Page 112 of Wicked Sinner
“Alright!” Caesar interrupts him, his voice irritated. “Fine. Let’s go. We’ll talk when we get home,” he adds to me, his voice lowering. There’s that hint of hope still in it, like he’s holding onto the idea that what I’m going to say is what he wants to hear.
And it is. But maybe it is better for us to have this conversation later, when we're safe. When we're home.
Caesar keeps one arm around me as we make our way down the stairs and through the warehouse. Bodies are scattered across the floor—Matvey's men, taken down by Caesar's team and Tristan's. The air smells like gunpowder and blood, and I'm grateful when we finally step outside into the cool night air.
Just outside is a maze of black SUVs and armed men. Caesar's people and Tristan's, working together to find me. I feel an odd, warm sensation in my chest at the thought. Maybe things will be better for Caesar after this, instead of worse.
"Mrs. Genovese." Caesar’s new head of security approaches me. "Are you injured?"
"I'm fine," I assure him, though I'm probably going to have bruises from the zip ties and handcuffs.
"What about casualties?" Caesar asks.
"Two on our side, a few injured. Tristan's team has some injuries, too." Cruz's expression is grim. "All of Matvey’s people are dead, that were here, anyway."
Caesar nods grimly. "Get our wounded to the on-call doctor. I want full cleanup here—no evidence we were ever involved."
"Already in motion, boss."
As the men move away to coordinate the cleanup, Caesar turns to Tristan. "This never would have worked without your help. I owe you."
"You don't owe me anything," Tristan replies, but there's less animosity in his voice than usual. "You had your reasons. In your place, I might have suspected me as well. I can understand it, even if I didn’t fucking appreciate it.”
"I apologize for the misunderstanding." Caesar extends his hand. "Truce?"
Tristan looks at the offered hand for a moment, then clasps it firmly. "Truce. But Caesar, if you ever threaten me again?—"
"I won't. You have my word."
There's something almost ceremonial about the handshake, like we're witnessing the end of a conflict that’s been steadily brewing since Caesar came home. I think about the gala, about the tension crackling between these two men, and marvel at how much has changed.
“I’ll touch base with you later,” Caesar says to Tristan, his hand on the small of my back. “Right now I want to get my wife home?—”
The shot comes from somewhere in the darkness beyond the warehouse, a sharp crack that echoes off the metal buildings. For a split second, I don't understand what I'm hearing.
Then Caesar stumbles, his hand going to his shoulder, and I see blood seeping between his fingers.
"Sniper!" someone shouts, and suddenly everyone is moving at once.
Strong hands grab me, pulling me toward the nearest SUV as more gunshots ring out. But I fight against them, trying to get back to Caesar.
"Let me go!" I struggle against whoever's holding me. "Caesar!"
He's on his knees now, his men surrounding him, trying to shield him from further shots while simultaneously looking for the shooter. Blood is spreading across his shirt, dark and terrifying in the harsh lights from the vehicles.
"Get her to safety!" Caesar's voice is strained but still commanding. "Now!"
"I'm not leaving you!" I break free from the hands trying to drag me away and drop to my knees beside him. "Don't you dare tell me to leave you!"
His face is pale, sweat beading on his forehead, but he's still conscious. "Bridget, you need to?—"
Another shot rings out, closer this time. Tristan appears beside us, his own gun drawn, shouting orders to his men.
"There!" one of Caesar's men points toward a water tower about two hundred yards away. "Muzzle flash!"
Gunfire erupts as both teams lay down fire toward the tower. In the chaos, I press my hands against Caesar's wound, trying to stem the bleeding.
"Stay with me," I whisper, my voice fierce despite the tears streaming down my face. "Don't you dare leave me, Caesar Genovese. Not now. Not before?—"
