28. Lucas
TWENTY-EIGHT
Lucas
Something about Roman’s uncle is bothering me. I can’t pinpoint it. It’s the way he talks. His body language. Something in his vibe.
I’ve always been intuitive to a certain degree, but my time with Roman has definitely heightened it. I’ve spent months attuning myself to subtle, nonverbal cues.
I caught some hints of wrongness even before Roman, Vitali, and Sasha left, but that feeling has only intensified since. So when Anton Constantine and his bodyguard leave the room, I get up from the couch.
“Lucas,” Quinn calls warningly from the bathroom where he’s patching up the bullet graze on his abdomen.
I ignore him and hurry to the door. I turn the handle carefully and crack it open, peering out.
Anton is standing just outside the door, talking on his phone.
“… then fucking tell your boss that Vitali and Roman are headed his way. I’d prefer Vitali left alive if possible. He’s useful. But make sure you take out Roman.”
Oh my god. Oh my fucking god.
I’m so stunned, so horrified, that I freeze for a second too long—just long enough for Anton’s guard to spot me.
“Fuck!” he shouts, making Anton spin toward the door.
I slam it shut.
Quinn is already striding my way. “Lucas, what the hell is—”
The door crashes open. I scramble back.
Quinn wastes no time. Gun in hand, he’s already firing noise-suppressed shots and yelling at me to run as Anton’s bodyguard charges in. I bolt past the hulking man who has no time to snatch at me because he just took a bullet and is doing his best to put one in Quinn.
Anton lunges for me as I dart out of the room, but his hand rakes my arm without getting hold. I run as fast as I can across the mezzanine. People exclaim from their banquettes as I race past them.
There are shouts behind me as I charge down the steps. The bouncer at the bottom turns and hurries toward me. I don’t know whether he’ll help me or help Anton, so I launch myself over the railing.
I drop ten feet to the ground, crashing into a group of people. I scramble up in their midst and run. Another bouncer or guard is charging my way. Again, I don’t know whether to trust him, so I dart into the dancing crowd.
Bodies sway and bounce around me as I duck and dive among them. Some shout drunkenly as I shove past them. Others try to get out of my way. Some grab at me like it’s a game.
It’s a nightmare, moving through the chaos of sound and movement and slashing lights. Every brush against my body feels like a threat. I expect at any second to be grabbed or stabbed or shot.
I get to the edge of the crowd and race for the door. The bouncer is gone, perhaps already drawn away. I hit the lever and throw the door open, bolting out into the dark parking area.
Headlights blind me as a van roars my way. It swerves and spins, tires squealing on the pavement as the back end swings my way. The doors are flung open and Roman comes flying out.
He grabs me and spins me out of the way, shielding me with his body as he fires toward the doorway where his uncle has just emerged.
Anton drops to the pavement like a rag doll.
More men, Vitali and others I don’t know, plus Sasha, are pouring out of the van. Roman tries to haul me away from them as they shout for answers, but I pull free of Roman enough to shout, “Quinn! He needs help!”
“Fuck!” Vitali shouts and charges toward the door before I can finish. Sasha runs after him, followed by several others. They step over Anton’s still body and disappear into the nightclub.
“Are you okay?” Roman asks, hands roaming over me.
“I’m fine! But Quinn—”
“They’ll take care of it.”
Roman draws me toward the open back of the van, where he makes me sit. He hovers beside me but doesn’t sit with me. Several other men stand guard, staying back enough to give us space.
Roman’s eyes are scanning our surroundings.
I pop up, too much adrenaline running through my body for me to remain sitting. “Roman, what happened? Why are you back already?”
He looks at me. There isn’t enough light for me to read his expression, but his body is so tense that I know I won’t get an answer out of him.
“It’s okay,” I say. “You can tell me later.”
He grabs my hand and squeezes it. I know he’s thanking me and promising me that he will tell me. He doesn’t let go, and neither do I. I start to calm down.
I’m safe. He’s safe. That’s all that matters.
I go into a sort of floaty, on-hold state as we wait. It’s like all the adrenaline has faded and left me somehow empty.
That feeling vanishes when the building door opens and Vitali emerges with Quinn and Sasha. There’s a wad of something under Quinn’s shirt at his shoulder where a huge bloodstain shows against the cloth.
“Oh my god,” I mutter.
“Not dead,” Quinn assures me.
“But you need a doctor,” Sasha says in a tone that suggests it’s not the first time she’s said it.
“Yes, I fucking know,” Quinn says wearily, obviously in pain.
Roman and I move back from the van as Quinn gets inside. Vitali closes the rear doors while one of the men jogs to the driver’s door.
The van rumbles to life and rolls away.
Vitali asks, “What happened, Lucas?”
My explanation has Roman squeezing my hand and Vitali clenching his jaw. I can’t see Vitali’s eyes in the low light, but I can feel his intensity. He’s very, very angry.
His anger, though, is quite different from Roman’s. It’s colder, more contained. In some ways, it’s a lot scarier.
A car pulls up. Sasha is behind the wheel.
Vitali says tightly, “You two go home. I’ll take care of this shit. I’ll be here a while. I have Anton’s bodyguard to question. And I still need to send a message to the DiMaggios.”
Roman looks toward his uncle’s body. I sense that he wants to go look at it, but when he opens the car door for me and I get in, he chooses me over his uncle and gets in behind.