Page 38 of Twisted Revelations

“You know how Santino is. He’s protective of his reputation,” another pointed out.

This was the kind of information we needed. We had audio confirmation Santino would be at the ball, possibly shaking hands with a business partner. We had suspected this, but hearing verbal confirmation solidified our plan and put us closer to taking him out.

We listened for another half-hour until the men dispersed. Dax kept eyes on them from his location. Two went up the elevators, likely going up to the penthouse. The other two headed outside.

My movement stalled, and I took a seat on a plush couch near the large spinning glass doors when I noticed the men awaiting the valet for their vehicles.

Dax swept past me and strolled toward the front door before he tossed a head gesture in my direction for me to follow. I adjusted my cap and shoved my pants lower. Since I had an ass now, I’d had to go up four sizes to hide it.

My eyes met the eyes of the one I’d assumed was the leader, based on their conversation. He’d talked the least, but the others had looked to him for answers. When his eyes locked with mine and an angry glare was directed at me, I lowered my head and hissed at Dax who was a few paces in front of me, making his way to the street we needed to cross to get to his car.

“I think I’ve been made,” I squeezed out while maintaining an air of nonchalance as the cold gaze I’d met remained on me.

“How were you made? You make a better man than me,” Dax replied, failing to hide the smile on his face while I was being serious. I dodged a group of three businessmen in suits who acted as if they owned the damn sidewalk. Cars zipped past us and other pedestrians as they maneuvered their bodies in every direction, dodging cars and each other. Revved engines, squealing brakes, laughter, and shouting all mingled into one chaotic melody.

“I think he remembers me sitting next to them at the table,” I continued, glancing back as we marched across the street. I widened my shorter steps to keep up with Dax’s long-legged strides. Another quick glance back revealed the man was indeed glaring at my back. Instinctively, I pulled my cap lower on my head as if that would help.

“Laura,” Dax called, getting my attention. “I’m going to need you to drive.”

My steps hitched, the large tennis shoes I wore scraped the warm asphalt. “I can’t drive a stick. I’ve done it once, and it wasn’t a smooth ride,” I informed.

“Good,” he replied. “There’s no better time than now for you to learn,” he announced matter-of-factly.

With hesitance in my stride, I walked around the car and approached the driver’s side. Dax had already climbed into the passenger’s seat and slammed the door shut. Today, he drove a dark blue 1969 Mustang with white racing stripes, so there was no switching from standard to automatic like I’d noticed in his other cars.

As soon as I climbed into the car, Dax shoved the key into the ignition. “Start it and get ready. He’s climbing into his car and staring in our direction.”

The seat grunted as I inched it to the closest setting to the stirring wheel and bent the mirrors to my sights as quickly as possible. Dax snapped on his seatbelt and sat low in the seat as he glared from his tinted window.

“He hasn’t alerted his friend, but the deep frown on his face reflects his interest in us,” Dax confirmed.

After snapping my seatbelt, I flipped the keys, shoved my feet down on the clutch and brake, and prayed my brain would remember the one lesson Kadeem had given me in stick-shift driving seven years ago.

“You remember how to take off?”

“Hell no!” I replied.

“Good,” he mouthed as he continued to glare out the window. “Left foot, hold clutch, right foot, hold brake, stick in first gear, ease off the clutch as you ease down on the gas. When the engine sounds like it’s yelling at you, reverse foot order and shift to the second gear. Go now, Laura!”

“What? Wait! What?” I muttered, staring at my feet and the stick that vibrated in tune with the running engine. I stopped thinking when the cold gleam of metal flashed across my view. Dax was drawing his weapon from its holster.

Our bodies jerked on my shaky start, and my head ached, scrambling to recall what to do next. Was this Dax’s way of getting me back for insisting I go with him?

The engine screamed for release as buildings and people in my peripheral started to roll by, “Second, Laura. Now. He’s coming after us,” Dax yelled as he cocked his pistol, the metal playing a tune for the screaming engine.

“Shit,” I cursed before I threw my foot down on the clutch and yanked the stick down and into second. The clutch stuck with a metal scraping roar as the car hiccupped loudly. My body lurched so hard I white-knuckled the steering wheel to keep from slamming into it.

“Faster, Laura! Faster!” Dax yelled as his grip tighten on his pistol. “Take the next right,” he ordered as my gaze caught the man chasing us, zooming past cars to catch up with us.

“Clutch and third,” Dax yelled as he started to lower his window. How in the hell was he so calm while I was driving a car I didn’t know how to drive with a cartel member on our trail?

I threw the car into third, and it questioned my skills by bucking forward and lurching back before it decided it wanted to go. The car swerved around the corner and after all I’d been through we were only up to forty-five. After nearly clipping a parked blue Chevy Tahoe, I straightened out the protesting car and gave it more gas, preparing to take it up to the next gear.

There was a huge intersection up ahead, and although our lane was moving through the lights, they were crawling across the intersection.

“Dax!” I called, not knowing where to put my feet or the car for that matter. The approaching intersection and line of cars was racing toward us instead of the other way around.

“Go around them! Don’t stop,” he yelled. That was easy for him to say—he wasn’t the one driving. If we could make it past that intersection alive, it would lead to the onramp that flowed into the openness of the less congested interstate.

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