CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Tierney
I wasn’t going straight to Tiernan and Lila’s.
I was going to finish the bastard myself.
Served him right, for thinking he could buy me like cattle.
The fact he wanted the love of my life dead did not help his cause in the least. Stefano Coppola was my enemy through and through.
I’d spent my life pretending to be something I was not—the party girl, the socialite, the airhead. But the truth was, I was a soldier raised in a camp. A cannon fodder. A well-trained pawn.
Cold. Calculating. Bloodthirsty.
But sometime during the past few weeks, this pawn managed to reach the other side of the board. Against all odds, I’d promoted myself to a queen’s position, and now, I was going to act like one.
It was time to quench my thirst.
I parked Achilles’s Porsche in the underground parking and took the elevator upstairs. The apartment was locked, with no movement detected on the security app in or outside it for the last three hours.
Coppola hadn’t arrived yet.
It gave me time to pee, then check out the secret stash in Achilles’s office cupboard and choose myself a nice Nighthawk GRP with a suppressor. It packed a punch and was discreet.
Not that I was worried about waking up any neighbors—the apartment was completely soundproof—but realistically, Coppola was coming with reinforcements, and I needed to take them out one bastard at a time.
As soon as I finished loading the magazine, a soft click sounded from the entrance, and I knew Coppola had entered the place.
With my back to the office door, I had no choice but to crawl all the way into the narrow passage and close it behind me. It wasn’t an ideal spot, but it meant I could hide until he was in the bedroom or far enough inside that I could sneak out and ambush them.
I heard his soldiers filing into the apartment, the soft clicks of designer loafers hitting the floor. They spoke in Italian, their voices hushed and low.
Confusion and terror slammed into me. How did they get inside willy-nilly? How did they pass the security system, which alerted our phones every time someone walked through the door? And where were Achilles’s soldiers? They were usually sweeping the area up and down, eliminating potential threats.
This was bad. I was officially outnumbered, cornered, and with no escape route. I’d have to take them all.
I heard footsteps edging into the office and peered through the narrow crack of the cupboard. All I could see were loafers and dark pants.
The person in the room rummaged through the documents on his desk, cursed in Italian, then broke whatever was within reach in frustration. A laptop, lamp, and picture frame came crashing down on the floor. I took advantage of the sudden noise to cock my weapon.
Come closer. I dare you.
For better or worse, the bastard decided to do exactly that. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, he began throwing drawers open, emptying their contents to the floor. Anger shot through my spine. How dare he touch Achilles’s things so carelessly? Who did he think he was?
When he reached my cupboard, I was ready. As soon as he flung it open, I pulled the trigger, putting a bullet right between his eyebrows. The pop was soft, hushed by the suppressor. He went down, a surprised look in his beady eyes.
Since I didn’t know what Coppola looked like, I didn’t know if it was him I’d taken down. He seemed to fit the bill—thirtysomething, nicely dressed with a mustache.
It hardly mattered, though. I was going to clean this place up and kill all of Coppola’s clan before Achilles had a chance to get here.
Crawling out of my hideout, I flipped the bastard face up on the floor. He was heavy and more than a little bloody. Swallowing down my labored breathing, I ripped his dress shirt open. As expected, he had a bulletproof vest.
“Gonna have to borrow that one. It’s of no use to you now, anyway,” I mumbled under my breath, aiming the gun with one hand toward the door while yanking the Velcro from his shoulders and adjusting the vest over my torso.
Another figure passed through the hallway, and I had to duck under the desk.
I eyed the person through the small gap under the paneled desk.
The man breezed through the hallway, realized there was a body lying on the office floor, and walked back into the doorframe. His face fell.
“Che cazzo succede…?” He took a step into the office.
I darted to my feet and shot him in the face. It struck true, though it wasn’t the cleanest shot. His face detonated from the bad angle, making a sound of gory explosion. Did the others outside hear it? Even if they didn’t, I knew I was running out of time. I needed to finish the job.
Keeping my back pressed against the wall, I slowly made my way out of the office, straining my ears to listen for movements in the apartment.
I could hear two sets of feet—one from the main bedroom, the other from the kitchen.
I decided to deal with the kitchen first. It was closer, and I didn’t want my back exposed in the hallway.
Tiptoeing my way out of the corridor, I peered toward the kitchen and spotted a man ripping the art pieces from the walls, trying to find a safe or surveillance equipment. His back was to me.
Pop.
An easy, clean hit this time. He fell down.
I had to be mindful of the number of bullets I had left.
So far I had been able to aim straight at their heads, but I had a feeling Lady Luck was about to abandon me.
I stepped forward, meaning to check the man’s pulse, when a hand wrapped around my waist from behind.
It was accompanied by the cold muzzle of a gun, which pressed to the back of my head. Not too far from where Tristan Hale had shot me.
“Well, hello to my beautiful bride. We finally meet.” Cold lips moved along the shell of my ear, the rugged Italian accent trickling into my system like icy raindrops.
I was captured by Stefano Coppola.