Page 118 of Brutal Devil
It’s only after the last bullet flies and the final body drops that realization hits me hard.
If I want her to be happy, I’ll have to let Luna go.
Chapter 28
LUNA
“How is he?” I ask Saint for what must be the hundredth time as I pace down the hall in the sprawling suburban mansion that apparently belongs to my husband.
With the penthouse compromised and the safe house also at risk until we know more, Priest decided it would be safest for us all to assemble here, about as far from the city as you can get. It’s a large estate in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by leafy-green lawns and cornfields and dense woods.
“He’s still getting stitched up,” Saint tells me. “You need to worry about yourself for now. The doc said you have a concussion. You should sit down and try to stay calm. He’s in good hands.”
“I’m fine,” I mutter, even though my head is pounding and I’ve discreetly vomited in one of the dozen sleek bathrooms in this house.
Twice.
The truth is, I’m not fine. I’m a mess. What went down today was like what happened to my father, only on steroids. I’m still processing that. And now I have a Mafia war to work through.
“Let me get you some water,” Saint says.
“I don’t want water. I just want to see him.”
“You’ll see him soon enough. Take a seat.”
I don’t want to sit either. The couch in the living room is huge. I’m disturbed that I slept next to Priest every night, that we’re married, that I’ve had his dick in my mouth, and yet he never thought to mention that he owns a house that’s practically big enough to fill a city block.
I feel a little dizzy suddenly and sway to the right, about to fall on my ass.
Saint swoops in, catching me. “Stop being so fucking stubborn and sit.”
A wave of weariness hits me. He’s right. I’m fucked up. I should probably park myself on a couch and try to make my mind stop spinning.
I allow him to guide me back into the living room I recently paced out of, and then I fold myself into the massive couch. It’s comfortable as fuck, and I think I could fall asleep here.
“Hey.” Saint gives me a gentle nudge. “No sleeping either. Doc’s orders.”
The doctor they keep on their payroll is younger than I expected. Vague impressions hit me as he assessed me first, at Priest’s insistence. He’s in his early thirties and handsome. Dresses conservatively, kind of like he’s about to go play a round of golf at his private club, not like he’s about to tend to gangster bullet wounds.
But, hey. Who am I to judge? I probably look like the nerdy poet I am and not a Mafia wife.
“I’ll get you that water,” Saint tells me sternly. “Stay.”
Lucky and Scorpion are around here somewhere. One of them had a bullet graze his left arm, and the other had broken glass lodged in his side from a plate-glass window that got shot out. Saint emerged unscathed because he took me to safety. Bythe time he had me locked in the car with Rocco on guard and returned to the warehouse, all of Amedeo’s guys were dead.
It happened in a blur, so quickly.
Priest took three bullets to the shoulder.
All for me.
The way he charged Amedeo will be forever burned into my memory. He saved me. Threw himself onto an armed man without a fucking gun just to keep me from being shot.
My head pounds and I sigh, letting my eyes flutter closed again. They’re so heavy.
“No fucking sleeping, Jessica Fletcher.”
Saint is back. I’m oddly comforted by his bad jokes.
