Page 25 of Dance of Ruin

“Then what the fuck are we waiting for,” I grunt. “Let’sgo.”

“I’m coming too.”

Tempest shoots Dante a look when he says it. But when she sees the ripple of fury in his face, she just nods.

Carmine rolls his neck. “Santino has our guys out there already. I'm?—”

“Kratos…”

The giant’s black cloud of fury evaporates at the soft, broken sound of Bianca’s voice behind us.

Kratos turns instantly, rushing to her side and crouching down beside her again, brushing her cheeks with both hands, raw love smoothed across a face carved from rage.

“I’m here,” he murmurs. “I’m right here, baby.”

He presses his forehead to hers, and for a moment, there’s no explosion, no enemies, no blood on the streets. Just them, and their love.

The kind I’ve never had.

The kind I very much doubt someone like me gets.

I look away.

The moment between Kratos and Bianca hangs there, delicate and holy in the middle of a sea of wreckage.

Then the machines beep steadily again, and Bianca falls back asleep.

Kratos doesn’t move.

He just holds her hand and watches her breathe, as if he could anchor her to this world with nothing more than his will.

I step out into the hallway. I need air. Well, air flavored with cigarette smoke, to be precise. I also need silence so I can think.

Someone sent a message tonight.

And now, we’re going to send one right the fuck back.

I pull out my phone and send a group text to all my “little birds”—my spies, my informants… The people who live in the shadows of New York and see things most people don’t.

Me

If you haven’t already heard what happened to my family tonight, you will. Find me who did it, and you’ll get whatever you want. The sooner the better.

I hit send, then slide the phone into my pocket as I slip a cigarette between my lips and walk out of Lenox Hill Hospital and into the night.

Someone just made the mistake of fucking withmy family.

They have no idea what they’ve just awakened inside me.

7

NICO

The baron Avenue D smells like piss, stale beer and defeat.

It’s the kind of place that only exists for drowning one's misery, then setting oneself up for more of the same.

There’s a flickering Coors sign in the window, duct tape on the "leather" booths, and a jukebox that probably hasn’t worked since the Bush administration—the first one. The lighting’s bad enough to hide bloodstains, but not to mask the crust of failure clinging to every square inch of the place.

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