Page 81 of Bloom: Part 2

Chuckling, I pulled him into me and kissed him. We lingered in the shower far longer than necessary, kissing, touching, and talking about our wedding. A simple ceremony. Only those we cared about would be there. And we would go away somewhere for our honeymoon. The unspoken question whether we would come back lingered.

The Friday afternoon was quiet as we drove to the clubhouse. Silence buzzed between us with unspoken thoughts. Bloom kept his hand on my thigh, his knee bouncing restlessly as he stared out the window. I knew that look. He was lost in his head, and honestly, I wasn’t in the mood to pull him out of it.

My thoughts were a maze of doubt and uncertainty. If my father could reach a US Marshal, how could I trust anyone to protect us? And if we ran, how long could we hide before they found us? Worse, how could I take Bloom away from his club, his family?

The car jolted to the right, and I fought to keep my hold on the steering wheel as the scrape of metal crushing under metal reverberated through the air. I swerved, fighting to keep all four wheels on the ground.

“What the fuck!” Bloom cried.

In the rearview mirror, I caught sight of a midnight-blue SUV just before it rammed into us again. The steering wheel vibrated beneath my palms, but nothing short of a miracle could keep us from spinning out of control. Tires screamed against the pavement, smoke billowing as we spun wildly before the car crashed into the guardrail.

“Bloom!” I reached for him, but he’d already undone his seat belt, knife in hand.

“Get out of the car!”

For someone so young, his response under pressure was calming. My shoulder screamed in protest as I wrenched free the gun I’d stashed under the seat and pushed open my door. Gunfire erupted, hitting the body of the car and forcing me to slam the door shut.

“Logaaaan!”

“I’m fine.” But for how long? Whoever was shooting at us had no intention of taking us alive.

I crawled over the console and through the passenger door as glass exploded behind me. I fell to one knee on the hard asphalt. “Son of a bitch.”

“Logan—”

“Stay down,” I barked, pressing my back against the side of the car. Bullets peppered the vehicle.

At least two men had to be in the other vehicle. Bullets pinged off the wreckage, sending shards of metal and plastic flying.

“Do you know how to use that thing?” Bloom yelled.

I leaned out just enough to spot one of the figures, dressed in black and wearing a ski mask advancing toward my side. His companion headed to where Bloom was. Ignoring the blood rushing through my ear, I steadied my hold on the Glock and squeezed the trigger twice. One bullet caught him right inthe center of the chest. The man stumbled back, clutching his wound.

“I’m hit!” he yelled. “Retreat.”

Coward. They wanted to leave after one got hit? I was fucking tired of running. Of always looking over my shoulder. Rising to my feet, I aimed and fired at the two men hurrying back into the vehicle. The one I’d shot in the chest caught two more bullets in the back. His partner shoved him into the SUV, and my next bullet hit him in the shoulder.

Son of a bitch.

They sped off, tires screeching, leaving us with a heavy cloud of dust and the acrid smell of hot rubber. I leaned against our battered car, panting.

“They’re gone.” Bloom came up behind me, one hand fisting in my shirt. “But we should get out of here.”

“Yeah.” If our car still worked.

We climbed into the car, and I put the gun away. To my relief, the engine coughed and spluttered, then resumed its normal purr.

“Thank fuck,” Bloom muttered. “Those fucking assholes. They shouldn’t have gotten away, though that one you shot is as good as dead. I can’t believe you know how to fire a gun.”

Of course I did. I might not have wanted to be involved with the Mafia, but I was still an Agosti. My father had ensured we all knew how to fight, how to withstand torture and not bring shame to the family name. Weapons might never be my first choice, but if I had to, I could use them.

“I can’t believe he actually means to kill me,” I spoke out my thoughts aloud, then winced at the sound of my voice. What did I expect? That he would be lenient because I was his son? He’d spent the last ten years in prison because of me. The family was no longer the most feared of the five families that made up the Casa Nostra.

“Sweet Satan, I just realized how fucked up both our families are.”

A match made in heaven.

25

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