Page 6 of Wounded King
"He's just a sniveling gang banger," Luciano spits, but looks completely out of his element when he punches in the number for the top floor we just left. I run a hand through my hair. I can't believe Luciano is being this reckless. I can only hope it fell out of his pocket somewhere out of the way, and that the Venezuelans haven't noticed it. Otherwise… I mentally go through our last text messages and all the other shit that's on Luciano's phone.
The elevator door closes.
I turn, frowning when I realize the other four bodyguards are not at their post, neither is my fucking car.
"Did you call them?" I turn to Casimo.
He opens his mouth to answer, but suddenly, the sound ofRide of the Valkyrieplays from out of his pocket.He's betrayed me. The realization hits me like a bullet.Ride of the Valkyrieis the sound Luciano dedicated to his ex-wife's calls.
How Luciano's phone got into Casimo's pocket doesn't matter right now. In the same fraction of a second that these thoughts coalesce in my mind, Casimo pulls his Glock and aims it at my head. I should have seen it coming the second we stepped out of that elevator. The moment my radar went up.
Years of war, blood, and battle-hardened instincts keep me alive. The first bullet grazes my shoulder; hot steel tears my flesh. But there is no pain. Not yet. I dive to the side, hitting the ground while grabbing my gun, just as a second bullet pings off the wall where my head was a fraction of a second ago. Close. Too close.
I roll around until I come up behind a large SUV. Another shot rings out, instantly followed by a sudden stinging pain in my thigh, which brings me down to my knees. A second shooter comes at me, aiming from behind one of the many cement pillars keeping the garage ceiling from coming crashing down. I raise my Glock and hit him just as another bullet enters my shoulder, right above the graze from earlier.
Where the fuck are my other bodyguards?
And how many assassins are there?
I make it underneath the large SUV ahead of me. I'm not about to hide from these cowards, but it's easier to hunt them this way. A third attacker pops up, sneaking around a pickup truck.
The fit underneath the SUV is too tight for my six-foot, four-inch frame. For the first time in my life, I curse having such a strict workout routine, because my bulk is restricting my movements just as much as my bleeding limbs. I still manage to aim the gun, and despite the awkward angle, I blow one of my assailants' heads off.
My adrenaline is running high enough to stop my body from processing most of the pain just yet, but it's coming. I need to find the other killers and Casimo before that happens. I notice the trail of blood I left when I rolled underneath the SUV—a trail a blind man could find. Turning, I search the ground and find two more sets of shoes. Why they would send four guys to shoot me, only to have them separately take shots at me, is a puzzle for later. Had I organized the hit, all four would have opened fire at me simultaneously the moment the elevator doors opened, not giving me a chance. This leaves me to conclude that they wanted to ensure that they only got me, not Luciano or Casimo.
Two shots in quick succession, hitting the men's ankles, bring them down. Not giving them time to recover, I empty my magazine into the falling bodies. One of them gets three more rounds off, one hitting me in the hip, another grazing my arm, and the third ricochets off the SUV's undercarriage and finally embeds itself into my calf.
The smell of gasoline hits my nose, making me realize I need to get out from under the SUV unless I want to become a holiday roast. The moment I start rolling, more pain starts to message my brain.
More shots. How many freaking assholes are there? Why hasn't anybody killed me yet? And most importantly, where are my fucking guards and Luciano? He should be back by now. How long can it possibly take for him to realize he didn't lose his phone and smell a rat? Unless this is an elaborate set up from the Venezuelans, then he's probably fucked, too. But I don't think so. This is too elaborate for Matías to cook up.
I wince and reach for a new mag while simultaneously ejecting the old one. Ignoring the increasing pain, I take cover behind another car, much smaller than the now-smoldering SUV. Measured footsteps precede the fifth shooter. He is much better trained than the other four.
"It's over, Marcello." Casimo's voice slithers through the parking garage. "Come on out and die like a man."
He's toying with me. Like I'm some fucking low-level idiot. He must have thought that I had forgotten how to fight because I am the boss.
A wild shot through the garage is my answer. It echoes around the cement walls, making my ears ring even louder. But I can still hear enough to make out the sound of his footsteps. Cold sweat runs down the nape of my neck, combined with the blood leaking from several wounds. I won't be able to hold out much longer.
"How much, Casimo?" My voice, however, is still hard as steel and unshaken, despite the blood soaking my shirt. "How much did they put on my head? What's the price of selling out the man who made you?" I want to know, wiping sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand while holding tightly on to my gun.
I need to call for backup. Caught between the growing pain in my shoulder and leg and the ebbing adrenaline rush in my veins, I'm fading fast. Too fast.
Casimo isn't like the other assassins. He is well-trained and knows what he's doing. He has been my bodyguard for the past three years. Not too long ago, I toyed with the idea of making him one of my underbosses. I'd discussed it with Luciano, who advised against it.There's something about him, boss, that I don't like, Luciano said, and that was enough for me. I trust Luciano implicitly.
I pull my phone from my breast pocket with my left hand and find it shattered. Well damn, that little gadget saved my life. I hadn't even felt an impact.
My gun stays trained toward the footsteps as Casimo makes his way through the rows of parked cars. I risk a glance, but wherever he is, he's staying hunched over. His steps are getting closer. I need to move, but a sudden burst of weakness forces me to lean hard against the car. The sweat has stopped dribbling down my neck and forehead, not a good sign. A wave of chills contorts my body, and I slide down the car, unable to move. I keep the gun trained in the direction I expect Casimo to come at me from. My arm is shaking, and with every passing second, it's becoming harder to keep the gun level. Fuck, I don't want to die like this. Not on the fucking concrete, bleeding out like a dog. Not gunned down by a man I should have killed first. If I go down, I want to take him with me.
A gunshot shatters the silence, and pain flares—sharp, hot, blinding. My vision tilts before blackness drags me under.
The next morning…
The monitors blink silently, giving me the vitals of my new patient, Marcello Orsi. With four bullets embedded in him and several other graze wounds, he was quite the celebrity when he was brought into the ER last night—a trauma team's wet dream. They worked for hours on him. He was taken in and out of surgeries before finally being brought to me in the ICU. Nobody thought he would survive. So far, he has proved them wrong.
I adjust the drip on his IV while staring at his unconscious form. I've never seen a man in a coma emanating this much strength and raw power. Even unconscious, it's hard to overlook that he's a force to be reckoned with. His presence is all-consuming, demanding, and controlling. It's impossible to ignore, and I'm absorbing it like a drug. He's not at all what I pictured a mafia don to look like. I've watched parts of his father's trial, and Marcello bears very little resemblance. His father looks like a stereotypical mobster. Cold eyes, overindulged, and overweight. Marcello isn't anything like that. He doesn't look like a killer either.
Oh no, what does a killer look like, Vi? I taunt myself. Conceding the point, I also acknowledge that I've neither seen his eyes nor heard his voice. I have zero idea about his personality.
