Page 81 of Salvatore

I can’t leave without Salvatore.

I shift from foot to foot while I wait. Gnaw my bottom lip.

Then finally the stair door flings wider and Remy and Matthew stalk out, their homicidal brother following a few steps behind.

Thank God.

“Hurry.” I keep tapping the open button as the men approach—all tall, broad, and lethal. Each step closer should increase my panic due to their notoriety in the underworld, yet it lessens, incrementally slipping from my body as Salvatore’s gaze finds mine.

There’s heated conviction in his eyes—a silent promise that my safety is his priority. Or maybe that’s the adrenaline messing with my synapses.

I stare at him through the uncertainty, still gnawing, still tapping, still on the edge of slowly bubbling panic. Then all three men pause and glance over their shoulders.

“Run,” Salvatore barks.

His brothers obey, charging toward me, eating up the short space of distance as the stair door opens and my brother stumbles out.

“Stop,” Alonso shouts, dazed and addled, a gun raised in his hand.

Salvatore turns to him, splaying his palms in placation while Remy and Matthew rush into the elevator. He backs toward me slowly, the five feet between us feeling like a football field. “We’ve got what we want. Nobody else needs to die.”

“Who the fuck are you?” my brother slurs. “Remove your masks, you cowards. Do you know who the hell you’re fucking with?”

“Hurry,” I scream.

Alonso’s gaze snaps to me. It takes a heartbeat for comprehension to hit, then his eyes narrow to slits. “This is about her?” His arm wobbles as he aims at me. “You fucking bitch.”

Time freezes. Reality narrows to the sight of that gun.

Matthew curses. Remy lifts his weapon. And Salvatore—dear God—he lunges, his body a blur as he blocks my brother’s aim.

“Don’t—” It’s all I get out before a deafening gunshot echoes off the walls.

I cower, closing my eyes and wrapping my arms around my head, my ears ringing.

It’s chaos—barked orders, returned gunfire, rushed footsteps.

I try to process it all, but something slams into me, hurtling me against the wall.

I scramble. Fight.

“Hold still.” Salvatore smothers me, shielding my body with his own as the elevator doors creep shut.

I bury my face in his chest, hands over my ears. Waiting. Hoping.

The metal doors ping and thunk with bullets, each impact startling a jolt from me.

Then silence. A shudder. And finally we begin our descent.

“That was fucking close,” Matthew sneers. “Are any of us feeling extra ventilated or did we get out unscathed?”

“I’m all clear,” Remy states.

I take stock of myself, disregarding the carpet burn to my face, the thrumming pulse in my back from colliding with the wall, and the bells in my ears as I lower my hands to my sides.

I think I’m good, but—I glance down my body to make sure, my attention snagging on the slow drip of blood falling from the fingertips of Salvatore’s leather gloves.

My gaze darts to his in panic.

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