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“Don’t you think the best way to do this is to disarm her first?” I snap, the pain making me vicious. Even as the words leave my mouth, I can’t tear my eyes from her face. Peaceful in unconsciousness, dangerous when awake.
Luca’s my fail-safe for jobs like this—not for his subtlety. God knows my brother stands out like a bull in a china shop with his hulking frame. But he’s a fucking savant with chemicals. Give him a basic lab and he’ll create something that can knock out an elephant without leaving a trace.
Which is exactly what’s flowing through Alessa’s veins right now.
“What do you want me to do with her?” Luca asks, cradling her against his chest like she’s made of glass.
“Put her on the bed.” I limp toward the en-suite bathroom, each step sending lightning strikes up my leg. “How long will it last?”
I force myself into her bathroom—all marble and luxury and fucking girly touches. Blue accents everywhere, everything in its place. Organized. Controlled. Just like she tries to be.
“This bad boy?” He chuckles, the juvenile fuck. “A couple of hours. A day tops.”
Blood slickens my hands as I rifle through her drawers, looking for a first-aid kit. This isn’t my first bullet wound. In my world, they’re practically business cards—painful reminders of deals gone wrong. I find what I need and brace myself against the sink. This part’s never fun.
With a grunt, I tear my pants open wider, fabric ripping against bloodied fingers. The wound is deep, but I’ve had worse. Sweat stings my eyes as I swipe an antiseptic wipe over the raw flesh, the burn hitting like a live wire. Good. Keeps me sharp. Pain means I’m still in the fight… still calling the shots.
In this life, the second you start feeling nothing—you’re as good as dead.
“Fuck!” I throw my head back as I dig my fingers into the wound, searching for the bullet. “Goddamn son of a bitch!”
“Did you really lose the gun?” Luca calls from the bedroom, the sound of rustling papers telling me he’s already going through her shit.
“It’s not lost. She fucking stole it.”
“Yeah, when you fucked?” His snicker echoes against the walls.
“Luca.” My voice drops to a warning growl.
“What? I heard-”
I grab that metal bastard buried in my leg and yank it out, biting down a scream. Blood pours out, but I slap gauze on it, pressing hard enough to make my knuckles white. Wrap it tight, tape it down, job done. Good enough ’til I can get real stitches. Ain’t my first rodeo with lead.
The pain dulls to a throb as I rinse my hands, watching blood stain her fancy sink. In the mirror, I look like what I am—a guy who underestimated his target and paid for it. But a bullet hole’s just another day at the office in my line of work—sweaty face, gritted teeth, and eyes that’ve seen this shit before.
Respect? Maybe.
Pissed off? Definitely.
But a battle scar from Alessa... I almost like it.
“Go find the gun,” I order as I limp back into the bedroom. “We’re not leaving until we find it.”
“And the mess?” Luca asks, eyebrow raised. My germaphobe brother, somehow surviving in a business where blood is basically a signing bonus.
“You want to clean that shit? Be my guest.”
I make my way to the bed where Alessa lies unconscious, her hair a fiery halo against the blue sheets. Something tightens in my chest at the sight.
She’s fucking gorgeous—all dangerous curves and delicate features that hide her killer instincts. Those hips, and that ass could make a priest fucking sin.
The memory of that night together slams into me—how I tasted every inch of her, her nails drawing blood down my back, the way she bit down on the pillow to muffle her screams when I took her from behind, her body arching and shuddering as she came around me. The perfect mix of fire and surrender.
Fuck.
Wish I could just hate her for stealing my gun. Treat her like any other job—a stepping stone to getting made. But Alessa Russo crawled under my skin that night, and she’s still there, creating a fucking shitstorm.
“This is it, Luca,” I murmur, eyes fixed on her face. “I’m so fucking close.”