Page 147 of Ruthless Redemption

Nobody listens.

I’m taken into the upstairs hall, the door to the basement closed behind us by a guard who shifts to block any chance of my return.

“Put me down.” I wiggle against Remy’s shoulder. Push. Thump.

“In a minute.” He continues into the living room where Lorenzo snaps Italian at a line of people streaming in through the front door.

I’m placed on my feet as men in suits pass by carrying oversized duffles toward the yard. Women begin cleaning, the pungent scent of bleach already infiltrating the air.

“Bella.” Lorenzo limps toward me, my sweater still tied around his thigh. “How is he?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. No words. No sound. I’m hollow. Empty.

“We don’t know,” Remy answers. “We were told to leave.”

Lorenzo inclines his head, turning his attention to the people entering the room. “Flores prefers to work unsupervised. But I will check on him once my team is under control. I need to get everyone moving before the police arrive.”

The conversation filters in, but I don’t hear it. I don’t care. How can I when Matthew might be dying?

I walk for the front door as Salvatore volunteers to help with the crime scene.

“Hey,” Remy calls after me. “Where are you going?”

“I can’t breathe in here.” I follow the trail of blood to the entry, where Maria’s lifeless body is being rolled onto a rug by two men. They flop her around. Without a care. With no compassion.

“Don’t look.” Remy hobbles to my side, grabbing my arm to lead me through the open front door, shielding me from the view of her sightless eyes. “Don’t stop until you get outside.”

He drags me past the threshold where a man lays dead, his gaping head wound bleeding all over the polished cement.

Remy tugs me farther, down the three steps, not letting go until we’re on the drive. “You’re not going to pass out on me, are you?”

I’d give anything to close my eyes and not wake up until Matthew is better. But no, I’m fully awake, my ears ringing, my brain a mess. “You can go back inside. I’ll be fine.”

I focus on the men storming around the front of the property, the energy out here just as bustling as it is inside. Cars line the drive. Numerous men scan the yard, combing the lawn. Another carries a pressure-wash machine and a bottle of bleach.

“Lorenzo would have the cops in his pocket, right?” Remy murmurs. “My leg isn’t in the best position to make a run for freedom.”

“I’m sure he has it under control.” I don’t give a damn though. Not about the cops. Or the bodies. Or the evidence.

All I want is Matthew.

I wait for the men to carry the rolled rug through the door, Maria and the dead intruder bundled inside, then walk for the front of the house. I slump onto the top step, legs bent, elbows on knees, my face in my hands.

I stay there as the whir of sirens approach in the distance. I don’t move when men pass me, muttering about the crooked cops accepting the story of kids playing with fireworks.

I keep my head buried and relive every moment of the past hour. The gunfire. The blood. Emmanuel.

“What happened to your father?” I raise my gaze to Remy, still standing a few feet away.

“He’s dead. Matthew took care of it.”

I swallow, wishing I felt relief instead of desolation. “And Adena?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs.

Torment dances in his eyes—a torment I’m all too familiar with. I suffered through enough of it when my own father was killed. It’s a horrible sensation. The grief of losing someone you despise. The mourning for what should’ve been.

I’d pity Remy if I wasn’t so numb.

---