Chapter 8
Milo tracked Darcy and Delilah from the French Quarter through most of the Marigny by tapping into city surveillance cameras.
Thankfully, where their coverage ended, ours picked up.
Some of these warehouses are owned by the Amatos and were part of our drug operations, so we keep a close eye on them.
Or, at least, we used to. Among them, I could only think of one place Darcy would head—the women’s shelter.
The moment I realized where they were going, I broke every traffic law known to man to get here as quickly as possible.
This shelter is always full. Which they would’ve painstakingly discovered if they made it to their destination alive.
New Orleans is many things. Safe is not one of them, especially for a woman at night.
As my headlights cast a glow upon Darcy’s blonde hair and pale skin, it seems she’s found what I feared to be true.
Though her quick movements tell me her greatest fear is still prevalent.
At the sight of my car, she moves quickly and disappears into the darkness surrounding the shelter.
I speed up, doing my best to close the distance before she can get too far.
Though, as I turn in the direction she and Delilah ran, I find nothing, nothing except their backpacks discarded on the sidewalk.
I grip my steering wheel tighter. My eyes darken and narrow as I search the shadows for signs of movement.
But there’s still no sight of them. She’s smart.
Unaware of who was behind the wheel, she hid.
At least, that’s what I tell myself instead of thinking of the alternative.
Surely, no one snatched them that quickly and that close to the shelter.
I shake my head and bite the inside of my jaw.
Just as I rev my engine and reach for my phone to call Milo for an assist, Delilah bolts in front of me.
My body slams against my seat as I throw on my brakes.
Delilah turns and stares straight into the beams of my headlights as if they don’t phase her at all.
She’s paralyzed by fear, shock, horror—perhaps all three.
Quickly, I tear off my seatbelt, grab the gun from my passenger’s seat, and push open the car door.
As I do, I am immediately met with the reason for Delilah’s tortured expression.
Darcy’s screams fill the dark night as the school bus next to us moves and creaks in symphony with her struggle.
I pause for only a moment as I process what’s happening.
My heart rate quickens. My eyes widen. A shallow breath escapes me as I feel myself losing the spark of light I only just discovered.
And then, everything slows—my heart rate, my breathing.
Instead of adrenaline pumping through my veins, I find myself calm.
Perhaps, because I know that’s the only way I—we—will survive this.
Snapping into action, I holster my gun and move to Delilah.
I pick her up and place her safely in my car within seconds.
“Close your eyes,” I tell her before closing the door and locking it behind me.
She won’t be able to hear the gunshots with the silencer attached to my weapon, or her mother’s screams, or anything else that’s about to happen.
But the gun powder will create certain flashes that I’d rather her not remember, despite witnessing far too much already.
She does as I say and with Delilah safe, I draw my weapon and run toward the bus as the vicious rain finally subsides.
I climb the steps two at a time, finding Darcy at the mercy of three men.
The sight of her has me wishing for the rain to last a little while longer to cleanse us of the memories of this night.
Just as the prime offender presses himself and a blade against Darcy, I put a bullet between his eyes.
It rips through his skull, taking half his head with it.
Blood and brain matter splatters against the seats of the wretched bus.
Darcy lets out a shrill scream as the predator, now dead, falls on top of her.
But removing him will have to wait as I turn my attention to the other two.
One, like the coward he is, runs toward the back of the bus.
I shoot him in the back, severing his spine.
He falls face down, left to bleed out next to the woman who I highly doubt was his first victim.
The second fires off a shot of his own before I can train my weapon on him.
The bullet grazes my arm, ripping through the sleeve of my dress shirt and searing my skin as it flies past me.
It breaks the glass of the window behind me, and I fire the bullet that takes the gun-wielding man’s life—one to the chest and one to the head, for good measure.
I scan the rest of the bus. Finding no other threats, I quickly step over the seats so that I can lift the sadistic waste of a man off Darcy.
Standing over them, I holster my gun and pull him off her.
The strain on my muscles makes the wound on my arm burn hotter, but I ignore it.
Finally, free from her assailant, Darcy comes into view.
She lies on her back with her eyes closed, shaking, and covered in the old man’s blood.
Her lips quiver and her cheeks are taunt with fear as tears slip from behind her closed eyelids.
Her dress still hiked up to her waist, I kneel between her legs and gently pull it down for her.
As I do, I respectfully avoid eye contact with her most sacred area.
When I pulled the man off her, it was obvious he didn’t have a chance to insert himself, but that hardly matters. What happened here tonight, what she’s just endured—and Delilah—is unspeakably traumatic. And now, I have to pull her out of it, out of her own head.
“Darcy.” I hover over her and caress her cheek with my hand.
She shakes her head at the unwelcome touch.
But I don’t know how else to comfort her and coax her back to the present.
“Darcy, it’s okay. You’re safe. You can open your eyes,” I say as I use my fingers to wipe away the blood and tears from her pain-stricken face.
While some of her facial features relax at the sound of my voice, her body still shakes.
“Darcy.” She’s either still in shock or trapped somewhere just as horrific amongst her memories.
Though I hope that isn’t the case, she came to—ran away to—New Orleans for a reason.
Sensing the issue might be with her vulnerable position, I stand and pick her up.
Finding the least disgusting seat, I settle in with her wrapped tightly in my arms. With my hand on her head, my fingers interwoven with her hair, I pull her against my chest. She’s cold, drenched to the bone by the rain.
Despite my own rain-soaked clothes, my Italian blood runs hot.
Perhaps my warmth will help soothe her. Regardless, I’ll hold her as long as she needs me to—with pleasure and tender care.
“It’s okay, Darcy. Take all the time you need. Delilah and I will be here waiting for you as you find your way back to us.”
Despite the unfortunate events of the evening, I can’t ignore how good she feels in my arms, how her soft body molds perfectly to my rigid frame.
In the quiet stillness of the night, I take a moment to savor it, her.
I know her awakening will come with distance and closed-off-ness.
It’s understandable, given not only what she’s been through but my role in it.
How will I explain my presence here tonight?
And, while I’m sure the sheer fact that I own a gun—hundreds, if I’m being honest—will scare her, my use of one tonight will elicit questions I can’t answer and even more fear than before.
How do I convince her to come with me now?
How can I help her when she’s so afraid of me?
At a loss, I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
I suppose none of those things truly matter.
What matters is she’s safe. The rest will sort itself out.
It’s then that she stops shaking and the tension in her body releases. “Delilah?” She whispers, though her eyes are still closed.
“Delilah is safe and so are you,” I whisper.
Slowly, she opens her eyes, and I mentally brace for impact.
She will have questions, fears, perhaps a relapse once she gets a good look at the corpses surrounding us.
Though, to my surprise, when her eyes find mine, she says nothing other than my name, nor does she move an inch.
“Yes, it’s Gio, Darcy. You’re okay. You’re safe, and so is Delilah.
” She gently nods and closes her eyes once more.
Though, her momentary comfort is short-lived when she remembers she isn’t supposed to feel safe with me.
She doesn’t know me. After tonight, that’s even more obvious.
“Delilah, where is she?” she asks as she quickly wiggles out of my grasp.
As she stands, she covers her mouth as she takes in the scene before her—three dead men plus the rotting girl at the back of the bus.
I sink my head as I stand to join her. What they did to her is horrific.
To know the same fate could’ve befallen Darcy twists my insides in a way I haven’t felt before.
“She’s in my car, just outside.” I lift my eyes to Darcy then as she gags.
She turns away from me as vomit spews from her, brought on by the touch of death and its lingering presence.
I want to reach out to her and place a comforting hand on her back, perhaps hold her hair for her.
But I know it’s best to let her have her moment, to get her bearings with no more unwelcome physical contact.
She straightens up then. Wiping her face with the back of her hand, she turns to face me. “Darcy—”
“Thank you,” she says then, cutting me off.
I nod. “You’re welcome,” I say as fresh tears fill her crystal blue eyes.
As the weight of the evening settles on her, she shakes out her hands as if the movement will keep her calm, but it doesn’t.
She breaks—tears pour from her like rain falling from the sky.
“Darcy, may I?” I ask, taking a step toward her with my arms open.
She looks at me cautiously. Her eyes drift down to the gun holstered on my hip.
She bites her lip as her forehead wrinkles in confusion.
But, alas, she nods and steps into my hug.
Gently, I wrap my arms around her as she cries.
Rubbing my hand up and down her back, I comfort her.
That is, until she says, “I failed.” The words rip through her as if someone has ripped her heart from her chest. Perhaps that’s what tonight feels like.
“All I wanted was to keep her safe, and I failed.”
“You didn’t fail,” I say then, pulling away from her so that she can see the truth in my eyes. “You did keep her safe.”
“But she saw—”
“What she saw was her mother fighting for her, protecting her, putting herself in harm’s way to keep her safe.
What she saw was your unceasing love for her.
Everything else was out of your control.
” It’s then that I lift my hand to Darcy’s cheek and wipe away her tears once more.
The gesture takes her aback, though she does not pull away.
“Now, let me keep you safe. Let me protect you, Darcy. Let me help you. Will you let me do that?”
Darcy lowers her head. With her eyes trained on my chest, she takes a step back.
“But…but why? Why me? And why are you even here? And what about all this? You killed them. You— Who are you?” Darcy’s confusion is apparent, yet her tone is free of the concern she had before.
Perhaps, like I do her, she now finds me an enigma rather than an enemy.
“I understand you have questions. But there are certain things, Darcy, that I just can’t tell you.
I can’t tell anyone. What I can tell you is that I’m not them.
” I motion toward the bodies on our right.
“And I’m not your ex.” At that, she lifts her eyes to mine.
“I will never hurt you or Delilah. And that’s what you’re really asking, isn’t it? ”
As all that I tell her weighs on her, she nods. “Then, come with me. Come with me and leave all of this—this pain, this fear, this worry, and this tragic night—behind. You never have to know such horror again.” I extend my hand and wait patiently for her to take it.