29. Revenge

TWENTY-NINE

Ishouldn't have let Vin go first.

That's all I'm thinking as I sit on the edge of the passenger seat, clutching the dash, about to climb through the fucking window if that'll somehow turn back time and stop Vin from walking up to the door.

He had his gun out. It should've been a protective measure.

It wasn't.

He knew Damien was in trouble. The moment the tracker finally stopped about twenty minutes ago, showing us that Damien's tracker put him along an abandoned stretch of empty and closed-down stores in the slums of Springfield, we both agreed that something was up. Technically, this is the West Side so it belongs to the Sinners Syndicate. But the area is usually reserved for junkies and prostitutes who are too much of a threat to join either of the two organized crime rings in the city.

According to Vin, there's absolutely no reason why Damien should be here. At first, we didn't think he was. There's no sign of his red car anywhere, but I'm not following any tracker that might've been installed in case it was stolen. I'm following the dot that correlates with the subdermal tracker in Damien.

Because someone stole my husband, and I want him back.

Once we arrived at the destination, Vin approached in a roundabout way. He didn't go on foot at first, either. He drove around in the car, searching the left side of the streets while I was looking at the right.

And that's how I saw a group of three or four people surrounding something in the middle inside of a store that looks like it's been available for rent for a long, long time.

They're not working on the inside or renovating it, either. After I point out what I saw inside of the suspiciously dark store, Vin agreed it might be something. We drove around again—and this time? I was almost positive I saw a man sitting in the chair where the other ones were gathered before.

The silhouette of that man looked like it might be Damien. The tracker lined up with it.

We had to check.

Or, considering Vin was in no mood to argue, he told me to stay in the car while he checked.

He parked about ten stores away so that he could sneak up on the store. If that is Damien, he's definitely not alone. He's probably in trouble.

Vin paused for a second, grabbing something from the trunk of the car. Once he was ready, he disengaged the safety on his gun before creeping down the street.

From where I was, I didn't see it when someone opened the door or stuck their gun out of it. I was too focused on watching Vin's back, and his bulk hid everything from me.

But when his body jerked, then fell backward on the sidewalk… I saw that. Even worse, I watched in abject horror as the door widened enough for two men to slip out, grab Vin by the legs, then drag his big body into the store before closing the door again.

The whole thing happened in a matter of minutes. One second Vin was up, then he wasn't, and all I could think is: if they'll kill Vin, what are they doing to Damien?

I don't have a gun. Vin had the only one. I have my stiletto, and I slap at my hip in panic, fingers unwilling to work right for a second before I'm unsnapping the top of the leather case, pulling the knife out.

But what now? If I try to stroll up the door, I'm dead meat, just like Vin. You don't bring a knife to a gun fight. The beauty of the stiletto is that it requires intimacy. It's an up-close kill.

What to do? What to do?

Okay. I can't leave Damien in there. I just… I can't. And maybe this is the worst moment in the world to realize just how much I've grown to care for him, to depend on him, to love him… but, suddenly, my revenge list has changed.

In my mind's eye, I cross off Damien Libellula, and then I add: whoever the fuck thought they could take my husband.

For months, I stalked him. I watched him. I studied him. I came up with a hundred plans how I was going to kill him. In the end, I didn't use any of them. I took an opportune moment to touch him, to steal his knife, to stab him—and I failed.

I won't fail this time.

I got close, though. Even Damien will admit that. I got close, and all because I went with the first impulsive idea that popped into my brain.

And right now? I've got one even more impulsive than the last.

Clutching my stiletto, I climb up from the passenger seat. Flinging my body into the driver's side, I'm so glad that Vin left the engine running. He told me if things went south that I needed to be able to take off, get home, make sure Genny was safe. I lied and told him I would, knowing that nothing would stop me from getting to Damien.

Looks like I'm going to prove it.

The car's on. I pause only to throw on my seatbelt because God knows I'm gonna need it, then put the car into reverse. The street's empty, all the unhoused and down-on-their-luck people who flock to this neighborhood either hiding out until dark or tucked away in their hidey-holes. Right now, it's just me and whoever is in that store… and I'm about to say ‘hi'.

Once I've backed up enough to give me room, I lean forward in my seat as far as the seatbelt will allow. Then, staring unblinkingly at my newest target, I focus on the store. I won't take my eyes off of it. Even as I put the car back into drive, slam my foot down on the gas pedal, and go, I never once look away.

When I take a wide turn, crossing into the other lane before turning sharply, hopping the curb, and smashing through the glass windows of the shop?

Oh, yeah. I close my eyes then.

Not for long. Just upon the first impact because I'm not sure how the windshield on one of Damien's flashy cars will hold. At the speed I was going, I was hoping to smash the window and make a distraction, but I really didn't like the idea of the windshield cutting me to ribbons when I did.

Luckily, the windshield held. The glass windows of the store shatter, but they didn't really stop the car at all. I'm still pressing down on the gas pedal which means that, even after the windows break, the car keeps going.

At the first sound of gunfire, I duck—but I'm still going, baby. My hand is still on the wheel, my eyes opening just in time to jerk it so that I don't hit the chair that's holding my husband.

I do, however, send a bald man flying one way, see a Black man land on the windshield—and that does crack the glass, though it doens't break—before he rolls off, hitting the floor hard. But, best of all, I keep going until I crash into a wall, pinning some freaky looking dude all in white. White suit. White hair. White teeth bared as he howls in agony.

I'm still on survivor mode. The two guys I hit are down. Dead? Dunno. Maybe. I didn't roll over anything so I'd like to think I missed Vin, wherever he is; Damien is sitting in his chair, mouth open, beautiful face destroyed.

What did they do to my husband?

I don't think. My brain flew out the window when I thought it was a good idea to drive a car through a store full of bad guys, including Damien. I'm running on instinct, and one of the lessons Damein drilled into my head during our training sessions was: if you have a weapon, don't lose your weapon. If someone is dumb enough to lose their weapon, take it and now you have two.

That was a memorable sparring session. That night, he got my knife from me and instead of my panties being cut off, he sliced one of my favorites bras off my chest, making my nipples hard when he lay the cool side of the knife on them before his hot mouth warmed them up.

Of course, I got a bag full of new panties, bras, and lingerie in his favorite style the next morning to make up for it, but I learned quite a few lessons that night.

Damien can be generous, I'm way more into knife play than I'd ever though I'd be, and if someone loses their weapon, it's not gonna be me.

That's why, as the white-haired weirdo tries desperately to get out from where I pinned him, I throw open the car door and dive. I saw his gun fall out of his hand a second before impact. It had to have skittered among the glass that's everywhere, but I could give a shit if I get cut off now.

I need that gun.

Where's that gun.

Yes!

I don't even know if it's his. I'm sure the other two guys were armed, so it could be one of theirs. Doesn't matter. I grab the gun, hope like hell it's loaded, then start shooting wildly.

The Black man? Two bullets, and one of them gets him in the head. The bald guy? He's groaning, but I shoot two in his chest, and he stops. All that's left if the guy against the wall. He's cursing at me, but I'm not listening. I don't hear anything but the noise in my head, and it's saying: Kill.

And that's exactly what I do.

It's not pretty, but it's effective. I get him in the cheek and the forehead, blood staining his white hair red, as his body stays up against the wall, thanks to the car.

I whirl around, looking for another target. It was hard to tell how many people were in here when we drove by before so maybe I got them all.

I better have gotten them all.

"Savannah… oh, sweet Savannah…. Ranga mia, cara mia, my love…"

It takes a second for the noise to quiet enough for me to realize that someone—that my husband—is talking to me.

His face is bloody and beaten, eyes so swollen I'm not sure he saw any of what just happened, but when he says my name, it's like a prayer on his lips. "Savannah… my Savannah."

To hear this man say that? I'm not Georgia. I wasn't sure I'd always be Savannah. But maybe… maybe I will.

He's alive. The realization that he is, that he survived, hits me a second later.

"Damien!"

I never dropped the stiletto. With the dead man's gun in my right hand, I held onto the knife in my left. I swap them back now, then, shaky and surprisingly exhilarated, I stumble over to where Damien is tied to the chair.

I have every intention of cutting him free from his bonds, but he stops me with a shake of his head.

"Vin," he rasps out now, nowhere near as musical as when he said my name. "Check on Vin first."

"Where is he?" I ask.

With his hands trapped to the arm rests, he can't point. And though I'm sure it hurts his head, he nods toward the other wall, where the corner meets the glass door that is, surprisingly, still standing despite the rest of the windows being a glittery mess on the floor.

Vin is laying motionless on floor. He's not bloody, though, and the glass only covers one side of him. I move toward him, still clutching my knife, and almost cry when I see his chest.

He has one shot in the shoulder. The other is lower, mid-chest. He got shot in the back, but his shirt looks like they managed to go clean through. Bloodstains blossom in his center, but he's breathing at least.

For now.

I start to get up, prepared to tell Damien what state his cousin is in. However, before I say a word, someone climbs out of the shadows in the corner opposite of where I am.

"Dr. Liz?"

She's clutching her own shoulder, blood leaking through the gaps of her fingers. Her hair is a mess, and when she shakes it, it glitters with glass.

"I'm a doctor. I can check him."

How did I miss her? I guess it makes sense. She was hiding in the corner, ducking low, nursing her shoulder. She must've been another victim, hoping for help, and now that I've provided it, she can use her training to check out Vin.

Only…

"Dr. Liz? What are you doing here?"

Damien looks over at the disheveled doctor. If looks could kill, she'd already be six feet under, but since I still haven't cut the rope tying him to the chair, staring at her is about all he can do.

"Don't you know, wife? She sold me out."

Sold him out?

"What?" I look at the three corpses I left in my wake. "These guys? What the fuck for? Why would you want Damien dead?"

"I didn't!" she explodes. "I wanted you dead!"

Oh. "Why?"

Damien snorts. Not because the injured doctor seems to have lost her mind, but because he's often pointed out how I ask many questions and rarely answer any myself.

But, seriously, why?

"Because I wanted to be Damien's wife!"

Oh. Well. That doesn't really explain things, but I guess it makes a little sense.

"For years I did whatever I could to make him happy!" she says, moving gingerly toward me. "I worked in that shitty clinic! I dealt with assholes and perves and losers all day long! I didn't hire anyone else so that I could be the doctor, and just when I thought he might finally want to settle down, he marries you!"

"Well… if it makes you feel any better, he had to blackmail me into it."

Her eyes bulge. "You would be lucky to have a man like him!"

I shrug, fucking with her now. Whatever she did—and I'm sure Damien will tell me—she didn't accomplish what she set out to do. Like me, she failed. I'm not dead, and neither is my husband.

But Liz…

"Eh. He's alright."

Just like I figured, that was enough to push the doctor over the edge. Screaming at me, she runs right at me, dodging the bodies and the car until she's less than a foot away from me. Her hands are in front of her despite her injury, nails crooked as though she's going to claws my eyes out.

Bad move, Lizzie. You gave me something to latch on to.

Ducking my own shoulder, I grip her right arm, twist it, take a moment to revel in the renewed howl that tears out of her throat, then use her momentum against her. She flips over my head, landing on a pile of glass that jabs right into her back.

Once she's down, I straddle her, using my weight in a way that she's not getting up anytime soon.

Then, because I'm not done yet, I say, "One last question, Dr. Liz. When we got to the clinic, it was closed. You knew we were coming with my cat. Is this why you shut down? To threaten my husband? To threaten me? To betray the Dragonflies?"

Over my head, I heard Damien chuckle darkly.

After all, we both know what it means when you betray the Dragonflies.

Her eyes are still wild as she sneers at me. "Fuck your cat. I hope the sedative I sent home with that idiot ballerina was enough to put him to sleep forever, you bitch."

Wow. I'm such an idiot. I didn't even realize that she lied to Gen and gave her something to hurt Orion until right this very second. I guess, in my confusion, they were two different issues. My cat was unconscious and Damien was missing. Just two shitty circumstances…

But no. She used Genevieve. She risked my cat's life. I don't even know if he's made it, or if Gen was able to get to the vet or not… but it doesn't matter.

Her fate was sealed when she used my cat against me. Oh, and when she plotted against my husband…

Smiling down on Liz, I lift my hand—and the stiletto—up high before bringing it down in her side. Poetic justice and all that that I make sure it's just about the same spot as where this woman stitched up Damien months ago.

She howls, and I pull out the knife, making sure to twist it.

"That's for Damien," I tell her. "And this? This is for Orion. Say ‘hi' to Ricky for me."

Her lips part, as though knowing exactly what to expect. She was at the dinner. She knows what's coming.

And I don't disappoint.

One fluid slice. The stiletto is even sharper than it was the night Damien cut Ricky's throat. With Liz on her back beneath me, in too much pain from her gunshot wound and the fresh stab, she does nothing to stop me from swinging the knife.

Only once I see the bloody smile in her throat do I get up, then kick her for good measure. Then, hoisting the red-slicked stiletto up, I make sure my husband can see it.

"Damien?"

"Yes, amore?"

I twist the blade, showing it off. "I love you."

His icy blue eyes seem to gleam through the shadows. "I know."