CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
GAGE
S tupid-ass fucking people. When otherwise semi-intelligent humans are scared, they turn into morons. That’s not insensitive. It’s a goddamn fact.
Yes. We’re in a shitstorm. And on behalf of every terrified soul in this godforsaken resort, I will be blitzing the motherfuckers behind it. Well, not for the terrified souls. For Ainsley and all our girls, who are traipsing through the hidden passageways. Same difference.
That’s an action plan.
But what could screaming and running aimlessly possibly solve? It’s dark. There’s no telling if the guy they’re standing near or the one they’re about to slam headfirst into is the culprit. We don’t even have a clear picture of what we’re dealing with. They sure as shit don’t know how to escape it.
The chaos makes everything fucking harder. It’s why I couldn’t get to the girls. Why they didn’t hear us—or chose to fucking ignore us—when we ordered them to stay put. My Good Samaritan side opted not to mow over the manic innocents, so it took me fifteen seconds to get to where Ainsley should have been. If Ty hadn’t announced that he had their twenty, I would have ripped this building apart brick by nostalgic brick to find her.
We’re headed down to the La Lune Noire vault now to gear up since we have limited weapons on us and no idea what we’ll be facing. They have a massive armory near counting room two—their interrogation room. This place is outfitted more impressively than most military bases. That might have a little something to do with us. A little. Only in the sense of upping their game with more refined weaponry and preparation tactics. The rest is all them.
Axel charged his managers with the job of corralling the guests and employees into the parking lot. Despite the blackout, the exit signs operate on a battery backup, so once we make it to the main lobby, there is enough light to guide us without a flashlight. There are plenty of people shining those everywhere though. That’s more of a disservice than anything. Blinding.
Unease from being away from Ainsley has acid sloshing around my gut. Hiding out in the La Lune Noire secret tunnels is probably the best place for her. For all the girls. But I can’t stand not being with her. She might resist the idea of me claiming her, considering it shackling, but I’m desperate to have her glued to me. Not to stifle her. To ensure she can set the world ablaze the way she was meant to. I’m not built in a way to let go, even for small snippets of time. She’s as tough as most of the men here though, probably a fierce opponent for any of the foot soldiers hunting her. I keep reminding myself of that fact, and yet still, my lungs burn.
As soon as Axel guides us inside their armory, we stock up on weapons and supplies. It’s set up for fast retrieval. An armory isn’t merely a collection. It’s far different from the variation you’d find on my office display. There are multiples of every weapon. The key here is for everyone to have the same tools, so if someone runs out of ammunition, anyone can restock their supply. This isn’t for show. It’s the means for a unit to go to war.
Maddox and Jax show up within a minute of our arrival, so we’ve got a team of nine—the four of us and the five Noires.
“Celeste didn’t have her fucking gun,” Liam grunts.
He’s as untethered as I am, being apart from the girls. We all are.
“Rena would have swung by one of our smaller stashes and got the girls well loaded,” Axel says as he wrenches on his vest.
Ty glances at his phone. “She hasn’t texted me her final location. Does she have a safe room she goes to?”
Jax’s head snaps up while he loads a magazine into his HK416 rifle. “She probably went to our spot.”
“Which is where?” I press, sticking a few thirty-round mags into my vest.
“South Tower,” Ryker explains, but his next words free-fall in slow motion. “Second-tier rooftop.”
“The fuck?” I spit, my chest cracking wide open as Liam roars, “They’re on the fucking roof?”
“Jesus Christ,” Wells hisses, whipping out his phone.
Ty is already dialing on his. “Snipers. That’s where I’d be.” He swipes Rena’s number again. “Goddammit. Not answering.”
“It’s a closed-off area. Access is through one of the passageways,” Axel assures, though he doesn’t appear at ease.
“Ainsley would have cleared the space,” I mutter, loading my rifle.
“Ivy too,” Wells says, scrolling through his phone. “She messaged the encrypted chat twice. The last one says they’re headed up there, but that was six minutes ago.”
“It’s covered?” I ask, trying to get a clearer picture. “There’s no opening from the higher tier to below it?”
“One,” Jax answers, instantly appearing more sober than I’ve ever seen him. “It’s only partially covered, designed like a terrace rooftop with a solid awning that juts out over the bar area and well past it, so it’s opened beyond it. There’d be no issue there as far as them clearing the above roof. In certain spots beneath the covering, you can see past it. In others, you can see the above tier through a breathable slat along the high wall. Probably goes both ways. Rena would have known to clear that too.” He pauses, mulling that over, panic lining his features. “Without proper lighting, that would have been limited. Lots of coverage and blind spots. So, yeah, a sniper.”
My gut churns, and I bolt to the door to get to the girls, but Rena’s voice fills the armory.
“Ty,” she sobs through his phone, and a chorus of wailing surrounds her. “Oh, thank God. I couldn’t find my phone. I … we’re on the padded roof. Please hurry. Ainsley … Ainsley was shot and hit her … her head; it’s bleeding, and she won’t wake up.”
I couldn’t relay a single detail about the steps to get to her. The nine of us dash toward the South Tower, Axel leading the way. But it’s all a blur.
My instincts take over, enabling me to clear areas as we storm a path to the girls. Glazing me in a veneer of calm when, inside, I’m screaming. Broken. Hemorrhaging.
She won’t wake up plays again and again in my mind, like it’s a puzzle to solve. Like, somehow, if I work through it, I’ll know how to rearrange that sentence into something I can stomach. Into something that isn’t my worst fucking nightmare.
Ty took Rena off speakerphone as soon as we left the armory so no details regarding their location were broadcast. But he’s relaying all the important information. What we know is that there is not an active shooter in sight. Ivy and Celeste both suffered mild injuries. And they think Ainsley’s bullet wound is superficial. But she smacked her head on the wall when she flipped over the side.
Axel informs us that there’s a crash pad on that roof, so the landing would have been cushioned. Apparently, Jax and Rena do acrobatics or some shit up there. I only caught part of the explanation.
Cash put a call into Dr. Landry—the La Lune Noire concierge physician. He’ll meet us up there.
The journey to reach them stretches out to be an eternity. It feels like I’m stuck in the middle of a highway, traffic whipping by me, life and hope and a future zooming past. But I’m at a standstill, and I can’t fucking reach her.
I wish that were my mind tormenting me with melodrama, making a mountain out of a molehill. But when we finally emerge onto the padded roof, I’m gutted by the scene.
Gore and devastation. My whole world in ruins.
The three girls sit in a pool of Ainsley’s blood. Celeste and Rena are sobbing by her side while Ivy tries in vain to stop the bleeding.
And my girl is … lifeless.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I bellow, and even to my own ears, it’s foreign—an agonizing bleat replacing my voice.
Dropping to my knees beside her, I’m careful not to move her, which is just another level of torment because I’m so desperate to cradle her in my arms. But I take her in, shining my flashlight on her bullet wound first. The girls were right. It’s superficial, only grazing her outer thigh. I can’t say the same for the head wound. Although I know the head bleeds worse than anything. I think it’s her coloring that has me the most concerned. She’s ashen. Her usual tan skin tone is practically gray, and there is already some purple bruising developing.
“Still has a pulse. Breathing is labored,” Ivy rushes out. Her arm is mangled, but she seems to be pushing through the pain.
A flurry of activity ensues around us. Sirens blare in the distance. The guys jump into action. Wells crouches near Ainsley with me, barking orders at everyone. Ty and Liam pursue the assailant. The Noires discuss their triage area. None of it registers. It’s just me and Wicked.
I clasp her limp hand and sweep some of her sticky, matted hair away, speaking into her ear. “I’m here, Ains. I’m right here. You hold the fuck on, okay, baby? Hold on for me.”
Landry arrives with two fellow doctors—all La Lune Noire staff—and they stabilize Ainsley’s neck and move her onto a stretcher. They work fast, diligently examining her in the poor lighting we have. Without electricity, this is all exponentially worse. So, Wells makes that his mission, but eventually, Landry and I decide the facilities here aren’t enough.
Her condition is too critical, so we need to get her to the hospital. We’ll admit her as a Jane Doe to protect her identity, and I won’t leave her fucking side. Several heated discussions transpire around me—about who will go to the hospital with us, the progress of chasing down the shooter, and the status on my girl. But I’m still frozen on that fucking metaphorical highway, trapped in a glass box while life whips on by. I can’t quite hear them.
There’s only Wicked.
I’ve been in every type of combat zone imaginable, and I’ve never shut down. But every fiber of my being knows that the only way I’ll leave this battlefield is with her in my arms.
Whether that be this world or the next, me burning down the pearly gates to join her in Heaven, or more likely escorting my precious demon to the pits of Hell, it doesn’t matter.
My world doesn’t spin without her.
So, I have no doubt I’ll rage. And go on one hell of a rampage to avenge her.
But now, I clutch my girl’s hand and hold on for both of us.
Two hours after arriving at the hospital.
Ainsley has swelling on the brain. It’s minimal, and she’s maintaining her airway. They stitched up the gash without any complications. And her CT scan didn’t show any bleeding. Apparently, those are all good signs. But she won’t wake the fuck up, so I’m having a hard time gripping on to anything good. Because it’s the spark inside her bones that makes Ainsley who she is.
The wit. The fierceness. The mettle.
The veracity of those characteristics was proven with the way events went down tonight. Ivy filled us in on the details.
All our girls are strong. They’d walk through flames for each other, for any of us. And have. That’s what makes us far more of a family than blood ever could. And these people I get to do life with each day already embraced Ainsley, but if there were any doubts about whether she belonged with us, throwing herself into the line of fire for Ivy eradicated them.
Wells is undone.
The sight of the Chief in awe of Ainsley is something I’d like to relish, but again, I can’t seem to hold it.
Because my beautiful girl looks small, and her spirit is eerily quiet.
Four hours in the hospital.
The Noires stayed back at the resort because everything is still in absolute disarray there, but the rest of us are here. Landry finally got Ainsley moved to a VIP wing of the hospital. It has hotel-like suites with plenty of space for the family and a private hallway for our guards to be stationed.
We’ve swept for bugs and done what we can, but we’ll still need to be somewhat careful about our conversations.
“He’s tied up,” Ty announces—slinging the idiom for being busy as code for the assailant being chained in our bunker—when he and Liam tromp into the room where the rest of us are still holding vigil for my stubborn girl.
Stubborn because she’s fighting but refuses to wake up. Everything is always on her damn terms and timeline. She’ll probably remain unconscious just to assert her will and fuck with me. If I wasn’t a complete mess, that would make me smile. But every minute I sit here, I become more enraged.
For her lying here.
For the time and baby stolen from us.
For my narrow vision, missing that she was a victim and leaving her to suffer.
For the years she was forced to—fuck if I even know. She shuts down anytime I try to broach anything about what Nick put her through.
For all of it.
My thumb sweeps back and forth across her hand as I lift my chin to see the guys, who each breeze over to check on her with pats and squeezes. They’re both disheveled. And Ty is clearly untethered, embracing his demons. I’m not fucking mad about that.
“And another guy too.” Liam plops down beside Celeste, dragging her onto his lap and peppering her with kisses as he turns on the television for some extra interference. “Just a footman, but there’s probably some intel there.”
“And the condition of the sniper?” Wells asks in a barely discernable tone, getting to what we both want to know because my head is foggy.
He sits on the other side of Ainsley with his Little Storm passed out on his lap. Aside from getting Ivy checked out, he hasn’t left Ainsley’s side. The doctor has to wait for the swelling to go down to set Ivy’s arm. It’s good she’s finally resting. The pain and emotional turmoil have exhausted her. She’s harboring both guilt and gratitude.
“Easy to track,” Ty says, lowering his voice, curling Rena into his arms, and waving his index around at the girls. “They got two shots on him, both in the same shoulder. He’s feeling it.”
Ordinarily, that would have me giddy. Ready to unleash my fury on every appendage, organ, and cell in their bodies. Don’t get me wrong. I will fucking tear them apart, but not until Ainsley wakes up.
Nothing matters until then.
Ten hours in the hospital.
I glide the lip balm on her before massaging her hands and feet with lotion. Her typically glowing skin is dry and pallid. Lips cracked. Vibrant blue eyes shuttered. But I try not to dwell on the physical signs because Ainsley is so strong. I know she’s in there, fighting.
She still has swelling on her brain—not enough for them to reduce it in the operating room. But enough that she’s not quite willing to join us yet. They’ve repeated the CT scan and are monitoring her closely. There’s no bleeding on the brain.
Positives.
I just can’t help but think that every hour she’s out, it becomes less likely she’ll wake up. The medical team has cautioned us not to get ahead of ourselves like that because when it comes to the brain, the possibilities are endless. Sure, she could never awaken or come out of it with severe cognitive impairment or personality changes. What they didn’t expand on, I googled the shit out of. Not recommended. But she could also wake up, relatively unfazed, the majority of her healing occurring while she was out. So, maybe I shouldn’t go there, spiral into negative scenarios. But that’s what happens.
Without her, I get sucked into this tunnel. Incapable of facing anything outside of it.
Not because she’s the light in the darkness, but because she’s the force in that grim space, reminding me that, sometimes, peace comes when the light won’t. I mean, my girl is stunning. She’s got all that poetic shit—laugh outshining the sun, blue eyes more dazzling than the blinding glimmer of ice. And, yes, I’m addicted to those infectious qualities.
But she’s grittier. Bolder. A night bloom, hurling a big, beautiful fuck you at the lack of daylight.
Some men get off on a modicum of fear in a woman—the rapid heartbeat, the step backward, the wide-eyed gaze, and stammered responses. That never did it for me.
I’ve lurked in the shadows my whole life—raised by a junkie, lived on the street, got sold like a fucking stray dog, did the dirty work of one of the most ruthless Mafia Dons in the United States, which was nothing short of enforcing the pits of Hell. I never expected anyone to breathe light into my world. My soul is black. Who needs illumination on the grime and cobwebs? All I wanted was for someone to willingly thrive inside the gloom with me, to embrace the ugliness of it.
Embrace me.
And I knew the first time I saw Ainsley. She doesn’t brighten the darkness. She fucking rules it. Controls it. Breathes flames so hot that the murky shadows tremble.
Most women catch one glimpse of me and quake with that fear I mentioned. But Wicked? In this life and the last, she saw me as an equal, someone worth challenging. Someone to conquer those shadows with.
I may have survived years without her, but I knew she was out there, still skulking in the silhouette of my life. The object of my wrath and an adversary, sure. But dominating the gloom nonetheless.
My missing piece.
Twenty-four hours in the hospital.
Wells has been watching me work a damn puzzle on Ainsley’s overbed table for the last hour. I played with Scrabble tiles too. After I broke my stupid fucking fidget ring, which did a shit job at relieving anxiety.
A worry divot has taken up permanent residence between his eyes, as though the simplistic activities might make me burst into flames. He didn’t have any qualms about ordering Liam to pick them up for me, but seeing it in action must be too much.
“Maybe you should think about getting some sleep,” he finally says.
I don’t bother looking at him. “I won’t be sleeping while she is.”
He doesn’t respond, just keeps staring at me. But his unspoken question looms between us. What if she doesn’t wake up?
Deciding not to kill him for his thoughts, I continue piecing this godforsaken puzzle together. It’s an orange hot-air balloon. Half the fucking pieces are the same. I’m realizing that the only thing I enjoy about puzzles is sharing that time with Wicked. But I’m not stopping now.
“She’s going to be fine,” Rena sings in a sleepy voice. She’s on the bed, wrapped around Ainsley’s good leg. The bullet wound in the other thigh is patched up, but it would be tender nonetheless.
We have plenty of couches and chairs for the family to sprawl out in, but the girls have been taking turns crawling in with Ainsley. Other than checking on our prisoners, the guys haven’t been out of the room either. It pains me that this is the kind of love Ainsley’s been missing her whole life and she’s not awake to witness it.
“Let’s talk about the possibility of one of the four surviving then.” He’s referring to the four men Ainsley shot in her house. He might be switching tactics to rev me up, but it’s a valid consideration to revisit.
I click in a piece of the riding basket that I’ve been searching for and mull over my thoughts. “Two of them wouldn’t have bothered going to all this trouble.”
By that, I mean Marco and Sonny. They were the two other leaders in that office. If they were alive, they’d want to kill her. But they wouldn’t have used the media. They were old-school guys. They would have tracked her like a dog. End of story.
“Vio”—that is the shortened version of Fulvio, Ainsley’s father’s name, which his close associates used; I’m simply keeping things vague for any potential bugs—“had too much pride for this shit. He would’ve seen this taunting approach as desperate.”
“And the last one?” Wells urges, regarding Nick. “I can’t make sense of them knowing the precise time any other way. And to have the balls to disregard the meeting, all for the sake of going after her, it has to be deeply personal.”
That’s a legitimate rabbit hole to plummet into. Blatant disdain for KORT is more of a Vittori move too. And it would certainly be personal for Nick. Since he knew about the child we lost, he knew his wife wasn’t a virgin when they married. That’s bad enough. But she disrespected him by hyphenating her last name, didn’t love him, and ultimately shot him. The guy would be out for blood.
But she said she lodged a bullet in his head. No way he survived that and recovered in five weeks’ time to issue that first message with Vargas.
“It’s the only possibility that fits, and yet it doesn’t.” As I say that, I wish to fuck I were wrong. That I could have the honor of making him suffer.
I’ll get my revenge on the guys in our debriefing bunker. And on every soul in those bloodlines.
Scorch. Stack. Fucking salt.
But for now, it’s just my wicked girl and our orange hot-air balloon.
Thirty-eight hours in the hospital.
“I never told you this, but it took me months to find the courage to approach you. Not because of whose daughter you were. That was a challenge, but … you were just so fucking beautiful.” A lump balls in my throat as I try to keep my voice steady. “You literally took my breath away. So much that I had visions of passing out while trying to talk to you. And I don’t know if you know this, but I had a fuck ton of game.”
I laugh, trying to imagine what witty barb Ainsley would throw at me if she could. “But despite that game, those icy-blue eyes and that fiery temper did me in. I watched every video of you flying off the handle about some injustice at school, completely enamored. You fucking terrified most guys. And that was aside from your father. But the fiercer you were, the harder I fell. It was George who encouraged me to go for it. I had asked him if I could introduce myself long before that day we met on the sidewalk. And after that brief stroll, it was game over. I knew you were it for me.”
My knuckles brush over her cheek, and my lips press to her hand, which is clasped in mine. “I couldn’t figure out how to make it work without getting myself killed, which is why it took me months to approach you again. Eventually, I decided one day with you would be worth a short life and eternal damnation.”
I’ve been talking to Wicked for a while, praying that something I reveal will weasel into wherever the hell she is and convince her to knock this shit off. It’s just the two of us. The family didn’t go far. They’re right outside the room, but I asked them to give me a few moments alone with her because I couldn’t maintain my composure anymore. As the tears well in my eyes and drip onto my cheeks, it’s evident that I won’t be pulling it together anytime soon.
“But fuck that,” I go on, the distress I’ve held at bay finally engulfing me. “I want a lifetime. I want the old folks’ home, like we used to dream about. I want to fight and make up, and I want the fucking orange. So, you’ve made your goddamn point, Wicked. I’ll never own you because you own every piece of me. But enough is enough, baby. You need to wake up.” My jaw clenches as I roar my plea and wipe my eyes. “Wake the fuck up.”
A clatter startles me out of my incensed begging. The nurse shuffles in and sets down a meal tray on the bedside table. She keeps bringing them, hoping I’ll eat something. This one has a sub sandwich, fruit, and a bouquet of pizzelles for dessert, like they served with dinner last night. I’m still not interested.
“I told you to talk to her,” she chastises with a smirk as she checks Ainsley’s IV, “not yell at the poor thing.”
I smile, masking the grief and fury choking me. “Jane Doe here only responds to my surly temper and subtle threats.”
She laughs as she tinkers with the gadgets on Ainsley’s monitor. “Is that so? A feisty one, huh?”
“That’s for sure,” I confirm. “Feisty is an understatement. There’s no one stronger.”
She pats her heart. “Well, that’s what we like to hear. The doctor will be in shortly. We’re going to get another CT first to see if there’s been any change.”
“Thank you.” I chuckle to myself. “I’ll keep telling her to wake the fuck up. Maybe she’ll open her eyes and stab me before you get back.”
The nurse’s pupils blow wide with bemusement. “That’s a wish I haven’t heard before.”
A barely audible, raspy, “Bossy dick,” croons from beside me.
The nurse and I both flick our focus to Ainsley, whose eyes are merely slits, but open nonetheless.
“Yeah, baby,” I gasp, squeezing her hand. “Your bossy dick.”
Ainsley doesn’t respond. She licks her lips, her beautiful, hooded blues sailing around to survey her surroundings.
It takes every ounce of strength I can muster not to lay my head on her and weep, but I’m still holding my breath that she’s okay.
“Let me get the doctor,” the nurse says with a chuckle. “She didn’t stab you, but she knows who you are.”
“No promises,” Ainsley whispers, which has me all out guffawing and kissing her cheek.
“That’s my girl. Jesus Christ, I missed you.”
The next hour is a blur as my family filters back into the room and the doctor examines Ainsley. She needs to be monitored, but she’s doing well with no immediate signs of lasting brain trauma. Although she’s already completely wiped out from all the commotion.
When her eyes land on Ivy’s freshly cast arm, her face crumples. “Sorry.”
“I’m good,” Ivy warbles, shaking her head. “Better now that you’re awake.”
“Don’t apologize,” Wells insists, clasping Ainsley’s hand and claiming that chair beside her again. “You saved her life. We’re all so relieved you’re both okay.” He stalls there, and the war between comforting her and forging ahead to seek retribution on her behalf wages in his features, the latter ultimately prevailing. “Did you know the shooter?”
She offers a slight nod. “Levi.”
Levi? I remember him, a fellow foot soldier from my time.
“He wouldn’t have shot me,” she adds. “So, I knew … and Ivy was …” She loses her words for a moment, finally settling on one that silences the room. “Family.”
The simple response effectively decimates the Chief.
He scrubs his hand over his face, so choked up. “That you are.”
“So, Goldilocks,” Liam razzes from his relaxed perch on the couch, “you woke up because the Big Guy was being a dick or because you wanted to steal his cookies?”
Liam struggles with heightened emotion, so segueing from Wells’s profound declaration to a wisecrack is him showering Ainsley with love. His bonding tactics sometimes border on pain-in-the-ass territory, but he has a way of assuaging the intensity of this life.
Ainsley’s Arctic blues crease with amusement before they drift to the food tray beside her. The second they land on the pizzelles, her breathing becomes erratic. Then her gaze darts around the room. Frantic.
“Nick,” she mutters.
“What?” I bark. “What about Nick, baby?”
“Anise. The pizzelles,” she grits out. “He’s here.”