Page 8 of Passion and Revenge

A bullet wheezes past my shoulder, and I shift closer to Pasquale.

“Fuck these Russians,” he snarls. “Do you think backup is coming?”

I snort. “We’re on our own here, man.”

“Don’t these assholes run out of ammo?”

He sounds so disgruntled that a laugh slips past my lips. “Not when they have a whole crate of it behind them, which is why we’re going to have to draw them away from their source.”

Grey eyes narrow at me. “I’m afraid to ask how.”

I smirk at him. “Scared?”

“Shaking in my boots,” he replies in a drab voice.

“In three, we’re going to make a run for it, or at least that’s what we want them to think. We’re going to circle back to that truck and get weapons.”

Pas groans. “You’re going to get us killed.”

I shrug. “Would you rather sit here till they grow balls and get closer?”

He drops his head back against the wall and groans. “Fine.”

“Take the left, and I’ll take the right.” I gesture behind me. “And Pas, don’t you dare die.”

He shoots me a small smile, and then we press our heads together briefly, two nineteen-year-olds trying to be brave even with the dead bodies of their mates littering the docks.

“One…two…three,” I count.

And then we’re running faster and harder than we’ve ever run in our lives. For the next hour, all I hear is the sound of blood rushing in my ears and gunshots ringing around the warehouse until the last of the Russians is bleeding out on the floor.

I eye the shoulder Pasquale is clutching. “Are you alright?”

He grimaces, his face pale. “I think that’s enough excitement for the year.”

I huff. “Let’s go home and get that shoulder looked at, brother.”

As I make to walk past him, he grabs me by the arm, halting me. “You saved our ass back there.”

I shrug. “One of us has to become a capo, and we can’t do that if we’re dead, can we?”

Pas huffs. “I guess not.”

“It’s you and me in this,” I say, my voice coming out somber. “You’ve got my back, and I’ve got yours.”

Pasquale holds out his hand, and I clasp it firmly in mine.

“Let’s get out of here,” I tell him.

An incessant beeping snaps me out of my reverie, and I open my eyes and blink at the monitor in front of me. My gaze shifts to the flashing intercom machine on my desk, and I tap the button.

“Boss,” one of my men’s voices says, “Dayna’s here.”

I lean back in my chair. “Send her in.”

“Yes, boss.”

My mind isn’t on the blonde bombshell that’s currently stepping into an elevator that will bring her to my penthouse apartment, though. It’s stuck in the past, stuck on Pasquale.

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