Chapter Forty-Four
Bianca
I’m frozen.
I can’t move. Can’t blink. Can’t breathe. I’m rooted to the ground, staring at a sight I never expected to see.
Tank is alive.
He was on his knees in front of my psychopathic brother, staring certain death in the face, ready to give himself up in a hopeless bid for mercy. All for the chance — the small, small, small fucking chance — that it might save my life and save Vanessa’s life.
I can’t believe it.
The scene in front of me is so bloody, so unbelievable, that it all feels like a twisted hallucination. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to process it. Victor’s body lies crumpled on the stage. Tank is standing over him, covered in blood and panting like some wild thing dragged out of a nightmare. For one long second, all I can do is stare, trying to comprehend the impossible.
But then it hits me: Vanessa.
The thought slams into me like a punch to the chest, knocking the wind out of me. She’s still in the back. Still overdosing. Still dying.
The terror ignites me into motion. I rush forward, dropping to my knees next to Victor’s corpse, pushing past the horror of what he is now, what we’ve done. Desperation surges through me as I dig through his pockets, trying to feel past the slick wetness of blood and god knows what else. I can’t think. Can’t allow myself to think. I just search frantically, grasping for anything.
Tank limps toward me, each step labored and painful.
“Bianca?” he says. “What’s wrong?”
“He said he had it,” I whisper, still searching, my fingers trembling. “He said he had it in his pocket.”
I can hear the panic rising in my voice as I reach into the last pocket, praying for a miracle. For once, just once, I need Victor not to be a liar.
Nothing.
Just lint. A lighter. A tiny bottle of cologne that bears a suspicious resemblance to the thing I saw him hand to one of his men earlier. No fucking Narcan.
I choke on a sob, my voice barely more than a broken whisper. “He lied.” It’s impossible to believe, and yet so typical — the one time I needed him to tell the truth, the one time everything mattered, and Victor still couldn't do it. My brother, dead now, had to get the last fucking laugh. He was a liar to the end.
I don’t know why I’m surprised, but somehow, I still am.
Tank crouches beside me, his hand firmly taking hold of my wrist. There’s desperation in the way he looks at me. “What do you mean?” His voice is urgent, like he can’t afford not to know, like whatever comes next depends on this moment, on the words I have to say. Like there’s time.
“He lied,” I say again. It comes out louder, full of agony and fear, like a scream wrapped in panic. “He never had Narcan. He was bluffing. Vanessa’s going to die!”
A feral intensity transforms Tank’s face as he swings his head around, shouting to the others. “Search the bodies. All of them. Someone’s gotta have Narcan. Now!”
We erupt through the club, a frenzy of desperation and chaos. Mayhem and Diesel are tearing down doors, moving like a force of nature, ripping through anything that stands in their way. Ricky’s already sprinting toward the back, his voice echoing off the walls as he screams Vanessa's name, the sound raw and frantic. I don’t know where to start, what to look for, how to make this right. I rip open a supply closet, a locker, a cabinet—every single thing that feels like a possibility. Hope sparks with each new effort, only to die again when every drawer I pull out is empty. How are they all empty? Every jacket I check has nothing but cigarettes and lighters, useless and cruel, like a sick joke on our desperation.
He never had any intention of saving her.
Victor was going to let her die.
When we find Vanessa in the back room, the sight of her nearly brings me to my knees. She’s limp and barely breathing, her skin pale as a ghost, her lips a terrifying shade of blue, vomit splattered across her shirt. Ricky lets out a sound that shreds through me and leaves me raw — half sob, half scream, the guttural despair of a heart being wrenched from a body — as he falls to his knees beside her, the sight an echo of what I thought Tank would be.
“She’s still breathing,” I say, pressing my fingers to her neck and feeling the faintest, most fragile pulse. Barely.
Tank moves with frantic purpose, scooping Vanessa up in his arms and cradling her like she weighs nothing. “We’ve gotta go. Now.”
He kicks open the back exit, and then he turns his wild eyes to the street and charges forward like he’s on fire. He smashes the window of a black sedan parked on the curb, unlocks it from the inside, and throws open the back door. Ricky climbs in, pulling Vanessa across his lap, his tears spotting her shirt as he cries, still begging her to wake up. The desperation in his voice is a raw wound laid bare.
I dive into the front passenger seat, barely registering anything but the sound of my heartbeat in my ears. Tank’s already hot-wiring the ignition, his hands moving fast and furious. The engine growls to life, and he floors it, the tires screeching against the pavement as we tear through the streets of Boise, hunted by time, by our own fears, by death riding on our heels.
Ricky’s voice is ragged and raw behind us, the sound of a man breaking apart.
“Don’t die, baby. Please. You hear me? Don’t fucking die. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
I look back at them — at Ricky rocking her, cradling her head in his hands like he can hold her to life, like the sheer force of will might be enough — and my throat tightens, choking me with emotion, with fear, until something weak and strangled forces itself from my lips. Agony, suffering, the feeling of failure so intense my heart might stop. I’ve never been this scared. I don’t know how to be this scared.
I turn back around, pressing into the seat as Tank speeds forward. My heart pounds against my ribs like it’s trying to escape my chest, every beat an explosion of panic, terror overwhelming. I reach out blindly, fingers trembling uncontrollably, and I grab Tank’s arm with a grip that feels like I’m drowning.
“Please,” I whisper. It’s all I can manage, a plea in a single word. “Please drive faster.”
Tank doesn’t look at me, but he shifts his hand, his fingers moving to find mine, threading them together and squeezing with a steady reassurance.
“We’ll make it,” he says, his voice a rough promise, a certainty he doesn’t dare let himself doubt. “We’ll make it. I promise.”
But his promise doesn’t soothe the fear gnawing at my insides, the terror clawing through me and leaving me raw and exposed.
I don’t know how to believe him.
Outside the windshield, the hospital is still a blur in the distance, streetlights streaking past like ghosts. It’s not close enough. I can feel the time slipping away.
I clutch Tank’s hand tighter.
And one awful thought spirals through my mind.
Will we?