Page 164 of Cook

What were Wilde’s orders? Both Wilde and Angel were taking cover in the barrage of bullets that seemed to fly haphazardly. The capos were yelling and firing aimlessly, or else they just had shitty aim.

A man fell beside me—one of the capos—holding his side and convulsing as blood gushed from the wound. The poor fuck wouldn’t live for another minute. Before I could do much, he flopped still on the floor. I searched for his gun nearby, but it had skittered a few feet away. If I could get it, I could give my brothers cover while they escaped this Mafia bloodbath.

I rolled up to the balls of my feet, still in a crouch, but Celt grabbed my forearm. He gave a curt shake of his head. Any words we spoke would be lost in the gunfire, but I wanted to argue my case. A vein throbbed on his neck, and he scanned his surroundings. This wasn’t our first wild-west showdown, but this was a first with the Mafia.

We had no code to follow here.

Improvisation, it was.

As a capo stumbled back, his eyes narrowed on us hidden under the table.

Massimo’s or Enzo’s?

Who the fuck could tell?

Then he swung his gun toward us. Enzo’s. Before he could pull the trigger, I lunged at him, my knife leading the charge. I embedded the blade into his stomach and ripped upward, gutting him like a pig. He squealed like a pig too. He pulled the trigger, but the shot wentwide when I brought him to the floor.

A bullet swished past my head and my back. Small hairs rose on the back of my neck. I brought the knife down on the man again, now covered in his own blood. He was close to death.

No fight left.

I scrambled to his side and grabbed the gun.

Rolling behind the table, I launched to my feet and shot.

Pop. Pop. Boom!The vibrations ran up my bones, and I dropped again as the gunshots turned my direction. At least they weren’t pointing at Celt or Angel or Wilde.

“Run!” I ordered my brothers.

Celt yelled, “No,” while Wilde nodded. Angel rocked up.

As I popped up and moved toward the exit, I pulled the trigger again and again, leaving any of the standing capos littered with bullets. And then the trigger clicked.

Bullets gone.

“Fuck!” I dropped as someone else’s bullet grazed my arm. How were so many of them still standing? Pain seared my skin, and I blew out a low hiss. Blood bloomed down the sleeve of my black leather jacket, oozing from the parted lips of the graze. I would survive. I’d had worse from beatings from my daddy.

“Cook!” Celt was still half hidden under the table, but Angel and Wilde were closer to the door. We were out of the conference room now, but the shootings didn’t stop.

“I’m good.” I scanned my surroundings.

We still weren’t safe, and I needed another gun.

The body of a random capo, one of Enzo’s men, lay a few feet away. His gun was a few more feet behind him. He’d been trying to run, and someone—probably Parisi himself—had capped him. If I could get the gun, then I could get my brothers out of here. Get back to Maddie. Get by brothers to their ol’ ladies.

But where the fuck was my mom?

I didn’t look at Celt, knowing he would tell me to wait, and waiting for the lull in the crossfire would mean our deaths. I pushedaway from the cabinet that shielded me and reached for the gun. I gripped the handle and spun around, pulling the trigger, but then pain burst in me.

More than my arm.

All the air rushed from my lungs, and I fell back with a sucker punch to my stomach. Pain blew through me like my skin was dry wood, lit on fire. I gasped, forcing my eyes open, and then dropped my hand to my side. All I found was red fucking blood.

My blood.

Something wet drizzled into my beard.

“Damn it,” I said through clenched teeth. A scream built in the back of my throat, but I swallowed it.

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