Chapter Thirty-Eight
Tank
Sticky buns sit glistening in the oven, the sweet allure of cinnamon and brown sugar thick in the air. It’s a scent that could soothe the devil himself. If I’m lucky, they’ll work for me. They’re the perfect swirl of butter and flour, and I’m leaning against the counter, a whiskey glass in one hand, watching those little dough bombs rise and expand behind the glass like it’s the only thing in a world gone mad that makes any sense at all. Her words still ring in my head, her tears still burn in my vision, my heart still clenches, holding tight to something that has nothing to do with getting revenge against Victor Moretti and everything to do with what I’ve lost — her. Beside me, Ricky’s dusted in flour, the stuff coating his hair and shirt, making him look like a ghost with an attitude.
“Well, what do you think?” he asks, way too proud of himself for someone with no baking experience.
“Not bad,” I say, and I mean it. He’s been a quick learner.
“Not bad? I’m a pastry genius. Admit it.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. You’re learning quick, but this is still the first batch of anything you’ve made that doesn’t look like it’s been pre-digested.”
“So what’s the real reason you picked this dump? Can’t be the ambiance.”
“It’s one block from Club Sin,” I say, matter-of-fact, like I’m just talking about the weather.
He gives me a look, the kind that says I’m too old to be getting dragged into strip clubs. “You like that sort of ambiance?”
“Only because it’s Victor Moretti’s base of operations.”
“Ah,” he says, nodding like everything crystallized for him. “So it really all is about your blood vendetta. It’s never just about cheap real estate with you guys. I don’t know why I’m surprised.”
I punch him in the shoulder, not too hard but enough to jolt the flour off him in a little cloud. “Don’t get smart.”
He pretends to rub the sore spot but grins through it. “Isn’t that the entire lesson you’ve been trying to beat into me for the last two weeks?”
I chuckle. The kid’s growing on me. “No. The lesson is: don’t be a dumbass.”
The laughter still echoes through the air when I hear it — an unmistakable, sharply percussive sound. A car door slamming. Then another. And another. Like cymbals crashing. Like the dreadful banging of a war drum.
The whiskey glass slips from my hand. Drops in slow motion, but smashes to the floor with a speed and violence I don’t see until it happens, shattering into a thousand crystalline, whiskey-glistening shards.
“Down!” I growl, all instincts and adrenaline, shoving Ricky behind the counter as my heartbeat roars in my ears.
A thunderous crash fills the shop; the front of Sticky Buns explodes into an apocalyptic storm. An SUV barrels through the front doors, tearing the bakery open. The vehicle claims everything in its violent path — smashes through wood and glass and brick in a screech of bending steel. Thick smoke, hot with gasoline, fills the air. Tires wail as they spin on tile, filling the air with a splitting, searing screech.
Then they come.
Moretti’s men.
At least half a dozen of them, pouring in through the wound in the front of my bakery, jumping out of the SUV they drove through the wall of my pride and joy.
I reach for the shotgun I keep under the counter and feel the old familiar weight of it in my hands. Ricky grabs a meat cleaver from the prep station, his eyes wide with rage and fear.
It’s war.
Gunfire explodes through the air, a rapid-fire staccato that shreds the silence and fills it with death. I fire off both barrels, feel the kick against my shoulder, and take two of them down in a cloud of buckshot.
“Move!” I yell, rolling over the counter and dragging Ricky with me by the collar, pulling him along toward the back hallway as bullets rip into the flour-dusted walls.
He stumbles, almost trips, and I see him clutching his arm, blood dripping between his fingers. It’s a gut-punch that I can’t let stop us.
“You hit?” I shout, panic beneath my voice, more frightened than I want to admit for him.
“My arm,” he grits out through pain-clenched teeth, the words ringing with both agony and determination. “I’ll live.”
He tosses the cleaver at one charging thug, the blade flying through smoke and debris in a deadly arc, burying itself with a sickening thud deep in the man’s chest. The thug goes down with a howl, clutching at the handle, his cries lost beneath the roar of gunfire.
“Good aim,” I grunt, grabbing the edge of the counter and rolling to one side, snatching up the pistol I keep stashed under the flour bins.
“It’s all in the wrist,” Ricky mutters, but his voice is strained, blood flowing from his wounded arm. He looks pale as hell, barely able to stay on his feet, but there’s a fire in his eyes that keeps him standing even as he sways under the effort. I fire off a few more rounds before reaching back to yank Ricky with me. We cut through the back, ducking low, throwing open the emergency door and stumbling out into the narrow alleyway. I punch the panel on the outside wall, a move I’ve rehearsed a hundred times, triggering the charge I’ve had prepped for weeks — just in case my worst fears came true.
The bakery explodes.
Sticky Buns is gone. The boom rocks the ground beneath us, a massive fireball swallowing everything I’ve built, everything I couldn’t bear leaving behind. Flames and smoke pour into the night, but I don’t look back. I can’t. I keep my eyes forward, locked on the street ahead, and drag Ricky along, armed and bleeding, ready for war and ready to die, if that’s what it takes. We’re barely a block away, the dark sky glowing orange behind us, when headlights sweep across the street and tires screech as another car pulls up. I spin around, raising my pistol. Ricky groans, holding his wounded arm close, blood soaking his sleeve. But he squares his shoulders and gets ready to throw something anyway — fists maybe, one limp from the wound, the other clenched and ready to go. Another fight. Another round.
“It’s been nice knowing you, Ricky,” I say, the words coming out harsher than I intend them to. Maybe because I know it’s true. Maybe because I know how close we are to not making it out this time. “You made me proud, earlier. Didn’t think you would, but you did.”
“Shut the fuck up, Tank,” he snaps back, fierce and defiant. “We’re not dying, yet.” The window rolls down.
It’s Alex. Eyes wide. Face ghost-pale. Mouth open, gaping, like she’s been screaming, and the only reason she’s not making a sound is that she’s already given everything she has.
“Tank,” she gasps, the name coming out in choked desperation. “It’s Bianca. And Vanessa.”
I step forward, dread coiling in my gut. “What about them?”
Alex swallows hard. “They’ve been kidnapped.”
My vision narrows. My fists clench so tight my knuckles scream. The world stops spinning. Everything — everything — goes red. Bianca. Gone. Taken.
Victor Moretti’s made this personal in a way I didn’t think he had the balls for.
I look at Ricky, who’s clutching his arm but still nodding like he knows what has to happen. “You ready?”
I nod. “Ready.”
Because I’m done holding back.
Victor Moretti dies tonight.