Page 24 of Tortured Hearts
Unlocking my handcuffs, he leads me out of the room and through a maze of empty hallways. I keep looking over my shoulder, waiting for the punchline where this is all a trap. But then, I see a door. Reese doesn’t acknowledge it. His rigid posture operates on a hairpin trigger as he punches in a code on a side panel. The moment it clicks, I don’t wait around fora goodbye speech. My hand is on the metal bar, the heel of my palm pressing the center when he grabs my wrist.
I fucking knew it.
I tense, ready to fight my way out, when I see his other hand drop to his waist. I grit my teeth, but not because I think I’m about to die. Skill to skill, Reese comes up short. I’m simply not looking forward to having to explain to Becca why I put a bullet in her father.
But when he pulls his gun, he doesn’t aim it at me. Tightening his hold on my wrist, he turns my hand palm-side up and places his gun in my hand. “I’ll do my best to keep this quiet as long as I can. You bring my girl home, Marchesi.”
For the first time, George Reese and I have a clear understanding. He’s giving me his gun because he knows I’ll put a wall of bullets between Becca and my father. I’ll take it because mine is locked up in an evidence drawer somewhere. But we both know the real reason behind the exchange. The moment I’m gone, he’ll concoct some elaborate story about how I stole his weapon and walked him at gunpoint toward freedom. Then, when a police-issued bullet rips through my father, he’ll get the glory, and I’ll get life in prison.
Yet again, Reese crosses sides and keeps his badge all shiny.
“If you want Becca back, I’ll need more than your ‘best,’Chief.” Closing my fist around the gun, I turn and walk out the door. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear him call out what sounds like another threat, but I still don’t stop.
Not when I hitch a ride to the hospital.
Not when I break into, then hotwire my car.
Not when I cross the state line.
Putting Becca’s life in danger was enough to lure me back home, but my father made a very tactical error when he madeher a pawn.
He dropped the match. Now he’s about to find out what happens when you play with fire.
Montclair, New Jersey
At a little after two a.m., I stand in silence across the street from a seedy New Jersey strip club. The few people still milling around don’t offer me a second glance. A stop in Hartford had me ditching the soot-stained dock gear for more appropriate homecoming attire. Now, I’m drenched in black from the tips of my boots to the sleeves of my leather jacket.
New clothes weren’t my only purchase.
I pull my new burner phone from my pocket and call Owen’s number.Voicemail again.Muttering a low curse, I type out a text with enough lines for him to read between.
From where it all started, then there it shall end.
I never expected to be quoting religious phrases while standing outside a strip club. Then again, nothing about the last few months has made a lot of damn sense. Hitting send, I tuck the phone inside my jacket. I’m pulling the trigger with or without him.
It’s reckless and irrational, but at this point I have nothing left to lose. Exposing my father’s betrayal to the people who’d care is pointless. After turning thefamigliainto a tabloid headline, any accusation I’d make would be answered with a bullet. There’s no tomorrow for me, so fuck the rules. I’m here to send Becca home while causing as much destruction as possible.
Crossing the street, I climb the stairs to thePeek-a-Boo’s main entrance, ignoring the bouncer’s commands for me to stop.
A strong hand grabs my jacket. “Hey, you can’t?—”
I pull my fist back and swing, causing the rest of his command to be lost in a waterfall of blood. As he hits the floor, three more oversized idiots rush in, only to stop cold once they see my face. Pushing my way to the back office, I kick the door open. It doesn’t take long to find the man I’m looking for. The Deadpan Don is in his usual spot at the poker table, knee-deep in whiskey and pussy. I’m on him in less than four strides.
“Marcello.” His name is barely out of my mouth before I’m staring down the barrels of five guns. Reaching under my jacket, I draw Reese’s Glock and aim it between his eyes. “Go ahead. Let’s see which bullet hits who first.”
The stripper who’d been shaking her ass in front of him screams and drops to her knees.
My father doesn’t seem fazed. In fact, the bastard looks amused. “Gianni,” he drawls, returning my greeting with a lift of his drink. “Welcome back.”
“Where is she?”
“Where are your manners?” He cocks his bald head, his cool demeanor a ticking time bomb. “What would your mother think of you showing up without a gift after so many months?”
“Mention my mother again, and it’ll be a bullet to the head.” Holding the gun steady, I pull the soot-stained ace of spades from my back pocket and toss it on the table. “Leaving my calling card at the scene of a fire once was clever. Twice is a lack of imagination.”
“That’s quite an accusation.” He glances down at the card, a smug smile on his lips. “Especially considering that’s not my handwriting.”
“You’re cocky, Marcello, not dumb.” I tip my chin toward the men behind him. “Now, tell your idiots toback off.”
