Page 129 of Filthy Little Regrets

“Tony’s here,” she murmurs. “Mace, you should call Dare.”

“Too late,” I tell her, reaching for the gun in the console. “I’ll be home soon.”

“Mace, I really think?—”

“Hang on,” I tell her, right as I come to a jolting stop at the guard station. Rolling the window down, I point the pistol at the guard. “Open it.”

The guy barely looks eighteen. “I can’t?—”

“Open it right fucking now or I’ll fucking shoot you.”

The guy blanches and presses the button, hands up and nowhere near his own weapon. A taser gun. Scoffing,I keep him at gunpoint until the gate is fully open, then creep through the neighborhood, eyeing the mansions with a stone in my stomach.

Fuck, Darius. What the fuck did you do?

“Mace,” Cassia begins, voice soft.

My chest clenches. “I love you.”

“Why are you saying that? Don’t say that.” Panic creeps into her voice. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I can’t leave her with him.”

She sighs. “I know you can’t.” Her voice pitches. “I’m just worried... I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t lose me. I’m with you, always.”

Her answering silence casts doubt all around me, but I can’t focus on that. I have to keep my head in the game, on saving Adalie. I park a few houses down from the address, confirm the magazine is full, and reach for the door, switching the call with Cassia to the phone.

I can’t hang up until I know she’s okay. “I’m going to have to go—” One foot hits the pavement when I get a text. “Hold on,” I tell Cassia, checking the message.

REMY

Grigory Morozov.

Morozov? The fucking bratva? Cassia was right, I need?—

“Put the gun down,” a guy with a thick Russian accent demands, the barrel of his gun pressing into the back of my head.

“Mace?” Cassia’s shout carries out of the phone clutched in my hand. The terror in her voice guts me.

“Easy, now,” I tell the guy, glancing at the side mirror to get a look at him, but all I see is the butt of the gun a millisecond before it smashes into the back of my head.

thirty-six

CASSIA

“Put the gun down,” a gruff voice carries down the line.

My stomach leaps into my throat, and I bolt off the couch, clenching the phone. “Mace?”

“What do we do with him?” another voice asks.

“He’ll swim with the fishes once the deal is done.”

Something crashes and fabric rasps over the speaker. The sudden quiet is a severed limb. One moment Mace was there, talking to me, and the next, he’s gone.

I shake my head and try again. “Mace?” Pulling the phone away from my ear, I stare at the home screen on display, and it blurs as tears fill my vision. My muscles constrict. “Mace,” I say again, voice breaking alongside the realization that he’s in danger. Heart palpitations flutter in my chest, making it hard to breathe. I dial him again, pressing the phone to my ear, pinching my eyes together and hoping. Praying to a divinity that’s never been kind to me that he’s okay, but that same cruel master in the sky is no help. The call goes straight to voicemail.

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