TWENTY-SEVEN
Benedict had not seen the raid coming. He’d known Mugs had told him not to worry, but he’d had no idea what the Vetruvian trafficker had up his sleeve. Instead, he’d been sitting there, wondering how the hell he could shred that deed and wring Gwuill’s neck for presuming to sell his assets to cover some debt that Vito had probably invented.
He didn’t understand why Vito had it in for him, but it was clear the shark did. He was bound, bent, and determined to have Benedict’s businesses, his aunt’s empire, even if Benedict came up with the payment La Chef supposedly owed him.
He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of that from the start. Vito was pretty clearly wheeling and dealing, so why had he thought that the mobster would play fair with him?
Especially with him. He was naive, and someone like Vito was going to take him for everything he had.
He’d taken too long to think; Vito was herding Oz toward the back door, through the kitchen. Benedict had been going to follow, but Mugs and his thugs came crashing into the club a moment later, overwhelming and disarming Vito’s goons as they rushed in, like a wave, breaking down everything in their wake.
And then Benedict had only been able to stare as he came face to face with Abbot Bartholomew and the brothers of his order.
For a moment, he stared uncomprehendingly. Then the lights came back up, revealing the mess several dozen brothers—all armed with guns—had created.
Mugs sauntered up to him. “Not bad, eh?” he asked, and Benedict fixed him with a glare.
“Not bad?” he snarled. “My club is trashed, Vito escaped, and he took Oz with him!”
“Isn’t it not yours now?” Brother Mendocious asked, clearly having been listening to the conversation.
“I think that’s what that shark guy said anyway,” added Brother Balthazar.
Benedict almost pulled the fur from his ears. Mugs waved a hand. “Details, details,” he said. “We’ll fix Gwuill tomorrow.”
Benedict gritted his teeth. Mugs pointed to the kitchen door. “They haven’t absconded with Ozzie just yet.”
Benedict stared at him for a second, then sprang into action, like his limbs had a mind of their own. He charged through the kitchen, past Sassa and Shakes as they crawled out from under the sink—he’d ask later—and into the alleyway.
There was that purple-haired alien. Oz was nowhere to be seen. Benedict didn’t think, didn’t look, just acted, grabbing whatever came to paw and lunging at the bastard who was stealing Oz from him.
He smashed the weapon—maybe a brick?—over the guy’s head, sent him reeling. He swore, but Benedict didn’t care. He hefted the brick again and again, flailing at the other alien, rage coursing through his veins, fueling his every movement as he roared.
He thought maybe he saw the glint of a gun in the man’s hand, but he didn’t care. There was a click, and the weapon went flying. Yorip turned to him, and his own hands were suddenly empty, before the brick was unceremoniously replaced with Yorip’s fists. Benedict just barely held onto the man, keeping him at bay, although he had to strain to do it. He gritted his teeth and dug his claws in, hoping to overpower the other alien. He had no idea what species this guy was.
Someone, somewhere, cried out in pain. Then there was a soft click, followed by Vito shouting, “Nobody move or the Vetruvian gets it!”
Benedict’s blood ran cold; the strength seemed to evaporate from his arms, and he suddenly had as much resistance as a wet noodle. Yorip, not expecting such a sudden transition, bowled the two of them forward, knocking them both to the ground and tumbling over.
They wrestled there for a minute, hands slapping at each other, Benedict trying to breathe after Yorip slammed his hand into the center of his chest so hard, Benedict thought maybe his ribs cracked.
“Enough!” Vito bellowed. “I said nobody move!”
They stopped. Benedict’s head was on the ground, so he cranked it up a bit, hoping to see what was going on.
Sure enough, Oz had dropped his human disguise and stood there as himself once more. Benedict almost breathed a sigh of relief; Oz as human had been attractive, but it had been wrong somehow.
He couldn’t get distracted, not while Oz was being held at gunpoint. “You little shits,” Vito spat, every word full of venom. “I should have known—trying to pull one over on me. How the hell did you come up with a human when nobody else can?”
He pressed the gun tightly to Oz’s temple, hugging the Vetruvian so tight he was almost choking him. “You think I’m an idiot?!” he barked.
Benedict met Oz’s gaze and choked back a sardonic reply. Obviously, they did think Vito was an idiot—they’d tried to trick him. And, he wanted to point out, they’d almost gotten away with it too.
There was a scuffle from the back room—metal clanging, boots bashing against the floor in rhythmic time.
“Shit,” Vito spat, then tugged on Oz’s collar. “C’mon, bitch boy, if you’re so eager to be a slave—we can start with you, and I’ll be back for the rest of your staff .” His lip curled at Benedict as he said the last bit, then broke into a run, dragging Oz along behind him.
Benedict roared and tried to sit up, only for Yorip—who was still on top of him—to shove him back to the ground and deck him square in the face. Blood burst out of Benedict’s nose, and he stared dizzily up at the sky as the kitchen door slammed open and Mugs’s “militia” marched into the street. One of them—Benedict wasn’t sure which brother it was—took a swing at Yorip, who was much quicker on his feet than his size would have led anyone to believe. He leapt up, back, and then seemed to meld away into the shadows, disappearing into the night.
“Are you all right?” That was Sassa helping him into a sitting position. Shakes was offering him a tea towel for his nose.
“They’re getting away!” he barked, although it sounded more like “dey’re gebbing wee!”
Shakes and Sassa exchanged a look, just as Mugs strolled up. Benedict felt that pure, unadulterated rage pour back into his veins, and he leapt to his feet, intending to give the Vetruvian trafficker a dressing down.
Mugs’s eyes widened, and he held up his hands. “Now?—”
“You!”
That was as far as Benedict got before his knees buckled and dizziness washed over him. He had to hang his head in his hands, staring fixedly at the ground as he fell back to his knees.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Mugs said carefully.
Benedict gritted his teeth, hating that he could taste blood. “They’re getting away,” he ground out, finally daring to lift his gaze. “Vito’s got that deed. He owns this place now.”
Mugs hummed.
Benedict could feel the weight of reality settling onto his shoulders. He’d lost. Badly. Mugs’s plan had gone terribly awry, and he’d lost everything.
“They got Oz.” It was almost a whimper by the time he said it, not the angry roar he’d been hoping for. Despair was setting in.
“Did they?” Mugs asked, and Benedict almost leapt to his feet again, snarl plastered on his face.
“Down,” Sassa admonished, grabbing him by the shoulders and yanking him back.
“Bad kitty,” Shakes added, tapping his nose, which made him blink.
“Ozzie’s a smart kid,” Mugs began, and Benedict started snarling again. Mugs held up his hands again. “Whoa, okay, let’s give your boyfriend a minute here before we assume all is lost, kitty-cat!”
Benedict just glowered at him, willing the energy to stand up and deck the bastard in his ugly face to appear from somewhere.
It didn’t. But something else did.
There, stepping out of the shadows, was Oz.