Chapter Thirty-Four
Tank
I pull the rental van around the back of the venue, brake lights casting red stripes across the asphalt like warning lights. Ricky hops out first, bouncing and eager, like a dog at the park. I follow with the first load of boxes stacked high in my arms — pastries, cakes, trays full of tarts that glisten like jewels under their plastic covers. The sweet, intoxicating smell of sugar and butter trails after us. Ricky's already at the door, holding it open with a grin like he can't wait to get inside.
Once in, the place is already buzzing — tables dressed in white linen lined up in neat rows, and strings of lights crisscrossing the ceiling like glowing cobwebs. Volunteers move around like bees in formalwear. Bianca spots us from across the room, and her eyes catch mine and light up with something that makes my chest hitch. Even from this distance, I can see the exhaustion carved into her features.
Tired. She looks so damn tired, but beautiful.
She doesn’t need rest to shine. She’s someone who saves lives while the rest of them sleep. She might not be as bad as her brother, but she’s still my opportunity to complete my mission.
Bianca is my way in.
Ricky and I set up. He’s just like I taught him — fast hands, no wasted movements — unloading pastries like he’s done this a hundred times before, like he’s competent, a far cry from the piece of shit he was when I met him. Vanessa’s already there helping Alex, and I spot her giving Ricky a small, shy smile from her place setting up the tablecloths. Ricky glances back at her, uncertain but hopeful, like a man taking a breath after being underwater too long. I look at him again, and it hits me: for the first time since I chained him to my bed, he looks like a man. Not a junkie. Not a problem. Just a man doing right.
I grin.
I keep my hands busy and my head sharp as I move. My piece is tucked under my jacket, strapped across my lower back. Hidden but ready, just like it needs to be. Tonight, I’ll serve desserts. Compliment old ladies. Flirt with Bianca. Smile for the cameras. And then I’ll kill Victor Moretti. It’s all laid out in my mind — from what it’ll look like when I catch him alone and unaware and blow out the back of his skull, to the exact route I’ll take to get out of town once my mission’s complete.
This is what I came here for.
This, and nothing else.
Nothing.
Bianca wanders over and leans in beside me, eyes scanning the dessert table with both admiration and hunger. She's radiating something electric, charged with an energy that seems to defy the exhaustion that anyone else would find crippling. She reaches out to touch my wrist, stopping me mid-motion, and her touch sends sparks through my skin. It's soft, warm, a promise wrapped in skin and bone.
“This all looks amazing,” she says. “Like magazine-cover level amazing.”
“Wait until you taste it,” I mutter, focusing on the final touches of a whipped ganache. I want her to try it. I want her to see that I'm good at this, at something honest, something sweet. It's more than just flour and sugar; it’s me, all the unbroken parts of me I’ve scrounged together.
She grins, and her eyes glint like she’s holding back a laugh. “I’m not waiting.”
She reaches over and steals one of the plated specials — a dark chocolate tart with espresso caramel and sea salt — the one I made just for tonight, just for her. I watch as she closes her eyes, savoring.
Then she moans.
Out loud.
So fucking loud.
Heads turn. Eyes open. A couple people gasp, their attention snapping to us like we've shouted fire in a crowded theater. The entire room seems to pause, a record-scratch moment where everything stops and all you hear is them waiting for her next sound.
I blink, then grin wider than my face knows how.
She opens her eyes, still dazed, caught up in a fresh swirl of sugar and salt and fat.
“Okay. That might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
I can’t help myself, can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up. “I’ll never get over the fact that you’re such a moaner.” The words escape before I can even think to censor them, hanging in the air for a beat too long before they catch up to her.
She slaps me on the shoulder, laughing, a sound that spills out of her like music, then pulls me into a quick, fierce kiss. It’s long enough to make me forget how to breathe, how to think, how to be anything but hers. Just short enough that it leaves me desperate for more of her, of everything, of a life I never thought I could have or even want. She smirks, her eyes alive with mischief as she pulls back, leaving me with the taste of her still on my lips, bittersweet and addictive.
For the first time in a long time, maybe ever, I feel something like peace. Like I’m exactly where I belong, doing exactly what I’m meant to do, exactly who I’m meant to be.
Bianca’s thriving, and the Safe House might actually survive this mess. Ricky’s acting like a grown-ass man, like a fucking hero. Vanessa’s smiling like she might forgive him. The food is perfect. The night is beautiful. And I have a gun strapped to my spine with a clip of bullets meant for Victor Moretti.
I’ve been waiting for this. Plotting every second with the calm precision of a man for whom failure is not an option. And now that the world around me feels like it’s finally coming together, like the universe has decided it might be on my side for once...
I’m going to end the man who’s been tearing Bianca apart. The man who tried to kill my family in Ironwood Falls. The bastard who’s turned this whole town into a playground for his poison. It’s my chance to make this right, to give Bianca more than a fucking spoonful of sweet before it all comes crashing down.
I smile.
That’s when Bianca’s phone rings.
She walks a few steps away to answer it, her hand pressing tight to her ear. I keep arranging plates, not paying it much mind until I glance up and see her face.
She’s pale. Stiff.
Like the air got sucked right out of her lungs.
I take one step toward her. “What’s wrong?”
She turns slowly, eyes locking with mine. She holds up a finger that locks my feet to the floor. Her mouth opens. And all she says is: “We need to talk.”
Everything in me stills.
Because I’ve heard that tone. I’ve seen that look. And I know that whatever’s coming isn’t about dessert trays or donor lists.
It’s war.