Page 22 of The Mob and his Messenger

“It shows,” Dom says. “You’re an excellent driver, Julio. Now just hold on, okay? If you die, I’ll be forced to hire some asshole who doesn’t know the art of cornering, eh?”

Julio laughs, making a guttural noise that doesn’t sound good at all.

“Alright, boss,” he wheezes. “If you say so.”

“Pack a bag, Dallas,” Dom says, glancing at me briefly, eyes ablaze.

“Why?”

“Because you’re coming with us.”

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere safe,” he growls. “Pack a bag, not clothes. Just the sentimental shit you can’t leave behind. You’ll be supplied with everything else you need.”

“This is crazy,” I murmur.

“Yes,” Dom says, “it is. But it’s happening. Hurry up.”

Okay, bossy, I almost say, reverting to sassy bantering. But of course, the presence of a swiftly-bleeding-out Julio would make that more than inappropriate.

I stand up and lead a compliant Poppet down the hallway to my bedroom. I grab my suitcase from under the bed and shove my laptop and the first-edition set into it, and then a few photos of me and Mom, and one early photo of all three of us, me and Mom and Dad, before they split up and Mom took me to California. I pack a few toys for Poppet and then stand at the door, anxiety swarming me.

I might’ve only lived here for a few weeks – I might’ve not even unpacked – but this place is my home and leaving it for who-knows-what fills me with unease.

The shooting has stopped from downstairs. That’s something.

Then, from above, the air starts to whirl and roar like a hurricane is descending on the building.

Poppet barks and leaps around as I try to get her into the harness. In the end, I have to grab her collar and force her into it, as she whimpers and whines with her tail between her legs.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, stroking her behind the ears, bringing my face close to her ears and speaking soothingly. “Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.”

Liar, a voice jabs.

I lead her back into the living room, where Julio is now holding the towels to his own belly. His breathing has become shallow and he has an eerie smile on his face.

“What a pretty dog,” he says, aiming the smile at Poppet. “What’s his name?”

“Her name is Poppet.”

“Poppet,” he smiles. “What a lovely name.”

“Where’s Dom?”

“Gone to get the paramedics,” Julio wheezes. “I hope they can dig this son of a bitch out.”

“You’ll be okay,” I tell him. “Surely you would have—”

I stop myself.

Surely would have bled out by now, that hardly seems the most encouraging thing to say.

The elevator doors beep open and I turn to find Dom leading in four suited men, a stretcher between them. At the rear two paramedics, striding efficiently over to where Julio lies.

I recede into the background, waiting, remembering the way the explosion tore through that alleyway and reverberated through the ground.

Dom walks silently up beside me and smooths his hand down my arm, finding my hand and clutching it, clutching it right there in front of Julio and the men in suits, right here in Dad’s living room. I squeeze onto his hand, not caring about the blood, only the closeness, only us.

Even if everything’s going crazy, this still feels so right.

If Dad was here …

But he’s not. And he’ll have to understand, he has to.

Otherwise—

I can’t bear to think about what will happen if he doesn’t approve.

Soon Julio is on the stretcher and we’re all moving toward the elevator, only going up this time instead of down. I lean down and cradle Poppet’s face, stroking her behind the ears, not sure if I’m trying to comfort her or myself.Chapter ThirteenDomWe all walk onto the roof as the sirens from the street below dimly reach us. The idea of fleeing from these animals doesn’t sit well with me, but it’d be a pointless move – a Patty move – to go down there and get myself riddled with bullets or arrested in the confusion. The best thing I can do is retreat and get ready.

Get ready for war.

The helicopter is a large military-style vehicle, big enough to wheel Julio on his stretcher onto the back as my backup stands in a huddle around it, their hands near their hips as though any moment the Irish could jack-in-the-box onto the roof. I hold Dallas’s suitcase in one bloody hand and then place it next to the chopper. One of the suited men silently picks it up and carries it onboard.

Then I turn to Dallas, her beauty even more evident out in the open air, the sunlight bathing her, the wind messing with her hair, even more, making alluring patterns that even now I want to grab and guide and dominate. She smooths her hair from her face and smiles shakily at me.

“Well,” she says, “this is definitely not how I thought I was going to be spending this afternoon. Have you called Dad and let him know what’s going on?”

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