Page 90 of Masked Seduction
“Luka,” I echo, tasting every syllable like a warning and a plea. “Luka, I’m pregnant. If Nico goes through with whatever psycho plan he’s nursing, that makes you an accessory to a double homicide. One of the victims being a helpless baby. Think you can sleep with that on your conscience?”
His throat bobs. “My sister’s expecting,” he murmurs. Guilt slides across his face.
I press. “Don Agosti would nail Nico’s hide to the wall for this if he knew what was going on. You help me now, you walk away when Abram bulldozes this dump. You don’t, you’re collateral damage.”
Luka glances toward the closed door then back at me. He says nothing, but his hands move to the cuff. He makes it another notch looser. Circulation floods back in a pins-and-needles wave, and I nearly sag with relief.
He tips the water bottle toward me. I take it, our fingers brushing in a silent agreement that this conversation never happened. Then he slips out, leaving the door unlocked.
Small victory. Huge possibilities.
I sip the water. The aspirin goes down without argument. The mattress spring remains in my palm, flimsy but hopeful. I test the loosened cuff. Still snug, but I can rotate my wrist now.
Outside, the sky is solid black. No streetlights shining through that painted window, just the faraway glare of the city I love in the distant horizon.
Abram is out there somewhere, his ice-blue gaze burning holes in the world.
I stroke my belly. “Hang tight, little bean. Daddy’s coming. And he’s pissed.”
CHAPTER 35
ABRAM
Ifloor the Maybach, the V-12 roaring like a bear.
Vegas streaks past me in a neon blur, but the only color I care about is the red blood Nico will spill when I find him.
Denis rides shotgun, barking coordinates into a secure headset. “Alpha unit posts on Gibson in eight minutes. Bring full rigs, suppressors only. Copy?” After a brief pause, he says, “Two trucks inbound.”
Mikail sits behind me, the screen from his laptop glowing ghost-green across his face. “Party house confirmed. Utility records show a spike in power a few hours ago. AC is blasting. Lights are on. They’re in there.”
A few minutes later I’m punching a code at an anonymous roll-up gate. Steel yawns open, and I nose the car inside the concrete bunker. No signage, nothing but the smell of old brake fluid and CLP gun oil. A freight elevator the size of a studio apartment waits at the far wall. Thirty seconds later we emerge into a subterranean armory lit by a single row of fluorescents.
I walk the steel racks, fingers brushing against cold barrels. The ritual centers me. SR9 pistols—check. MPX-K sub-guns—check. Four Kevlar soft vests in matte black—check. I sling a shotgun over my shoulder and claim a KA-BAR longer than my hand. Rage should have a blade.
Denis loads magazines methodically, brass clicking like a metronome. “Rules?” he asks without looking up.
“Jenna unharmed is objective one,” I say. “Anyone so much as bruises her, you shoot him in the throat. No hesitation.”
Mikail zips up his plate carrier vest and raises an eyebrow. “City limits. Metro will crawl up our ass if we light up the place.”
“Then we finish before they arrive,” I answer. “If she bleeds, Vegas can burn.”
They don’t argue.
While the men gear up, I step into a side office the size of a closet. I pull Jenna’s phone from my pocket, recovered from the restaurant floor after the chaos. The screen comes alive with a picture of Jenna and Claire, shoulders pressed together, sunlight turning her hair to copper fire. She’s laughing, open-mouthed, eyes squinting in pure joy.
My chest tightens. It’s an unwelcome sensation because it feels like fear, and I don’t do fear.
If Nico touches her again, I’ll mail his father the pieces in unmarked boxes.
I slide the phone back into my pocket, sealing the softness away, and return to the men.
A minute later, three black Yukons glide out of the garage. We run south on Main, cutting east into the warehouse district. Night vision goggles drop into place, turning the world phosphor green. I breathe deep and slow.
Ten minutes, baby. Hold on.
The convoy ghosts through back streets at a crawl—no headlights, engines idling low. I ride point; my right hand on the wheel, the left brushing the spare mag on my thigh, a nervous tell I forgot I even had.
