Page 70 of Dance of Thorns

I think he’s going to kill me, Boo.

The crossing light is still an orange hand so I reach for the diary again, wanting to re-read whatever thefuckthat was so I can wrap my head around it all.

I never get the chance.

Strong hands slam into me from behind, shoving me forward. The scream catches in my throat, my eyes wide with horror as I find myself lurching off the curb and right into East 52ndStreet.

I don't see the bus until it's two feet away.

16

BANE

Pulsingenergy jangles within me as I storm through the hospital like a wraith.

Where thefuckis she.

You'd think, given my grim expression and the way I shove people out of my way like an ice-barge demolishing a frozen stream, that I was feeling how most people do when they come to a hospital looking for a loved one.

Anxious. Terrified. Strangled by worry about someone lying broken or bleeding behind one of these doors.

But the heated blood under my skin right now can more accurately be ascribed toanger.

Fury, even.

I round a corner, and I’m instantly mobbed by big Italian guys in dark suits with obvious firearms under their jackets, blocking me like a wall.

“Calm the fuck down!” a familiar gruff voice barks from behind the Great Wall of Pasta. “It’s Antonov, ya dumb fucks.”

The jowly fucker I’ve just squared right up with, our foreheads almost touching, scowls before he blinks in recognition.

“Let himthrough, Joey!”

“Move,Joey,” I hiss quietly. His dim-witted eyes narrow, but he and the other Marchetti goons step aside. I shove past them and stop in front of Cesare.

Instantly he’s all smiles, grinning widely as he pats me on the shoulder.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he laughs, “and don’t you fuckin’ worry. We’re all good. Our deal is still fine.”

My brows furrow.

“The second I heard you were on the way over,” Cesare grins at me, patting a heavy hand on my chest like we’re old buddies, “I figured you and your father were anxious to make sure everything was still in order. Trust me, the deal is still okay.”

I stare at him.

The deal.

Jesus Christ.

This fucker is not concerned right now about the fact that his daughter just got hit by a fuckingbus—well,bumpedby a bus that stopped just in time, but still.

He's concerned about our goddamn deal.

Father of the fucking year.

“How is she,” I growl under my breath.

“Like I said,” he grins. “All good.”