Chapter Fifty-Two
Cal ~FLASHBACK~
“Run.”
I tell her to run in this disgusting fucking kitchen they held her in for days and thank the fucking universe she listens.
The kitchen door springs backward behind Max as she runs out of the space, and for one second in this grimy, disgusting kitchen, I breathe in pure relief among the old grease hanging in the air.
All I hear is the sound of her footfalls getting lighter and lighter as she continues to the door.
A part of me expected her to turn around, to wait for me.
All of me is relieved she didn’t.
There’s no getting out of here without bloodshed—mine or theirs.
Or both.
My gun is hanging off my index finger with the barrel pointed at the ceiling. I look at the men standing in front of me wondering if they think they’ve got me.
They probably think I’m more or less disarmed, and three pistols are pointed at me as they each take a step forward.
The other man has his gun pressed against my forehead.
“Ah, ah, boys.” My voice comes out on a laugh, and I stretch my palms wide, my index finger flexing from inside the trigger guard. “Should we have a conversation before all this goes down?”
The oldest of the men laughs, but it comes out strangled, like he’s high on the fact that he thinks he has me caught. Like he thinks this is over, and he is going to bring me back to his boss—dead or alive.
“For what?” His voice is hard on the consonants and carries a thick accent.
The other man moves towards the door that Max ran out of, and I frown as he lifts a cellphone to his ear.
“We have Renzetti.” His accent is thick, but he says the words loudly enough to make a point and smiles at me.
He nods and slips the phone back in his pocket.
“They want her, too. After her!” The older man nods at the younger of the three, and before either takes a step, I flick my wrist.
The metal of the pistol spins down my index finger, landing solidly in my palm, and I don’t wait.
I step quickly to the right.
Two shots. The first man who was headed for Max gets out the door after her. Nico will take care of him.
The one in the back of the kitchen goes down immediately.
The one in front of me, who had been holding the gun to my head, fires at nothing. Then he follows his buddy down to the ground as I get a third shot off.
His own shot goes wide, into the hood behind me above the fryer bank and I hear the crack of something behind the wall.
Then a hiss. Then the smell of gas, low and immediate, threading through the grease-thick air like a warning.
I move towards the same door Max went through before I hear the click of a pistol.
I look down at the youngest man on the floor.
“The Volkovs will find you,” he chokes on the words and the blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. “And they’ll find your whore, too.”
He tries and fails to lift his gun towards me and anger boils to the surface.
I step into his space, and his eyes go a little wide. He sputters on blood and coughs. I press the toe of my shoe into his wrist and the gun falls from his hand with a dull thud on the dirty tile floor.
I tilt my head slightly, the gears turning.
The Volkovs think they have me.
My eyes find the hole in the hood where the gas is coming from and the stove below, covered in old grease rags.
The Volkovs deserve to burn. And not just these two, but all of them.
I put more of my weight on the man’s wrist and he moans around a mouth full of blood.
The plan forms in my mind and my body moves.
I kick the gun far enough away from the man on the floor.
The grease rag is in my hand as I cross the kitchen to the gas range.
“Well, either we blow up or this works.” I glance back at the man who is still wide-eyed and sputtering.
I spin the igniter and it clicks and clicks before a small flame gasps to life.
“Oh, good, you have a few more minutes left.” I smile around the words. “Not long though, which is probably music to your ears because that looks painful.”
I light the rag and turn off the burner, throwing a few more rags on the pile. The flames grow and I step back over to the man, kneeling.
“You’ll never find a Renzetti on their knees, but where you’re going, I bet you’ll find yourself there plenty.”
I slap him on the cheek roughly, sending blood splattering across the tile, and stand, taking one more look around the kitchen.
I can disappear. I can get revenge while they think they killed me.
I can get Max somewhere far away from this—get her safe.
I turn as the flames breathe and grow, partially covering the doorway Max left through like a curtain.
The front of the restaurant is boarded up as I walk through the front dining room. Tables are set up and empty glasses sit on top. Plywood is covering the windows, a chain through the crash bar of the front door with a padlock the size of my fist.
But I know the fire is eating the back of the building with hunger.
My gun is still in my hand, and I lift it, turning my head slightly after aiming at the padlock and I pull the trigger.
The chain whips free and the door gives under my palm.
The pressure wave hits me from behind at the same time—heat and force and the shriek of metal—and then I’m outside, or I’m in the air, or I’m on the ground, and the sidewalk is against my face and there is glass in my hair and the sound in my ears…
There isn’t sound anymore, just a high sustained note where the world used to be.
I put my hands flat on the concrete and lift my head. My gun is a few feet in front of me and I push myself up to grab it.
One knee and then the other and then I’m standing, hobbling to pick it up.
My left side feels wrong, something in my ribs, maybe my shoulder, and a deep ache of damage somewhere. I can feel blood running down my face.
No time to figure that out.
I walk.
I make it across the street and I’m leaning against the wall of a brick building opposite the raging fire when a car pulls up beside me.
A woman, fifties, a grocery bag on the passenger seat and her window rolling down; an expression on her face of pure horror and her hand flies to her mouth.
“Sir—oh my God—are you—”
“I’m fine.” My voice comes out flat but certain, too certain for a man that’s probably covered in blood. “I just—need to sit down, maybe—”
She gets out of the car, runs over to guide me to the curb.
Hidden behind her car, she starts saying things about calling an ambulance as I nod and watch the flames grow above the building, glowing in the dark night.
I send a silent plea to the universe that Nico got Max the fuck out of here.
I stay hunched down where the light doesn’t touch me.
The fire department arrives, then police cruisers.
Radios and yellow tape going up across the road, controlled chaos. The older woman is talking to one of the officers and I push myself to standing, bracing a hand on my ribs that scream in pain.
I stumble into the shadows half a block down and fold myself against the building, trying to find the strength to keep moving.
As I catch my breath, a dark sedan moves slowly down the street. It’s moving slowly, the windows are rolled down, and I recognize the angle of the jaw of the passenger. The shaved head.
The man from outside the café.
Adrenaline surges and I briefly touch the gun tucked into my waistband.
He’s here to confirm, check for survivors.
He looks at the building, the emergency vehicles. He shakes his head with eyebrows raised and then tilts his chin and the car drives off, windows going up as they roll past me.
I watch the car as it turns at the end of the block.
And I sit with what I know for sure:
Max got out. She had to.
I got out.
And nobody on either side saw me leave.
What they saw was an explosion.
What they will conclude is whatever and whoever was inside is gone.
The Renzettis are known for retaliation.
If I’m dead and Max is alive, Nico has every right to bring the full weight of the family down on the Volkovs. A measured, justified response for the death of a boss.
Controllable, but finite. An eye for an eye. A boss for a boss.
And taking down the Volkovs’ boss will take down their entire operation here in Providence. They won’t be able to survive if they have to rebuild.
On the other hand, the lawyer in me plays devil’s advocate:
If I’m alive and Max is alive, they will never stop coming for me, for her, for us.
Especially if they know I got out and their men perished.
I will spend the rest of my life watching every door she walks through, every room she enters and every person who stands too close.
No. I won’t put her through that. If I’m dead, they’ll stop going after her. And Nico can keep her safe while we take them down.
And then they won’t be a problem for anyone.
Not for me.
And not for Max.
I know which one of those worlds she can live in.
I don’t know if she will forgive me.
But I can live without her if I have to—if it means she is safe; if it means the Volkovs can’t touch her again.
I see the woman with the grocery bags circling her car to find me and I slink up the block, sticking to the shadows, forcing myself to walk without a limp. I keep to the side streets as I continue into the depths of the city, and I don’t look at my reflection in any of the dark windows I pass.
After six blocks, I find a bar that’s open and dimly lit, mostly empty this late at night.
No one looks at me when I walk in.
I sit at the far end of the bar, and I force my hand to stop shaking as I pull my wallet out of my pocket, throwing two twenty-dollar bills on the bar top.
“Whiskey, neat,” I say it low, my voice even though my body wants to shake in pain.
The bartender nods and I tap the counter.
He raises his eyebrows at me.
I pull out a hundred-dollar bill and toss it down with the twenties.
“And a phone, if you have one.”
He chuckles, sets a glass next to the cash. As he fills it with dark liquid, he drops a cell phone next to it.
“Would’ve let you borrow the phone for free but appreciate the tip.”
He grabs the cash, but I don’t move for the phone.
I let it sit there and I sip the whiskey for a bit.
Some time goes by. I let the burn tell me I’m still alive. I watch the door.