Page 80 of Salvatore

I fight the need to scowl at the manipulative asshole, my body trembling. I unlock my ankles from around Salvatore’s back and slide to my feet, my legs Jell-O, my weight too heavy to hold.

“Steady.” Salvatore keeps me at his side with a strong arm. “Take a second.”

I need more than a second. Vertigo has me on lock.

“We can’t hang around.” Remy jerks his head toward the glass door. “We have to keep moving.”

“Give her a fucking second,” Salvatore snarls, holding me tighter.

I drag in deep inhales, willing my body to climatize to the chaos. Breath by breath I gain the edge of composure. Then the light flicks on in the bedroom that was my prison and my momentum collapses.

Salvatore shares a tense glance with his brothers.

“Move.” Remy rushes for the door.

Shouts echo from the neighboring apartment. José’s name. Alonso’s too.

“Hold tight, troublemaker.” Salvatore sweeps me into his arms and follows his brothers.

I’m jostled as he storms into a dark room, then a darker hall, all of us deathly quiet by the time we reach the entry door.

“Let me down,” I beg, wiggling from Salvatore’s grip.

He obliges while Remy claims a gun from the back of his waistband.

“We can’t risk waiting for the elevator,” Matthew mutters. “We need to get to the stairwell.”

The penetrating thud of Latin music vanishes, replaced with unintelligible shouts and heavy, chaotic footsteps from next door.

“We’ve only got a few seconds before the confusion wears off.” Remy grabs the door handle. “I’ll go first. You two get to the elevator on the lower level.”

“No.” Salvatore nudges his brother out of the way. “You get her down there. I’ll wait by their door in case they run out.”

Then he’s gone, escaping into the building hall while Matthew and Remy rush me from the apartment.

I attempt to keep Salvatore in my sights, rabidly checking over my shoulder, but his brothers have me tripping over my feet as they guide me past the heavy door to the stairs.

I’m manhandled down one flight, then two, their calm intensity under crisis the only thing keeping my panic at bay.

“Call the elevator,” Matthew demands once we reach the quiet lower level. “Yell out when it arrives.”

I nod and fumble my stride into a run, hitting the bank of elevators and slapping my palm against the button.

I tap my foot, glancing from Remy, who straddles the threshold to the staircase, to the shiny double doors of the elevator. Back and forth. Watching. Praying.

Nothing happens.

Minutes pass with agonizing lethargy. Then the subtledingof arrival sounds and I almost lose the contents of my stomach as I scramble inside.

“It’s here,” I shout. “The elevator is here.”

Remy mutters something into the stairwell. And still, there’s no sign of Salvatore.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I should leave.

I should press the button to the lobby and escape both the cartel and the mafia while I have the chance. But as soon as the elevator doors begin to close my chest tightens and I lunge to stab the open button.

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