Page 31

“Duck! Grenade!” I yell, diving behind the nearest pillar, but I don’t make it before I am swept off my feet by the force of the explosive. I fall to the ground face first.
Ahmed, that bastard.
I taste sand and grit in my mouth, along with the sour feeling of blood seeping down my face from either my teeth or my lip.
I shake my head to clear my eyes, then turn around for Ahmed. He is shoving his fist into one of my men.
I pick myself up and run with full force, ramming myself into his frame.
He doesn’t recover before I grab him by the collar of his shirt and ram him into the nearest wall, head first. The second time, I think I hear a crack, and then he falls against my body, limp.
I take out my Glock and shoot right in his forehead to ensure that he isn’t playing tricks on me.
“Let’s go!” I call out to my men. Ahmed is dead. And this war is over. At least for now.
I can hear the sounds of sirens in the distance as my men and I load ourselves into our cars and speed off into the evening.
By the time the cops arrived, there would be no evidence of me or my men, dead or injured. Not even our fingerprints at the scene - when I called for us to leave, I immediately texted my clean up team followed by one of my police contacts.
All the cops would find was the aftermath of a dispute between criminals and the remnants of a fallen operation.
***
When the Tacoma rolls into my garage, I realize that I can barely lift my legs. I let out a loud groan, and Cortez quickly places his arms around me, helping me out of the car.
“Take me straight to the stitch room. Aria must not see me like this.”
“Sì, Capo. I will call for the doctorall’istante(immediately).”
Cortez calls for two other men to come and assist me while he runs off to call our family doctor.
I’m halfway across the hallway towards the west wing when I hear footsteps echoing down the hall, and before I know it, Aria is standing in front of me, popcorn in hand, mouth opened wide in shock.
“Elio! What the fuck happened to you!?”
The bag of popcorn drops from her hand instantly as she rushes towards me, running her hands all over my bloodied lips and swollen eye.
“Aria,” I call out in a gruff, pain-filled voice, “I’m fine.”
“The hell you are!” she snaps. “Quick, bring the first aid,” she orders my men and follows us as we resume the journey to the stitch room. The white walls and smell of sterile equipment hit my nostrils once I’m in, and my men set me on the operating table.
“What is the meaning of this, eh?” Aria whirls on me the moment my guys leave.
“Stop being dramatic, Princess.”
“Dramatic!” She scoffs and rolls her eyes. “You look like you fought a mama bear and lost!”
“You should have seen the other guys then. All ashes and smoke.” My lips curl up in a smirk.
Her lips open, try to form some words, then close back again. I nearly laugh at her frustration, but something pierces my ribs, and I let out a sharp groan.
“Let me see,” she stretches her hands toward me.
“I’m fine,” I struggle to stand.
“Just sit down, please.” Her gaze is soft, and for the first time, I see genuine concern in them, so I lower myself back onto the operating table.
Deciding to find the first aid kit herself, she hurries over to the cupboards, checking inside a couple of them, before finding it in the third.