Chapter 22 #3
Lorenzo waits in a room at the end, seated behind a polished mahogany desk with a glass of whiskey catching the overhead light and that dead smile firmly in place.
He's in the same suit from the restaurant, but he’s lost the jacket and rolled his sleeves.
He has an air of ease about him. He probably thinks I’ve either come to beg for my freedom or to reluctantly give in to his demands.
My inner demoness smiles with the truth.
"Sloane." He stands. "What a pleasant surprise. Did Massimo finally come to his senses?"
I flick his words away and ignore his toying tone.
"Harlon voided the contract. Genesis won't enforce it.
Your leverage over my father is worthless because I've handed every piece of evidence to the three men in this city whose word matters more than yours.
" I toss the torn halves of the contract in his face and watch his smile wilt at the edges. "It's over, Lorenzo."
The mask drops. I've been watching men's masks drop since I was fifteen and I've never seen one fall this fast. The charm peels away and what's underneath is cold and flat and empty, the hollow stare of a man who has never been denied anything.
He has no mechanism for processing refusal and it shows.
His nostrils flare. A vein pulses at his temple. His hand drops beneath the desk.
"You think a torn piece of paper changes anything?" His voice has lost its polish. The smooth edges roughened. "Your father owes my family twelve million dollars. Contract or no contract, that debt doesn't disappear."
"The debt is your problem now. Take it up with Harrison."
His hand comes up from beneath the desk holding a gun. Black. Compact. The barrel catches the fluorescent light as he levels it at my chest from six feet away.
My body goes cold. Every muscle locks and the room shrinks to the narrow space between his finger and the trigger.
My heart slams against my ribs so hard I feel it in my throat.
The muzzle is a dark circle pointed at the center of my chest and time stretches and warps and the fluorescent lights buzz overhead and I can smell his cologne from here, the same heavy, manufactured scent that filled my boutique the day he smiled at me while my guards bled out in the parking lot.
"You should have stayed in your tower, Cinderella." The dead smile flickers back to life. "Some stories don't have happy endings."
Gunfire erupts behind me. Not from Lorenzo.
From the corridor. The sharp, concussive crack of weapons firing in an enclosed space, followed by shouting, boots on concrete, the heavy thud of bodies hitting walls.
Massimo's men. They tracked me. Of course they tracked me.
Luca probably had eyes on my phone before I got in the cab.
Lorenzo's head snaps toward the noise. His gun hand shifts an inch to the right, the barrel drifting off my chest for a fraction of a second.
I move.
My hand closes around the weapon Santi handed me.
The metal is cold and heavy in my palm, and my fingers wrap around the grip.
Years of target practice kick in. My stance steadies, my grip locks.
I pull the trigger and a guard rushing me falls to the floor.
To my left I catch the smallest of movements from Lorenzo.
I swing my weapon around and level the muzzle center mass.
He’s a heartbeat away from never unleashing his unique evil on another soul.
"Put the gun down, Lorenzo."
He looks at me. Really looks at me. His dark eyes widen and his mouth parts and I watch the recalculation happen in real time. It’s a beautiful thing to turn the tables on assholes who think you are weak. Their mistake. Not mine.
"You won't shoot." He straightens his back like he actually has some steel fusing his spine, but the weasel’s voice cracks on the second word and we both hear it.
I drop my sights and pull the trigger.
The recoil jolts up my arms and into my shoulders.
The crack of the gunshot fills the concrete room, sharp and enormous, and my ears ring as the round hits Lorenzo's right knee.
The impact buckles his leg sideways and he crashes to the floor with a scream that bounces off the concrete walls and the exposed ductwork overhead.
His gun skids across the floor, spinning into the far wall.
I step forward. Adjust my aim. Pull the trigger again.
The second round hits his left knee. He crumples to the concrete, both legs gone, his hands clutching his shattered kneecaps.
“I’m sorry, I didn't hear what you said.”
Blood spreads in dark pools beneath him. His face twists and contorts. The dead smile is gone. Lorenzo Ferraro has never been on the receiving end of pain and it shows on every inch of his face.
I stand over him, my weapon ready. “When a woman says no, she means it, you fuck.”
I couldn't stop the man who touched me at fifteen. I was small and scared and pinned to the floor and thought no one could save me. That night I knew I needed to learn how to save myself if it ever happened again.
"I could end you." My voice comes out level and calm. "But I'm choosing to make you kneel instead."
The corridor goes quiet. The gunfire stops. Footsteps approach, deliberate and fast, and I hear Massimo's voice barking orders, his men securing the building, doors being kicked open, the sharp efficiency of the Syndicate doing what it does.
He appears in the doorway.
His chest heaves and his eyes are wild and when they find me standing over Lorenzo with blood on the concrete and a weapon in my steady hands, his entire body goes still.
I look at him and every lie he told me and every truth he kept to himself sits between us. But so does every night he held me and every morning he kissed me awake. I'm not ready to forgive him. I'm not ready to lose him either.
Our eyes meet across the room.
I'm holding the gun. He's holding his breath.