Page 12 of Silent Vendetta (Vendetta Duet)

As we continued through his master closet and into his bedroom, a piercing wail sliced through the air, a paradoxical symphony that signaled both danger and hope for salvation.

“They’re approaching the driveway now,” Hunter said, glancing at his phone again before putting it, along with the knife, in his pants and hoodie pocket.

It felt like I was in a trance as we walked out of the bedroom, through the hallway—the walnut floor feeling like walking a plank—and down the stairs. When we approached the foyer, Hunter’s gaze—unblinking and intense—captured mine.

“Stick to the script, Luna. If they arrest me, there are plenty of people in the prosecutor’s office whohateseeing criminals released from prison. It won’t take much convincing for one of them to block your dad’s motion.”

My sore lip quivered. Somehow, this threat was even more painful than holding a blade to my throat.

Squealing tires stopped out front.

“You claimed to love me,” I choked. “You call this love?”

Hunter’s gaze shifted from my left eye to my right, and I swore I saw a flash of guilt. But it was probably wishful thinking—wanting to see the man I thought I knew one last time.

Car doors slammed with the crunch of metal.

Hunter placed his hand inside his hoodie pocket, presumably clutching the gun.

If I tipped them off, would he start shooting cops?

Bam, bam, bam.

The thick wooden door—with its aged oak adorned with intricate carvings, a testament to the passage of time and the secrets it guarded within—vibrated against each fist pound.

“Police! Open up!”

I swallowed.

He was probably bluffing. Hunter Lockwood wouldn’t shoot cops. After all, he swore an oath to himself to only hurt bad men. He had a code for it, he’d told me. Surely, he wouldn’t violate that code just to save his own neck.

Then again, people are capable of some seriously disturbing stuff when they’re backed into a corner. And those people aren’t even serial killers.

My breathing quickened as Hunter swung the door open.

Two uniformed officers flanked Detective Rinaldi—officers I recognized from when they had testified against some of my clients they’d arrested. I recalled tidbits of small talk. The tall guy with silver specs in his mustache talking about his daughter’s upcoming wedding and the baby-faced officer with blond hair had a six-year-old daughter and a one-year-old son—pictures he’d shown everyone who would look.

And then there was Detective Rinaldi, who had a toddler of her own at home, waiting for Mommy to return from work.

Behind them were more officers, slowly emerging from their vehicles. More lives at risk.

“Luna.” Detective Rinaldi looked at Hunter, then me again, her face unreadable. “Care to tell me what the hell is going on?”

Run. Scream. Tell them Hunter is armed.

What if Hunter wasn’t bluffing?What if Hunter does start shooting and, even though they’re armed and will fire back, some of them die?

As a child, I had lost my father to the prison system. I couldn’t sentence those kids to live without their parents, not if there was something I could do to prevent it.

My eyes burned as I realized what I needed to do.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced a fake smile.

“I’m so sorry.” I recited the story Hunter had fed me. “Turns out the screaming I heard was Hunter. He found out I had been abducted, but hadn’t heard the good news that I had been rescued yet.”

Rinaldi and both officers looked from me to Hunter, and back to me again as Hunter wrapped his arm around my shoulders, playing the role of relieved boyfriend.

“I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you found her,” Hunter said.

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