Page 61 of Filthy Little Regrets (Princes of NYC #2)

thirty-nine

CASSIA

There are times when I worry about the state of my being.

Whether I’ll ever feel normal again, or if my life is meant to be a merry-go-round of loss.

Only, this time, I’m the one bringing death to the party.

Tony and I ride together, with Alec—who, thanks to Remy, I’ve since discovered is one of the best capos in the family—in the back seat of the Range Rover.

The man has barely moved, and I’m not even sure he’s breathing, but he’s been that way ever since Vito demanded he ride with us. Our car line started off small, but by the time we’re pulling into Morozov’s gated neighborhood, there are more than a dozen. The attendant stand is abandoned.

Tony and I trade looks, and Alec leans forward, scanning the area around us. “Get out and open it.”

“I—”

The gun kisses my temple once more. “Open it.”

Swallowing down my fear and irritation, I slide out of the car and walk around the front of it, head on a swivel as I approach the station.

There should be a guard here, but whoever was working is long gone.

I peek inside, find the button, and quickly flip it, rushing back to the car and climbing inside.

Tony grips the steering wheel so tight, his knuckles are white.

Alec is fully back in his seat, gun resting on his thigh as Tony drives us inside the community. The houses are huge, probably beautiful, but I can’t be bothered to pay attention when I spot Mace’s Valiant parked a few houses away from the one Morozov owns.

My throat tightens.

Tony pulls up behind his car. “Fuck.”

Alec clears his throat. It’s enough to propel me out of the SUV.

Standing on the sidewalk, I turn and watch at least thirty men join me.

Other than a few extra guns for each of them, that’s as prepared as they came.

None of them bothered with bulletproof vests.

They don’t care if they die. It’s probably an honor to go down fighting for the Marino name.

Vito himself waits in a car, letting his men do his dirty work.

It’s a little fucked up, if you ask me, but Alec doesn’t even blink.

Why does a man like Alec bow to Vito? Alec is young, though, only twenty-six or so, and he likely grew up in the family.

Like every good made man, he’s probably loyal to a fault.

Willing to die for the man who waits fifteen cars back, safely cocooned in bulletproof metal and glass.

Alec makes a few hand gestures, quick flicks of his wrist, and everyone moves. Some go through the yard in front of us, intent to take the back of the house, while others join Alec, who turns and looks at me. “You should stay here.”

“No. ”

He arches an eyebrow and glances at Tony.

“The only way to stop her is to restrain her, and Mace would kill me.”

Not to mention, I’d give him a taste of my mini-taser. See how his balls enjoy being fried.

Shaking his head, Alec brushes past me without another word of warning or concern, attaching a silencer to the end of his gun. I mean nothing to him. I could die right here and now, and he wouldn’t even spare me a pitying glance.

Tony grabs my arm as the rest of Alec’s men follow him. I glare at him, but he says, “Let them die first,” and I relent, despite every fiber of my being straining toward Morozov’s house, desperate to lay eyes on my husband. To make sure he’s safe.

I pinch my eyes shut, breathing in and whispering a prayer to whatever deity feels like being kind today. Please, don’t take him away from me. He’s everything.

The shots are softened by the silencers, but a torrent of pops rips through the air.

It’s not loud enough to draw suspicion, though knowing what it means, each pop slams into my chest like nails into a coffin.

Legs weak, my eyes snap open, and I grip Tony’s arm.

He grunts but doesn’t brush me off, he himself stiffening, as if our collective hesitation will protect Mace and Adalie.

The snap of a car door slamming shut comes from behind us, and I glance back, watching Vito casually stroll up the sidewalk, smoking a cigar like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

As suddenly as the shots tore through space, everything quiets. Gooseflesh rushes down my arms and spine. I shiver, heart threatening to jump right out of my chest.

“Relax, sweetheart, we won,” Vito says around his cigar .

“How do you know?”

He smirks. “Alec always wins.”

Swallowing the fear lodged in my throat, I nod, facing toward the house.

“I’m going, Tony.” But I don’t move. I’m still clutching him, a balloon clinging to safety as the wind threatens to launch it into the atmosphere.

What if Alec didn’t win, though? My family is cursed. Everyone I love dies and ? —

“Come on,” Tony says, grabbing my arm and dragging me toward the house.

I want to dig my heels in, to refuse, to spare myself the agony of seeing Mace covered in blood, but at the same time, I know I have to see him one last time. Vito scoffs behind us, a puff of cigar smoke billowing around us. It does nothing to calm my frantic heartbeat.

All I have to do is walk. Keep moving. You can do this, Cassia. The driveway is right there. I breathe through my nose, but the panic I’ve been pushing down is creeping upon me. Step. Breathe. Step. Exhale.

He has to be fine.

A tremble starts in my hands as Tony leads me toward the door, where one of Vito’s guys is waiting. Hope springs up inside of me, but I don’t let it take root, knowing how much it’ll hurt when it’s stripped from my body.

“It’s okay, Cass,” Tony murmurs.

As we pass through the door, through the disarray of shattered glass, holes in the walls, pillow stuffing, and blood, my gaze collides with shadowy blue irises that shatter my soul, break me apart, tear me into a million pieces, and put me back together again. A relieved sob wrenches from my throat.

Mace breaks away from Alec. My heart beats faster than it ever has before.

I rip my arm from Tony’s grasp, taking my first unsteady step toward the man I love more than breathing.

Mace’s gaze scours my face, seeing every emotion I can’t even begin to describe out loud, and he quickens his pace.

It’s then I realize he’s covered in blood.

My eyes zip over him, searching for an injury, and even though I can’t find any, fear churns in my stomach.

I’ve never been a runner, but some baser instinct takes control of my body, and I make a mad dash for him.

As I collide into him, he doesn’t even stumble.

His fingers dive into my hair, clutching me to his body, and he says a dozen things I can’t even process.

All I know is that his vetiver envelops me as tightly as his arms do, and his heart is still beating.

Running my hands over his body, I search for wounds, pulling back and moving my palms over his neck, which is coated in flaky crimson. But there’s no injury. It’s not his blood.

He’s still here.

He’s still mine.

He’s okay.

He’s okay.

Relief crashes through me, and adrenaline leaks from my body so rapidly, my muscles weaken. I barely manage to murmur, “Mace,” before I collapse.