Page 21 of The Mob and his Messenger

Or a nightmare.

One moment Dom and I are bonding. Unbelievably, amazingly, we’ve forged a connection that still seems to be coated in a layer of unreality to me. And the next Dom is reaching into his jacket pocket and taking out a gun, aiming it at the door.

“Take Poppet to your room,” he says, his voice that of the mob boss, the voice of a man who expects to be obeyed immediately.

But I just stand there, rooted, the unusual terror of the moment gripping me in its hands as Poppet barks loudly at the door, and Dom’s gaze whips to me, his eyebrows furrowed, tension making the muscled tendons on his neck stand up.

“Dallas,” he snaps. “Get your dog and yourself to safety right fucking now. Go!”

I snap back to life, nodding quickly, and then move to wrap my arms around Poppet and drag her away. But she must be able to sense the unease in me because the second I touch her, she starts loping around like a startled deer, trying to shrug me off so that she can protect the door. It’s almost like I can hear her thoughts.

Mommy, I think you must be very confused. I’m trying to protect us and you seem to be getting in the way. Please be reasonable.

Just as I’ve managed to get my hands around her collar, the elevator door opens and Dom fluidly falls into a crouch, protecting us with the shield of his muscled body the same way he did when the explosion went off.

“Julio?” he says, the tension in him relaxing a little. But then it hardens again. I feel it. I sense it. “Fuck, you’ve been hit. Jesus Christ. Get in here.”

I look over Dom’s shoulder to see an older man with a shock of gray hair, wearing a driver’s cap and a blazer. He clutches his belly with one hand, the blood spreading through the fabric and dripping to the floor.

“B-boss,” he whispers, stumbling forward.

Dom runs over to him, holstering his gun and catching Julio under his free arm. He carries him into the apartment as I smooth my hands down Poppet’s head, over her ears, whispering to her that everything is okay even if that’s a lie.

“Gabriel gave me a key,” Julio wheezes. “I hope you don’t mind that I used it.”

They’re in the living room now and their voices are getting quieter. Finally, Poppet begins to calm down, nuzzling her head against me and making soft whining noises.

“Was it the Irish?” Dom asks.

“Who else?” Julio wheezes. “Fucking bastards. Animals.”

I take Poppet’s leash from the hook on the wall and secure it to her collar, something I rarely do. I normally prefer to put on her harness but I can’t risk her bolting and getting involved with Dom and Julio.

My heart is racing as I walk into the living room, watching Dom with his suit jacket thrown over the back of a chair and his hands pressed into Julio’s stomach, trying to stop the bleeding.

“What can I do?” I whisper.

Dom glances at me, face tight, sweat beading his forehead. “Take my cellphone from my suit jacket pocket and call the number marked Groceries. Tell them we need extraction from Gabriel’s apartment. Tell them to use the helipad. My passcode is zero-eight-one-four-nine-zero.”

“Okay,” I say, feeling like I’m in some sort of distorted reality as I walk across the room and do as he says.

I sit down in a chair and cradle Poppet with my free hand, bringing the cellphone to my ear.

It rings twice and then a neutral voice says, “Yes?”

I tell them everything in a rush, surprised that my voice comes out somewhat calm and not as terrified as I feel. My hands are shaking and my body is coated in layers and layers of sweat, so much sweat I feel like I’m drowning.

My body is still sore and prickly from the closeness in the bedroom, and I can’t help but think that life is pretty freaking unfair, throwing this at us on the heels of what just happened.

“Ten minutes, they said,” I murmur, placing the phone on the armrest after the call. “They said they’re bringing medical care, too.”

“Good,” Dom mutters. “Get me some clean towels, please.”

I lead Poppet into the kitchen – she comes peacefully, sensing that her role isn’t to bark and make mayhem – and return with a bunch of towels. Dom grabs them and places them against Julio’s stomach, kneeling down and applying pressure.

“You’re alright,” he says.

Julio grins tightly, his face even sweatier than Dom’s or mine. It’s utterly coated. “There’s an art to cornering, boss,” he says in a faraway voice. “Did you know that? When I was interviewing for the job as your driver, I practiced driving around corners as smoothly as I could. Must’ve done the same damn corner at least a hundred times.”

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