and makes tea.

The house is different. She had it renovated at least twice since we grew up here. And anyway, I was rarely home back then. I was the youngest of five, and by the time I came around, Mom was basically done with the whole parenting thing. Forget about Dad getting involved. I had free rein of the oasis, and I usually spent my days exploring the other houses and getting into trouble with my brothers. I was raised by nannies, counselors, and teachers, and my parents sent me away to boarding school when I was eight. Every summer I enrolled at this fancy nature retreat with a few of my brothers, usually Davide, and it was hard to call this place my home, even when I was little.

I think I love my mother. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m even capable of that emotion. I’m ambivalent toward my father, and I’m grateful he’s not around today. But my mother, while not always present, was always warm, kind, and loving, and she was there when I needed her the most.

When Mom sits across from me, I can see a lot of myself in her. We share the same eyes, same nose, same cheeks and hair. She’s older, grayer, more wrinkled than I remembered; I could’ve sworn she was barely forty. But now she looks her age, late sixties. In good shape, but not young anymore.

“I can’t remember the last time you came over,” Mom says, smiling and brushing her hair back. She’s always been good at making people feel comfortable, although I don’t think any amount of charisma and charm could help me with this situation right now.

“It’s been a while,” I admit, and that’s an understatement. I’m pretty sure I haven’t been in this house since the attack on the oasis a couple years back, and it’s right down the block from me.

“Well, I know you aren’t very comfortable with small talk, so I’ll skip right to asking you what I can do to help.” She gives me another stress-defusing smile, and I sip my tea to give my hands something to do.

“I want a car.” I blurt it out since I can’t think of a better way to do this. Technically, I have my own money, and I could go out and get a vehicle anytime I wanted. But in my family, it’s not that simple. Simon has to approve everything that comes into the oasis, which means he’ll know about it, and he might not want to let me drive considering I haven’t been behind the wheel in a while.

“Okay,” Mom says, and she’s doing a good job not looking surprised. “What made you want a car?”

“You know about my gallery show at Cage.” She was present at the first one briefly but decided to skip the second. “Putting that on and going into public made me want to have a little bit more freedom. I think a car is a good first step.”

Mom nods very slowly. I can tell she’s struggling with this, but at least she’s not screeching for joy, which is what Elena would do. “This feels very sudden to me,” she says, sounding very guarded.

I try not to react defensively. Which is difficult, since I’m putting myself out there right now, and I hate letting myself get into situations where someone else has control over my life and my emotions. “I understand why you think that, but this has been bubbling for a while.”

“It’s a good thing, don’t get me wrong. It’s just, I worry about you, Laura. You’ve barely left your house for years and you stopped going to therapy. The last time we talked, you said you’re over what happened, but what if you get triggered away from home? Somewhere we couldn’t help you?”

I take several deep breaths and force myself to stay calm. I knew Mom was going to bring all this up. The others are afraid of me—for good reason—and they tip-toe around my emotions the best they can. But Mom’s never been like that. She says what she thinks, even if it pisses me off and makes me want to smash her skull with a rock. And I have plenty of good skull-smashing rocks in my basement.

“I haven’t had a bad panic attack in years,” I tell her.

“You also have been hiding in your basement all that time. Sweetie, please understand, I want this for you. I just worry you’re not thinking it through.”

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