Page 1 of The Prizes We Win
1
Luca
The screams carry down Seventh Street, and as each one reaches me, it feels as if they are slicing me open one by one. Because I know not one of them is hers, but only passerby’s reacting to what is happeningtoher.
Tothem.
To my Josephine.
My Sebastian.
Dante’s deep voice booms through Enzo’s G-Wagon. “Move. Now!”
In the blink of an eye, the three of us are sprinting down the street toward Sebastian’s car. Every fiber of my being is hoping and praying that they’re still there, but I know that’s not going to be the case.
The Bratva will have already taken them.
Sebastian and Josephine will be gone.
The closer we get to Sebastian’s Mercedes C63, the more people are sprinting in the opposite direction. Some of them may be running from the men in masks who took two of the people I care for most, and some may be running from us. But I don’t care, and I know Enzo and Dante don’t either. In the next thirty minutes, there will be pictures of us plastered all over the internet. Three of the most well-known people in New York, running down the streets, dressed in designer clothes and guns in their hands, but that’s a problem for a different day.
Right now, my only focus is getting them back.
I’ll deal with the future of my reputation and company later. Because quite frankly, it means fuck all if I don’t have them.
Once we’re at Seb’s car, I know my worst fears are realized when I see the car still running with the driver’s and passenger’s doors thrown open and Josephine’s purse still sitting in the backseat. But there’s no sign of a struggle. Sebastian told her what to do. She was brave.
So fucking brave.
That’s our girl.
Dante, Enzo, and I stand still for a moment, panting for breath. We each allow ourselves one singular moment, only a moment, to allow ourselves to pause. A single second of internal panic. A moment of sheer terror at the thought of what our lives would look like without them.
Only one single moment.
“Enzo. Pull it up.”
Quickly reaching inside his pants pocket, he pulls out his phone, and seconds later, he has the app pulled up that Sebastian installed on each of our phones. One so dummy-proof that even someone with the technological skills of an eighty-year-old, a.k.a. Lorenzo Santoro, can operate.
“He’s on the move.”
“On foot or by car?” Dante asks him.
Faintly I hear the sounds of sirens approaching the scene, and I know we have to move.
“They must have loaded them in a car. They’re already three streets over.”
“Maxim must have had his men block the street. Made it easy for them to get out,” Dante adds.
Suddenly an idea dawns on me. “What direction are they headed?”
Like we’ve always been able to do, Enzo reads my mind without me even having to say what I’m thinking. Quickly, he looks down at his phone and back up at me; the faint shimmer of hope in his eyes tells me what I want to know.
The sound of sirens grows closer.
“We have to move. Leave the Wagon. I’ll call them from Dante’s truck in the parking garage.”
Knowing the police won’t look twice at three businessmen running from a crime scene, the three of us tuck our guns into the waistbands of our pants and sprint back toward the direction of Vittori Enterprises.
