Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I shove the barbell above me, feeling the burn in my muscles.
My pecs and biceps burn with the effort, but I can’t stop.
Pushing myself harder, I try to burn away the soft feeling of Ava’s body against me and replace it with pain.
If I don’t, there won’t be any rest for either of us.
I’ll break. I’ll drive back to her house and drag her, kicking and screaming, back to my home.
I’ll keep her locked up here until her freedom is nothing more than a fleeting memory. I’ll consume her.
My head swims with emotions I didn’t think myself capable of.
The ironclad barriers and careful concentration I’ve built up for so many years are crumbling around me.
The fence I’ve erected around the shriveled, beating thing inside my chest is disintegrating.
She calls to it, making it beat stronger.
She was so soft, laying in my arms asleep.
Her head rested on my bicep, her breath feathering against my neck.
Despite some lingering protests and weakly flailing arms, she fell asleep soon after I untied her and pulled her into my arms. I carried her to her bed and laid her down, covering her with blankets.
That demanding organ in my chest seemed to settle as I stroked her hair.
There was this feeling of rightness in caring for her. It calmed the storm inside me.
It was no small effort to pull myself away from her.
It never is. That goddamned organ went from calm to raging, as if it demanded our closeness.
As I rose from her bed, her hand wrapped around my wrist, pulling me back to her.
I stood, stock-still and dumbfounded, watching her sleeping face.
My mind staggered, tripping over the reasons for her hand on me.
Was it just a reaction in her sleep? Did she know it was me?
Has her soul recognized mine, broken and jagged as it is, before her head has caught up?
Thunk.
The barbell crashes to the ground, toppling a set of heavy weights that scatter across the floor.
Clenching my fists at my sides, I ignore the mess now littering the floor of my home gym.
I refuse to believe that it’s a coincidence or some reaction in her sleep that made her pull me closer.
I’m certain that her subconscious is aware that we fit.
That our broken pieces can be made whole together.
My phone vibrates, ripping me from my thoughts. I pull it from my pocket, finding Shawn’s name flashing on the screen. I press my finger against the screen to accept the call. I scarcely have time to say hello before Shawn’s panicked voice screeches through the speaker.
“This was a bad hit, man!”
The words crash into me like an oncoming train. If I wasn’t already sitting, I’d be on my ass. I’ve never been involved in a bad hit before. I’ve killed more people than I care to count, but it’s only ever been my intended targets.
“We got bad information from Bianca,” Shawn continues, his voice rising an octave. “She set you up to kill one of Volkov’s guys, a turncoat from her own organization.”
“What?” I don’t know if I say it or scream it, but it’s the only word that comes out.
Shawn’s lengthy, wheezed breath on the line tells me that I did, in fact, scream it.
“I spent hours combing through the data. I pulled every digital thread until I found the real information. It was so well hidden. Michael Crawford’s real name was Luca Caruso.
He was an accountant who did the books for Bianca before he turned on her and went to the Bratva. He was a fucking mole!”
“Shawn,” I breathe, willing patience into my voice. “Are you telling me that we may have just started a mob war? A mob war that we’re now at the center of?”
“I…uh…yes, that’s a distinct possibility here,” he squeaks.
I don’t notice how hard my grip on my phone is until the plastic begins to crack in my palm.
I slam it against the weight bench. My thoughts darken, reshaping from mere thought to a sharpened weapon.
It seems that Bianca has finally tired of the cat and mouse game she’s been trying to play with me.
She manipulated me into taking a job between the two warring families, something I would never do.
And she’s set me up to take the fall for it.
The twisted, broken thing that lives inside of me rages. Make her pay, it screams.
* * *
Despite the cold wind that whips through the city streets, it’s busy downtown.
Tourists crowd the sidewalks, their teeth chattering and their coats pulled tightly around them.
I shove my way past grumbling people, pushing my way into a familiar alley.
I need to know how bad this situation is, and there’s only one crazy fucker in this city who can tell me.
I slam my palm against the door at Club Gara and flash my gun at the security camera.
The door buzzes, allowing me entry. Hot, putrid air hits my face, bringing with it the scent of sweat and booze.
A bouncer steps in front of me, all six-foot-something of beefy muscle, blocking me from moving forward. Cautiously, he drags his eyes over me.
“I need to see Malik,” I yell over the thumping club music.
He nods and steps aside, leaving me with the unfortunate task of snaking through the grinding, sweat-soaked bodies gyrating on the dance floor.
I move through them quickly, making my way to the back of the club where I wait for the large metal security door to open for me.
When it does, I breathe a little easier as the sour smell of perspiration and stale beer is displaced by a smokey, floral incense.
“Habibi.” A booming voice hits my ears just as a hard body crashes into mine, pulling me into a crushing hug. I release a groan and shrug Malik's arms off.
“I’m here for business,” I say, hoping my tone conveys the urgency I feel.
Malik assesses me with narrowed eyes. “Tell me what troubles you, my friend.”
“I know you have eyes and ears all over this city. I need to know what they’re saying about me.”
“Truly?” His eyes widen like I’ve caught him off guard.
“It’s important.”
His lips tip up in a smirk and he waves his hand toward a table at the back of the room.
I follow him through the jewel-toned lounge, sidestepping low tables and velvet couches.
The same young woman I’ve seen once before lounges on a sofa.
She spares a glance in my direction, but her eyes don't linger, not on me, anyway.
She watches Malik with hungry eyes and blown pupils.
The pang of jealousy that zips through my chest is soft, but present.
As much as I love her fear, I long for the day that Ava's eyes follow me out of want rather than just fear.
Dropping down to a large pillow on the floor, my knees scrape uncomfortably against the short table. Malik sits across from me, picking invisible lint off of his canary-yellow blazer.
Impatience pricks at my skin. “I need to know everything you’ve heard.”
“Word on the street is that you’re a man being hunted. There are bounties on your head, very high bounties, from the heads of both the Rossi and Volkov families.”
“Fuck,” I groan, smashing my fist against the table.
“Why does this bother you, Gray? You’ve had many hits out on you before. This is nothing new…unless…” Malik’s small grin morphs into a beaming smile.
“Unless?”
“Unless you’ve found something worth protecting.” His words are like a jab to the gut, souring my stomach. I do have something worth protecting. Someone worth protecting.
“Ah, I knew it!” Malik chirps happily. “The look in your eyes the last time I saw you; it could only be love.”
Love? Is that what this is? Is that what drives me to be near her? To protect her? Am I truly capable of it?
A loud crash pulls me from my thoughts. The floor vibrates with the force of it, sending gaudy decorations and trinkets skittering across the carpet.
With another thunderous crash, the security door explodes open.
Metal scrapes and screams as the door busts off its hinges and slams against the floor.
Dark smoke, reeking of gunpowder and chemicals, billows into the room.
Five bodies step through the haze, guns drawn.
They step forward in a haphazard line, guns trained on Malik and I.
My eyes sweep over them, taking in their appearance.
They’re definitely low-ranking goons, their clothes are dark but mismatched.
Their guns are functional, but not top-grade.
Malik chuckles. “Friends of yours?”
I give him a healthy dose of side-eye before returning my attention to the invaders.
The grunt in the middle smiles. His slightly accented voice is gruff and weathered, sounding like the result of years of heavy smoking. “Mikhail Volkov sends his regards.”
Malik's hand wraps around my arm, yanking me toward him.
His foot collides with the table, flipping it on its side in front of us like a shield.
With a lopsided grin on his face, he unstraps an MP5 submachine gun from the underside of the table.
Pulling the handgun from the back of my jeans, I balance on the balls of my feet, readying myself.
The roar of gunfire slices through the room, almost entirely masking the sound of a feminine scream.
“Layla, yallah!” Malik yells, a look of fear flitting across his face before it disappears behind a grin.
Malik's girl sprints toward the back door, her dress hiked up to her knees and her body crouched low. She’s done this before.
I shift my eyes toward the man beside me, my closest ally and realistically the closest thing I have to a friend.
The relief is clear on his face as she passes through the back door.
Perhaps he understands what I feel for Ava more than I would have guessed.