Chapter 41
Chapter Forty One
Bianca
I bolt.
Gravel slips under my shoes; the hedge claws at my calves. The gate is a dark slit ahead—ten steps, eight, five—then light burns across the path and silhouettes jump into it. I cut left for the thicker shrubs. A shout punches the air. Another. Footsteps hammer stone, fast and closing.
I lunge for the gate anyway, fingers catching cold iron. I try to haul myself up, slick metal under my palms, but a hand snags the back of my sweater and yanks. I land hard on the path, breath knocked clean out of me.
I scramble, nails scraping for purchase, and get as far as my knees before an arm locks around my ribs and pins my arms down. Another hand clamps over my mouth.
“Quiet,” a voice hisses in my ear. “Don’t make it worse.”
I buck and twist, throw my weight sideways, bite, anything, but I’m tired, and they’re not. Plus, they’re huge.
Two more pairs of feet skid to a stop beside us. Pressure closes on my shoulders and ankles. The gate stares back at me from three yards away, black and useless. My lungs drag a ragged breath past the palm on my mouth. The hand shifts just enough for air, not enough to scream.
“Got her,” someone calls toward the house.
The arm around my ribs tightens. I stop fighting for one beat, remembering the precious life I believe may already be inside me.
I go still. Not because I’m done, but because I can’t risk a fist or a heel in the wrong place.
“Easy,” the voice says again, less hiss and more instruction now. The palm lifts from my mouth but stays close. “No screaming.”
The grip on my ribs eases a fraction. They shift their holds and haul me upright.
“Walk,” someone orders.
So I walk. Not fast, not slow. I’m not in a hurry to get back inside, but I don’t want their hands to tighten on me again.
The house looms ahead, the rectangle of light illuminating the stone.
I keep my face blank and my breath steady and save everything I have left for when I’ll need it next.
They half-drag me inside, but they don’t take me to the stairs this time. They’re leading me down a long hall.
They steer me past the stairs and deeper into the house. The carpets thicken. The air warms. A door opens on the right, and heat rolls over my face.
Firelight throws restless color across paneled walls. A wide hearth eats split logs with neat, efficient pops. The room smells like smoke and polish and something faintly medicinal.
They stop me in front of a heavy desk. Behind it sits the man from this morning—jacket off now, sleeves precisely folded, watch black and blunt at his wrist. He doesn’t rise. He just looks at me, the way a surgeon might study a chart before a cut.
Fear spikes hard in my chest. I keep my chin level.
“Leave us,” he says.
Hands fall away. Footsteps retreat. The door clicks. The fire fills the silence.
He laces his fingers on the blotter. “You made work for my men,” he says mildly. “Sit.”
I don’t move right away. My legs still feel like string. The chair across from him is low and deep—meant to make you look up. I take it, lowering myself carefully, palms flat on the arms so I don’t wobble.
Up close, the desk is bare except for a leather blotter, a pen, and a single folder. He doesn’t touch any of it.
“You’re resourceful, aren’t you?” he says, conversational, as if we’re discussing errands. “You have a talent for kitchens and escape plans. Well, not so much the second.”
His gaze ticks once to my scraped knuckles, then back.
“What do you want from me?” I ask because I can’t keep playing along. “Giovanni won’t come for me. We barely know each other.”
The words I heard through the window come back to me. He’s always had a soft spot for the Marcellis.
“No different than this morning.” He leans back a fraction. “My blood was spilled. Now it’s my turn to do the spilling.”
My throat is dry. I don’t ask for water. I won’t give him the grace of tending me. “Let me go. I have nothing to do with this.”
He considers that, almost amused. “The moment you got involved with him, you made your choice.” His eyes don’t soften. “There won’t be a second climb. I’ve already had the catches pinned and the rotations adjusted.”
“I won’t sit complacently,” I say, and hear the shake I don’t want.
“Don’t force my hand,” he replies. “Eat, sleep, and wait like an intelligent person while men with grievances finish their shouting.” A small tilt of his head. “Do not try to run again.”
I hold his stare.
He nods once, as if I’ve agreed to something. “Back to your room,” he says.
A rap at the door interrupts. He doesn’t look away from me.
“Enter,” he says.
The door opens, and a man steps in, eyes flicking to me and back. “Sir. We’ve had a call. One of our warehouses on River was hit. Small team, in and out. Cameras down.”
The man’s mouth curves. He turns that smile on me like we’re sharing a joke. “See? Of course he’s coming.” He taps a fingertip once on the blotter, pleased.
“He knows it’s a trap,” I spit out.
The man laughs. “Of course, he does. I never claimed he was stupid.” He waits a beat with that small smile on his face. “And he knows that it won’t work. He knows I won’t split my men up between two locations, which means that wasn’t really the bait.
“That’s still to come. I haven’t had this much excitement in years.”
The other man’s phone signals a message, and he looks up. “Sir, three more of our warehouses have been hit as well.”
This time, the dark eyes of the man behind the desk flash.
“Not so exciting anymore, is it?” I say.
He nearly snarls at me. “And yet, it won’t work. My best men are here now, and to get to you, they have to go through them. They can blow up half of Atlantic City, and nothing will change that.”
Ice moves through me. “Don’t—”
He lifts a hand, and the word dies. “Escort her back,” he tells the man, eyes still on me. “And double the watch.”
The man comes around the chair. I stand because I don’t want his hands on me again.
The hall feels colder than before. My legs carry me because they have to. Upstairs, the lock will engage, the room will go quiet, and all I will hear is his certainty: he wants Giovanni inside these walls.
I fix my gaze on the runner of carpet ahead and force my breath even.
If he’s right, Gio is coming into a kill box.
And if he isn’t, Adriano will make it one.
I count steps to keep from shaking and try to think of anything, anything, that might shift the odds in our favor before the door shuts again.