Page 63 of Precious Hazard (Perfectly Imperfect #11)

“Because he’s not what I imagined as a romantic hero!

Not the knight in shining armor I was wishing for!

That’s who I was supposed to fall in love with, Sienna, not fucking Satan!

” I dig my fingers into my hair, scraping my scalp.

“Jesus. How do I manage to fuck up every single thing in my life? Even my own make-believe fairy tale?”

“Tara…”

“You wanna know what I did last night before I called you? I lay awake in bed, curled into Arturo’s side as I imagined what it would be like if this thing between us were real.

A happy marriage that started in a normal way.

Maybe we’d have met and instantly bonded over how awfully lovey-dovey you and Drago always are.

We would have gone on dates, real dates!

Dates where we laughed and talked about everything and nothing.

Books. His job. I would have teased him about reading his newspapers like an old man.

” A sad laugh escapes me. “We would have slowly gotten to know each other. I would have shown him how to edit manuscripts, and he’d teach me to cook.

We would have just had fun together. At some point, Arturo would have saved me from some bad guys, of course.

Maybe a thief who tried to steal my purse while we were out, but my gallant knight would have chased the bastard down.

” This time, the giggle that erupts breaks into a half sob that pushes its way out of my chest. “God, that’s dumb.

Outside my fantasies, I can’t even imagine anything like that happening.

All I can imagine is your brother standing on the sidewalk and laughing at my rotten luck. ”

“Arturo would never. He’d definitely chase the bad guy down the street,” Sienna throws in. “And he’d likely break the guy’s arms and legs once he caught him. Arturo loves you, too, Tara. I know it.”

“Yeah, sure. Hang on to your baseless theories, and please don’t interrupt my new daydream.

Where was I? Oh, yes. One fine day, Arturo would pick a wonderfully romantic spot and get down on one knee.

In front of witnesses! Many, many witnesses.

He’d tell me that he loves me and that he can’t live without me.

And then, he’d ask me to marry him. To be his wife. ”

I close my eyes, picturing the scene in my mind.

It’s not that hard. I’ve always had a great imagination.

Arturo kneeling on the ground in one of his fancy suits…

doubtful, but it could happen. It is a tradition, after all.

However, try as I might, I can’t ever see him saying those words. To me. Even I am not that delusional.

“If that had really happened, would you have…?” Sienna’s voice is almost a whisper on the other side of the line. “Said yes?”

“Yeah. I wou—”

The sound of automatic gunfire shatters the quiet outside the house.

I throw myself on the floor, face down, and cover my head with my hands. The shots seem to be coming from a distance, somewhere beyond the property gate. Still, a stray bullet could always find you if you don’t take precautions.

“Um…” I say, reaching for my dropped phone. “Has your brother pissed anyone else off recently?” I pant as I crawl across the bedroom floor to a window.

“I don’t think so. Why? And can you please turn off that damn drill? I can barely hear you!”

“That’s not the drill.” I slowly peek over the windowsill.

Rapid flashes of light break between the tree branches and over the shrubs that line the perimeter fence, corresponding to the rhythmic burst of weapons fire.

Four of Arturo’s men, armed to the teeth, race across the driveway toward the gate.

Their shouted commands echo into the night, and bring other security guys spilling into view.

Some take off after their buddies, others assume defense positions around the house.

I spot Tony crouching behind a stone column near the front doors, automatic rifle at the ready. “I think… we are under attack.”

“What?!” Sienna’s hysterical shriek explodes in my ear. “Get somewhere safe and lock yourself in. Call Arturo! I’ll have Drago—”

Her frantic voice cuts off mid-sentence.

Shit. I knew constantly forgetting to charge my phone would bite me in the ass eventually.

Throwing the useless brick on the bed, I dash into Arturo’s bedroom.

He’s got a couple of windows that face the backyard.

Since he increased security at the house yesterday, there should be at least twenty men around here.

More than enough to stop whoever is obviously trying to shoot their way through the main gate.

The stone walls that surround the estate make this place fairly impenetrable.

The only other means of getting in is a heavily reinforced steel door located at the back of the property, along the expanse of the wall that runs behind the garage.

It’s hardly ever used, and according to Riggo, it can only be opened with a fingerprint.

When I reach the floor-to-ceiling window beside my husband’s bed, however, my stomach plummets to the floor, and then the floor beneath my feet disappears.

Just beyond the row of evergreen shrubs leading to the detached garage, several dark figures are sneaking toward the house. They’ve breached the perimeter.

I spin around, ready to hide somewhere they won’t be able to find me, when the realization hits. Greta. Downstairs. She’s working the late shift today. Fuck! I take off at a dead run across the room.

Arturo never showed me where he keeps his weapons, and I don’t have my own gun.

I make a detour to the doors connecting our rooms and snatch the hammer out of the toolbox.

It’s not much of a weapon, but better than nothing, I guess.

My heart is in my throat and pounding a mile a minute as I race toward the stairs while trying to keep my footfalls soft.

The entry hall is empty; the front doors are shut. Not that it helps much with all the windows on the ground level. I try not to think about the possibility of multiple attackers crashing through the glass as I rush along the hallway toward the kitchen.

I find Greta leaning over the sink, scrubbing an enormous pan, her hips swaying to music I can’t hear. Her ever-present pink earbuds are firmly in place. A sigh of relief escapes me.

“Greta!” I snatch the wire, pulling the device from her left ear.

“Mrs. DeVille? What—”

Another round of gunfire erupts outside. This one sounds way closer than earlier. The slightly perplexed expression on Greta’s face morphs into absolute panic. She pales, complexion instantly a shade that would rival a sheet of paper.

“We need to get upstairs, quietly. Don’t worry. We’ll be okay,” I whisper, hoping what I’m saying is true. And that it sounds even mildly reassuring.

She nods, and even though she’s trembling all over, she grabs my hand with a bone-crunching grip. My fist squeezes around the handle of the hammer as I lead Greta back toward the entry hall.

We are halfway to the stairwell when gunfire again explodes nearby.

This time, it sounds like it’s coming from the backyard.

Loud shouts and clipped orders intermix with the incessant rattle of the weapons.

I recognize Tony among the voices. The group of attackers must be larger than I initially thought, and they are advancing from multiple directions if Arturo’s men haven’t yet been able to stop them.

Greta seems to have frozen in place, her feet rooted to the floor. I have to basically drag her behind me as we climb the stairs to the upper level.

“Where the fuck is Arturo?” I mutter under my breath while urging Greta to keep up.

“Still meeting with the don? Someone had to have called him by now. Wouldn’t Tony or one of the other guys have told him about the shitstorm that has descended on us?

He’s got to be on his way back. Or maybe he already arrived and—”

I stop in my tracks. If my husband is here, that means he’s probably at the gate, where the bulk of the firefight is happening. Oh, God!

“Greta!” I spin around to face her. “Take this,” I say, shoving the hammer into her hand. “Go to one of the bedrooms and lock yourself in. Stay away from the windows. Understand?”

“Yes… But… what about you?”

“I’ll be fine. Where’s your phone?”

“My phone?”

“Yes. Where is it?”

“I… I left it in the kitchen. By the stove, I think.”

“Okay. Now go.” I all but push her up the stairs.

The instant she reaches the landing on the second floor, I race back to the kitchen. I have to get ahold of Arturo. I need to know that he’s alright or I’m going to fucking lose whatever sanity I have left.

Greta’s phone is right there where she said it would be. I grab it as if my life depends on it and punch in Arturo’s number. I’m not even sure when I learned it by heart. The line rings. And rings. Then clicks over to his voicemail.

“Damn you, Arturo!” I hit the countertop with my palm and redial. If he got himself killed, I’m going to strangle him. “Pick up. Pick up. Please pick up!”

The gunfire and men’s shouts sound as if they’re right outside the kitchen walls, but I try to block all that out and concentrate solely on the ringing tone. Its familiar noise holds a promise, until it dumps me into voicemail again. Shit. Shit. Shit!

I redial.

Again.

And again.

Glass shatters somewhere behind me just as an enraged male voice yells down the line, “WHAT?”

Relief. Overwhelming, instant relief floods me. I’ve never felt such solace in my life.

“You’re okay,” I breathe.

Turning around, that blissful feeling snaps like a dry twig. Sheer terror puts me in a chokehold.

“Tara!” Arturo roars through the phone. “Where are you?”

I can’t speak. Can’t think. Not even sure if my heart is beating. I stare at the orange flames as they spread from the floor to the drapes.

“TARA!”