Chapter Twelve
Perish
I slammed the head of the pick mattock into the ground with a lot more force than necessary. The impact ricocheted up my arms, rattling my shoulders.
And just for a second, my mind went blank.
So I pulled up the pick and slammed it down again, a little harder. The pain sliced up my neck and into my jaw this time.
I swung again and again and again.
The weeds were long gone.
I was just striking the ground, making dirt kick up in the air around me, leaving my skin with a fine coat of it. Mingled with my sweat, it made me feel immediately gritty.
But I didn’t stop.
Not when it was the first few moments of peace I’d known in days.
Ever since the morning after leaving Gracie alone in the glass house. Since she’d come out, being all sweet and friendly.
And then I went and made her look at me like I’d kicked her puppy.
Knowing that pushing her away was the right thing didn’t make it any easier to actually do.
Especially when I knew we both wanted more.
But it was how it was.
And I just had to deal with that.
Even if it meant dislocating a shoulder to distract myself from thoughts of her.
“Didn’t know Matteo was putting in another water feature,” a voice called, making me stiffen and straighten.
Turning, I saw one of the Grassi cousins standing there. The young one. Milo, I think his name was.
“There are weeds,” I said, waving toward the area in front of me.
“Are there? I’m pretty sure there’s only dirt.”
“The roots gotta come out.”
“When’d you get hired to work the grounds?”
“Just helping out.”
“Helping out or working through some shit?”
“Can’t do both?”
To that, he gave a slight nod.
“You were the one here during the shootout, right?”
“Yeah.”
“That what you’re working through?”
“Not really, no.” It was just the event that triggered the problem.
“Well, if you’re done with the, er, roots, want to come inside for a drink?”
“Sure,” I agreed.
“There’s a sink and soap in the potting shed.”
The implication was clear: don’t come inside until you’ve cleaned up.
I cleaned up the mess I’d made, brought my tool back to the shed, shook off all the dirt I could, then washed off the rest, since I knew these mafia guys took a lot of pride in their appearances and their spaces. I couldn’t be tracking my filth through.
By the time I made it inside the building, Milo was nowhere to be seen.
I followed the hall down toward where I knew Matteo’s office was, figuring that was the most likely place Milo had disappeared to.
When I reached it, though, it was empty.
Empty save for a bulletin board that hadn’t been there the last time I’d visited.
Something was pinned in the center.
From afar, it seemed like some kind of sketch of someone.
This was mafia turf.
And I’d spent enough time around criminals to know that I needed to mind my own damn business. Looking at shit that had nothing to do with you could get you killed. Allies or not.
But something had me stepping forward past the threshold and inching closer to that board.
Maybe it was how weird it was.
Sure, the Grassis were the mob.
But this was a legitimate business.
And while there were mob capos and soldiers around all the time, there were also just normal employees walking up and down these halls.
Anyone could look in and see the paper pinned to the board.
So it couldn’t have been official mafia business.
As I got closer, it became clearer and clearer that it was a digital sketch.
One, I would assume, of the drive-by shooter. Posted up so that everyone in the office would know to look out for him, would reach out to Matteo or the security team immediately if they saw him again.
Smart.
I guess they weren’t having any luck tracking down the guys who were targeting them.
Out in the hallway, a sudden conversation had my head swiveling, ready to retreat toward the door if I heard Milo or Matteo.
But the voice disappeared behind the click of an office door.
When I turned back, my fucking blood ran cold.
“No.”
I took a step closer.
Then another.
The closer I got, the clearer the image became.
I knew the shape of those eyes. I’d blackened them once. That bend in his nose? That was me too.
That scar down by his neck?
Yeah, that was me too.
And that gunshot… that was fatal.
But if that was fatal, then I was looking at a fucking ghost.
“There you are,” Milo said, tone light.
Until I turned.
I could feel how wide my eyes were, how tight my jaw was. I knew I looked fucking crazed. I was.
“What?”
“What is this?” My tone came out as a snarl as I gestured back toward the board.
“Whoa,” Mattie said, coming in behind his cousin. “Watch the volume. What’s going on?”
“Where did you get this?” I asked, trying to calm down, to bring some calm to my chaotic body.
“From the police,” Matteo said, holding a hand up, making it clear I was nowhere near as calm as I was aiming for.
“Where did they get it from? I thought no cameras caught the fucker.”
“They didn’t. But they used an eyewitness account.”
“What eyewitness? There was no one here but me.”
“Gracie,” Matteo said. His tone was full of exaggerated calm. Like he was trying to soothe a feral dog. “Gracie saw the shooter.”
My fucking blood went cold.
Gracie.
Gracie saw the shooter?
How did I not know that?
Why hadn’t anyone mentioned that?
When had she gone to the station?
Did the club know?
How the fuck didn’t I know?
Maybe if I hadn’t been so busy thinking about undressing her, going down on her, and making out with her, I would have thought to ask.
Maybe I would have found out about this days ago.
“What is it?” Matteo asked.
It was my past.
My supposedly long-dead past.
This had nothing to do with the mafia.
It had nothing to do with the damn club either.
It was me.
But…
But if this fuck was back from the dead, he was here to scorch the earth. To put me in it.
If he couldn’t get right to me, though, he would go through those around me.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fallon had it all wrong.
We needed to be on lockdown.
The women had to be brought in, protected.
Gracie needed to be protected.
I ripped the paper off the board, turned, and strode through the space between the two men.
Maybe they came after me.
I had no idea.
I wasn’t paying attention.
I couldn’t hear shit over the whooshing of my pulse in my ears.
By the time I was in the hall, I was at a dead run.
All I could think was Gracie.
Gracie, who I’d thrown myself over to protect.
Gracie, who I could have been seen walking home one night. Who I could have been seen talking to outside of the clubhouse.
Gracie, who, for better or worse, was now connected to me.
Who was in danger because of me.
I fumbled for my phone, dialing blindly as I rushed to the parking lot.
“Yo?” Fallon answered, laughing at something.
“Put the club in lockdown.”
“What?” he asked, tone deadly serious.
“Lockdown. Now.”
I ended the call, shoved my phone back in my pocket, and hopped on my bike.
I had to get to her apartment. I had to get her safe.
I peeled out of the parking lot and onto the road, ignoring the sound as someone laid on their horn.
I weaved in and out of traffic, trying to cut down the length of the drive.
It still felt impossibly long.
My heartbeat thundered in my chest as it constricted. My stomach churned, acid burning my esophagus as I cursed the traffic lights and flipped off the speed limit signs.
But then finally—finally—I saw her apartment building coming into view.
I was barely aware of cutting the engine, of putting down the kickstand, of climbing off the seat.
All I was aware of was running toward the building, running my fingers down the doorbells until someone buzzed me in, tearing up the stairs two at a time as a cold, slick feeling coursed down my spine.
“Gracie! Open up!” I yelled, pounding my fist into the door over and over. “Gracie!”
One beat.
Two.
More.
I didn’t stop to think.
I stepped back, then rushed forward, slamming my shoulder into the door until it burst open with a slight cracking sound.
It didn’t matter.
I could fix it some other time.
“Gracie!” I yelled, rushing into the space, looking for her, looking for proof that she was around. Or, worse yet, that she’d been taken.
But there were no upturned tables, no strewn knickknacks, no splashes of blood.
No Gracie.
And while I’d never seen her in action myself, I knew from stories that Gracie was very well-trained in self-defense. If someone had come in here, if they’d tried to take her, she would have put up a fight. She would have left evidence of the attack.
She wasn’t here.
She wasn’t taken.
She just wasn’t home.
I tried to suck in a steadying breath, but my lungs burned.
If she wasn’t home, maybe she was already with friends or family. Maybe she was in a busy coffee shop or at whatever her other job was. Safe.
I knew that Fallon would have gotten in touch with at least Brooks and his father already. From there, the phone tree would spread out.
Someone would text Gracie.
So if she was at work or something, she would know to stay put, to wait for someone to escort her to the clubhouse or Hailstorm.
Hell, for all I knew, Hailstorm was activated and sending their little paramilitary troops out to scoop all the girls and kids up already.
It wasn’t my job or my place to find and rescue Gracie. Not when I’d been the one to put her in danger. Not when being around me continued to put her at risk.
I wasn’t being logical right then, though.
All I could think was that if I was there, I could stand between her and a bullet. I could absorb them all for her, keep her safe.
I made my way back to the door when something sitting on the mail table caught my eye.
There it was.
Her card for her party planning business.
With a number.
But, more importantly, an address.
That was all I needed.
I pounded pavement back to my bike, peeled out of the parking lot, and made my way back across town.
I was going to get her safe.
She had to fucking be safe.