22. Chapter Twenty-Two

“Stupid, arrogant jerk with his head up his ass,” I curse to the empty room as I pace back and forth across my bedroom floor.

I hold onto the pent-up anger churning inside me, keeping it tightly clenched because I know what’s trying to bubble up from beneath it. And there’s no goddamned way I’m letting the tears breathe fresh air.

I hear George quacking in the hallway and open the bedroom door to let him in. He zips past me across the room toward Nico’s side of the bed.

He has a side now, I think bitterly. I’d let that happen. I’d offered every part of me to that man like a fucking fool.

A crack forms inside me, and the scalding pain I’ve been trying to hold beneath the anger spews up like molten lava. It makes my breath catch in my throat as tears sting my eyes.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” I tell George as my eyes fill with tears. “I knew this would happen.”

I take a deep breath, trying to seal the crack. But it’s no use. My chest already shakes with sobs. After running from this kind of hurt for so long, I’d let it walk right in.

“He just… believed the worst. The cocky jerk wouldn’t even let me explain.” I throw another seething look at Nico’s side of the bed, and another pang hits me hard. Because beneath the anger and under all that pain, is a relentless need for Nico. More than anything, I’d wanted him to hold me. Even as he threatened to hurt my brother.

George looks at me, his head cocked a little to the side. I think he’s questioning my sanity here.

“Yeah, I can’t blame you,” I tell him, then I sit down on the floor cross-legged and take deep calming breaths.

George circles around me and then climbs into my lap, tucking his bill beneath my arm. He stays perfectly still as I stroke my fingers down his back. The softness of his feathers and the repetitive motion are somewhat soothing—more for me than for him.

“I need to kick that man from my life.” Seven weeks, one fight, and it already hurts this bad. Maybe I’m not cut out for this.

“Maybe it’s time to crawl back to Harmony with my tail tucked between my legs,” I suggest to George. “Let them toughen me up a bit more.”

But if there was one thing Nico made me see, it’s that it’s no use running from myself. It’s like getting on a treadmill, making every effort but never actually moving an inch away.

A knock sounds on my front door. Nico’s back! My stupid heart cheers. Hell, I think it’s about to start doing cartwheels at the thought of smoothing things over with him.

And have make-up sex, my suddenly throbbing pelvis seems to suggest.

“That’s so not happening, Sofia Lauren,” I scold myself aloud, putting a forceful end to the smile that’s threatening to spread across my face.

I make myself stay put and continue petting George. “Nico can stand out there knocking all night for all we care. I’m sure he hasn’t come back because he realized his mistake and wants to apologize. He’s back because he checked his voicemail and found the proof he needed.”

Not faith; proof.

I’m not going to spend my life provingmyself every time he jumps to dumbass conclusions.

Cut him some slack. His best friend betrayed him, a voice in my head chastises me.

Another knock on my front door, and what I thought was an iron-clad resolve melts like wax. “Fine! But there had better be some major groveling, or we’re calling it quits and packing our bags, George, I mean it.”

I set George down on the floor and stand, ignoring the butterflies fluttering low in my belly. I’ve got my ‘I’m so not ready to forgive you’ face plastered on as I cross the living room to my front door. I fling the door open with a dozen different witty curses at the tip of my tongue.

But it’s not Nico.

Three hulking men stand on my doorstep, each sporting cold eyes and a sinister smile.

Icy fingers skitter down my spine and root me to the spot. My reaction is not from fear but from recognition. I know one of them. Very well, in fact.

“Buonasera, Signorina,” the middle one says with a slight Italian accent. He’s middle-aged, tall and gangly, with creases at the corners of his gray eyes like storm clouds in winter. “Pascal Romano, at your service.” He puts his foot through the door, eliminating any chance of shutting it in his face.

Not that it’s occurred to me to do that. I’m still having trouble processing anything because I can’t take my eyes off the beefy curly-haired man standing next to him.

“I believe you and Miguel are already well acquainted.”

Miguel Ramirez, my anxiety-ridden Monday morning client, is anything but that now. He stands proud, feet planted, his right arm across his belly, hand tucked to his side. His hand no doubt wrapped around the butt of the gun hidden under his expensive-looking suit.

“I suggest you invite us in,” he continues in a gravelly voice that would have been pleasant if it weren’t for the ice in every syllable.

Romano suddenly pushes the door open in with a force that belies his sinewy frame, causing me to stumble backward. He, Miguel, and the other goon step through the doorway.

I take several steps back, careful not to make it seem like I’m running. My heart races as I begin playing out scenarios in my head that don’t end with me dead.

Hulking men look intimidating, but all that muscle makes them slow. And slow is good. I can use slow to my advantage.

Romano stays behind his lackeys and locks the door behind him. He’s clearly the ringleader of their creepy trio.

The urge to run beats down on me—to make a run for my bedroom, bolt the door, and slip out the bathroom window—but years of learning from the Reaper Druids keep my feet firmly rooted in place.

My dad had warned me countless times. “Never turn your back on an enemy, and never let an opponent figure out what you’re going to do next. The trick is to keep them guessing, Sparrow.”

Besides, if I tried to run, they’d either have me riddled with bullets or tackled to the floor in two seconds flat.

I shift just enough to feel the reassuring presence of my knife beneath my skirt.

A big man with a gun will always underestimate a small woman with a knife—if he’s an idiot,” Mags had told me.

I really, really hope these men are idiots. I don’t know about Romano and the other goon, but Miguel isn’t the sharpest tool in the box. But then again, from his body language alone, I know he’s had me fooled for the last two months of therapy.

I take a slow, steadying breath as Romano looks me over. “I can see how you managed to catch his attention. Distract him even.” He shakes his head.

Miguel sneers, “Vitelli has been here practically every night for the last month. Every. Fucking. Night. I never knew you were such a horny little bitch, Dr. Kellan.”

I channel my revulsion into a sweet smile, “No? Well, I always knew you were a deranged cretin, Miguel. ‘Big ol’ Mommy’ sure did a number on you.” Fake or not, therapy did expose some of the skeletons in the man’s closet.

“You fucking bitch!” An enraged Miguel snarls, taking a step toward me but Romano stops him with a single hand up.

“Patience, Miguel, you’ll get your chance. Vitelli must be on his way here as we speak. Save your anger and take it out on that motherfucker.”

To me, Romano continues, shaking his head, “Do you have any idea what the Cartel does to mouthy little women like you? I just worry my men and I would make such a mess, mia cara, even thecartel might not want you after all, eh, Miguel?”

“I’m sure we’ll find some use for whatever remains of her.” Miguel’s smile is so downright evil that a surge of bile comes up my throat. But I want—need to keep him talking, to prolong the inevitable. Cade is gone. Nico isn’t coming back. I’m on my own, and I had better fucking survive these monsters.

“You’ve been watching me haven’t you, Miguel? You bugged my phone. It’s been what, two, three months. Why?”

Romano answers instead, taking a casual look around. “Leo Ricci’s family became property of the Cartel the moment he turned his back on me, but since Maria already talked to you, I thought you would make for a fine bonus for the Cartel boys. After all, who doesn’t like to play doctor?”

Miguel and the other jughead guffaw. Then the humor wipes off Miguel’s face. “But somehow, Vitelli developed this disgusting habit of showing up every single time the Cartel came for you; it almost became a fucking joke.”

I’m speechless. My head is still spinning, trying to process what the Cartel thinks I know. “But Maria told me nothing about the Cartel.”

For the first time, Romano smiles. It looks more like a baring of teeth than anything. He says quietly, “She must have told you something, miacara . Something you have since repeated to Vitelli. The only thing that would make that cold-hearted bastard protect a traitor’s wife and keep rewarding you with fucks is if you’re feeding him information on Cartel business.”

Oh wow. Now I’m an informant on the Mexican Cartel!

Since we’re working with conspiracy theories here, I take a breath and say in a serious tone, “Did you know, for my thesis, I actually invented a time machine to communicate with aliens? It’s a neat little contraption I made from aluminum foil and a plastic spoon—”

“Cut the crap. Where the hell are they?”

“Who?” I ask.

Romano’s voice is tight with irritation. “You don’t want to play dumb with me, doctor.”

“Maria and Victoria?” I glance at Miguel. “Weren’t you eavesdropping this afternoon?” Then I say to Romano, “Maria called me about your creepy friend in the park at Cozumel. And good little informant that I am, I ran to Nico with the gist, and he moved them away—” I snap my fingers for emphasis, “—like that.”

Romano’s face twitches and goes purple with rage. Looks like his cool and calm veneer is finally slipping. “To where? Where did Vitelli take them?”

I shrug, “How should I know? Like you said, I only feed him Cartel information and he rewards me with fucks. It’s not the other way around.”

His nostrils flare, but it’s more in frustration than in anger. I can see he believes me. And why not? If he doesn’t think Nico tells me anything, it would be inconceivable that I could have orchestrated Maria’s translocation by myself.

Suddenly he sighs as if in deep regret. “I should cut you up in little pieces and scatter you across the lake. But, I owe the Cartel. And I always pay my debts.”

He moves to the window, apparently done with the heart to heart, shoves his hands in his pockets then nods his head to his companions.

Immediately, Miguel and the other goon move in tandem toward me.

My heart pounds. Break’s over Sophie, it’s show fucking time.

I hesitate for just a moment because my knowledge of a dozen ways to kill a man has always been theoretical. But this is no theory. This is fucking happening. I’m going to kill a man—three, if I’m lucky—or die trying, because there is no way in hell these sons of bitches are selling me to the Mexican Cartel.

I hitch up my skirt and grab my knife. It slips into my hand perfectly, like it was built for me or maybe me for it.

Miguel and the other goon exchange surprised looks and their smiles widen. It’s clear they’re not taking the threat seriously. Even Romano just raises a bored eyebrow and goes back to looking outside the window.

“Dr Kellan,” Miguel steps forward. “You’ll only hurt yourself with that. We do not want to mar that pretty face, do we?”

He’s reaching for my wrist but moving a little too slowly, too confidently. I know he’s not going to make it in time. With a sudden burst of energy, I strike out like a coiled snake, sweeping the blade across his throat, left to right. I maintain my hand speed and downward momentum enough to slash across the torso of the goon on the left with the same stroke that just killed Miguel.

Blood spurts like a fountain, spraying all over me. Miguel chokes and grabs at his throat, his eyes wide with disbelief, but I don’t wait to assess the damage.

In less than a heartbeat and a twist of my wrist, I’m spinning the karambit and guiding the tip into the gut of Miguel’s partner, who unfortunately took half a second too long to recover from Miguel’s unexpected demise and the slash across his own torso. I stab him. Deep.

I barely feel the fist across my face as I withdraw and stab again, so fast, it’s a blur even to my own eyes.

He grunts, his eyes spewing pure evil as he grabs my wrist, gripping so hard I can’t withdraw the knife from his abdomen to stab him a third time. Shit, he’s strong.

His grip tightens, and I fear he’ll crush the bones in my wrist. But he’s too late. Strength leaches from his fingers, the way the light fades from his rage-filled eyes. His grip fails to tighten further. In a matter of seconds, it will loosen like a noodle.

The shot I took wasn’t random. I hadn’t stabbed blindly at the big brute. I’d sunk my blade straight into his liver, repeatedly. He’s a dead man, even if his brain hasn’t quite figured that out yet. But even in his weakened state, I still can’t disentangle myself from him.

Oh shit. I panic, frantically trying to get away. Romano is right behind and only needs one bullet to finish me off now.

Pain explodes in my head and stars burst in my vision.

“You fucking bitch,” Romano’s roar sounds like a distant echo, drowned out by the sudden ringing in my ears.

“Nice of you to finally join the fight, asshole,” I manage as I stumble back.

The dying brute still has too much of a grip on my knife arm. He holds onto it like a lifeline as Romano grabs my neck and yanks me away from the big lug, who finally collapses to the floor.

Romano slams me hard into the nearest wall, the impact so jarring my teeth chatter. I lose my grip on my knife and it falls to the floor, clattering against the laminate.

Shit.

Romano is deceptively strong for his lean build. He holds me up by my neck, forcing me to the tip of my toes. Panic pumps hard through my veins as I claw at his squeezing hands, drawing blood, but he doesnt relent. Black spots start to dance across my vision.

“You’re feisty,” he says, his countenance transforming from livid back to eerily calm, now that he has the upper hand. “No wonder Vitelli likes you. Maybe I won’t sell you to the Cartel after all,” he says with a sinister smile. “I can find other uses for you that’ll make you wish I killed you.” He looks me over again, his gaze roaming from head to toe and back up again.

My stomach roils, and my skin feels like he’s just smeared it in thick, grimy oil.

“Like… hell… you will,” I try to croak out, but most of the sound gets trapped in my throat.

I run through scenarios in my head, calling up every lesson, every piece of advice every Reaper Druid had ever given me. But what springs to mind, standing front and center, is a story Rafe told me in passing a lifetime ago.

“The ugly motherfucker had me by the throat, up against the lockers,” he’d said as we walked home from school. “I grabbed him right here,”—he’d demonstrated by pinching me at the junction of my neck and shoulder. “And the guy just let go, Soph. His whole arm went numb. I felt like fucking Mr. Spock.”

It’s the brachial plexus—I later learned what it was and how to tear into it with a blade. I’ve never practiced disabling a man by targeting that nerve center with my bare hands but I don’t exactly have anything to lose at the moment.

I balance myself as best as I can on my tiptoes and focus my eyes on that critical point between Romano’s neck and shoulder, doing my damnedest to see through the black spots. I bring my hands up again, wrapping them around his hand like I’m trying to pry him off me. But really, I’m just trying to get my hands as close to his neck as possible.

Then I pounce, fast as lightning.

Except it isn’t fast. My hands respond sluggishly to my brain’s command, crossing the distance between us too slowly, thanks to the hand cutting off my oxygen supply.

His lips curl up in a twisted sneer as he squeezes my neck tighter. And I close my eyes and pray.

For Nico.

For Cade.

For air into my burning lungs.