Page 53 of Owning Nicci

I also try not to think about, as we get into the car, what we did after the last hit. I keep my hands in my lap as we drive, trying not to look at the places where my hands gripped the door and the seat, trying not to think about how the cool leather felt under my knees as Savio slammed into me.

I wonder if he’s thinking about it, too. Out of all the times he’s touched me since I came to the penthouse, all the ways he’s had me, it’s the only one that felt real. That didn’t feel staged, like a game that only he knew the rules to. It’s the only time I’ve felt like the man touching me was the real Savio.

Shoving the thought down, I focus on the plan. I have a gun tonight under my hoodie, the way Savio wears his—under his jacket, tucked in a holster. My knife is on my thigh. There’s extra ammo in my pockets. We’re both wearing all black—Savio in black pants, a black turtleneck, and a leather jacket, and me in black jeans, a T-shirt, and a hoodie. My blonde hair is covered with a black beanie, and I feel a little bit like an assassin. I start to turn to him, to make the joke, but when I glance over at him, he’s firmly looking away from me.

Not for the first time, I wonder what he’s thinking. His jaw is tight, the fingers of one hand tapping against his thigh, and I can tell he’s preoccupied.

The driver parks where Savio sent him a pin—an alley a block down from the house where we’ll find Vince. He pulls into the narrow alleyway and parks. Savio leans forward. “Leave it running,” he says curtly, then opens the door, motioning for me to follow him.

I slip out after him, into the shadows of the alley. It stinks, and I wrinkle my nose as we slink down to the other end, wincing when my boot splashes into a puddle. I’m not sure if I want to know what it is that I just stepped in.

“Follow me.” Savio’s voice is low, almost too low to hear what he says. I nod, following him through the darkness, into the thin alleyway that cuts behind the row of shabby houses in this neighborhood.

Most of them are dark, with the occasional light on, gleaming through broken blinds or a sheet thrown over a window. I hear a dog barking several houses down, and freeze—but Savio motions for me to keep going.

The backyards are tiny, with cracked concrete, broken fences, and junk littering the spaces. Another dog barks, louder this time, and Savio shifts to the other side of the alley, motioning me through the pools of shadows and away from the light that beams down from a single streetlight.

“This one,” he mouths, as we pause at a back gate with a broken hinge. He reaches out one gloved hand, flipping the latch, and slowly inches the gate open. I wince, waiting for it to creak, but there’s no sound. I don’t know if it would matter if there was; the house is entirely dark.

Savio and I pick our way through the tiny backyard—around a rusted bike and an old grill, past a pile of trash that no one’s bothered to get rid of. The back door to the house is sliding glass, and Savio reaches a hand into his pocket, sliding out a thin leather case that he pulls a lockpick out of.

“Wait,” he says, in a hushed voice, and I stay close to the fence, a foot away from him as he quickly, expertly picks the lock.

“Be ready for anything.” He reaches out, slowly sliding the door open, and both of us slip into the silent darkness of the house.

It smells musty—like unwashed dishes and air that’s been still for too long. I see a stack of pizza boxes on the counter, a full trash can next to the island, and a tower of dishes in the sink as we step into the kitchen, every movement careful in caseof squeaky floors. The floor is linoleum, slick and faintly shiny in the dim light coming from the next room, and I hear what sounds like clicking from past the doorway.

Savio motions towards it, insinuating that he should go first. I narrow my eyes, shaking my head, and his mouth thins. We argued about this before, and I thought we’d come to an understanding, but maybe not. It’s clear that he wants to take point, and I don’t want him to be the one to kill Vince.

After today, of all days, I want to be the one who pulls the trigger.

I see his jaw tighten, but he nods, taking a step back. I hesitate for just a second, surprised that he gave way…but only for a moment. I’m not about to squander this.

I slink past him towards the door, my hand slipping inside of my hoodie to go for the gun. Carefully, I nudge the door open, peering through the crack. My heart drops.

It’s not just Vince. He’s sitting in front of a huge TV, playing some shooter game. There are three other guys with him—lounging on the beat-up couches. Two of them playing as well, and one with his feet propped up on the coffee table, beer in one hand and his phone in the other. None of them are paying attention, clearly, but they will be in a moment. And four against two, while not the worst odds, isn’t what we were prepared for.

I turn back to Savio, using my fingers to motion to him that there are four men in the room, rather than just the one. He winces, sliding his gun free and checking the clip before nodding.

I take a deep breath and push open the door, stepping into the room.

It takes a moment for anyone to notice that I’m walking in. The guy on his phone looks up first, and his gaze sweeps over me, a lascivious smile curling his lips as he takes me in. “What the hell’s this, Vincey?” he cackles. “You call a stripper? Comeover here and do me first, love. I’m in the mood for a pretty thing to grind on me for a bit.”

Vince snatches the headphones off of his head, twisting around as the other two guys do the same, the two of them finally catching up. “What the fuck? I didn’t call any?—”

“No, you didn’t.” My voice is cool, detached, and I almost feel as if I’m listening to myself from outside my body. “And sorry,love,” I tell the first guy sarcastically. “I’m doing Vince first.”

“Who the fuck—” Vince’s eyes widen. “Nicci.” My name comes out as a curse. “I’ve been fucking waiting for this day.” He shoots up out of the chair, his hand twitching towards his side as he moves towards me.

“Oh, good.” I smile at him. “So have I.”

My gun comes up just as he goes to grab for his. I hear one of the other guys shout, and the sound of Savio coming in from behind me, but all of my focus is on Vince. I aim, my finger curling against the trigger like Savio has shown me a hundred times now, and I shoot, just as he pulls his gun out from his waistband.

The first shot goes wide, hitting him in the arm. He yowls in pain—just as I hear the dullcrackof Savio’s gun, the silencer keeping it quiet as he takes down one of the other guys. I aim again, pulling the trigger just as Vince starts to come at me, and this time I hit my target—right in his chest.

He drops, groaning, to the floor. I stride towards him, pressing my boot into the bleeding wound as I grin down at his pained face.

“Tell Barca I said hello,” I snarl, and I pull the trigger again.

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