Page 42 of Wicked Mistletoe

I hate the fucking feds. They don’t care about the collateral damage if it means they’re able to apprehend their suspects.

Maximo and Michael slowly get up from the floor with low groans. I start to move towards them, but before I can reach them, gunshots spray into the room.

“Get down!” I yell, my voice hoarse. But I’m not fast enough. White-hot pain lances through my arm as a bullet finds its mark. I hit the floor, gritting my teeth against the agony. “Michael!”

I lock eyes with my brother, jerking my chin towards the door behind Tomassi’s toppled desk. As we scramble for cover, I spot Tomassi on the floor, panting as he tries to lift the weight of the heavy desk off his legs. Our gazes meet, and he blinks at me hopelessly.Fuck. The sight of him—trapped, desperate—makes something twist in my gut.

“Keep going,” I order my brothers while moving towards Tomassi. I can’t just leave him there to die. Not like this. Whatever he’s done, he’s still Emilia’s father.

I grunt as I try to help him lift the heavy desk, but it’s no use. My arm screams in protest, weakening my efforts.

Tomassi curses, then grabs my wrist, yanking my focus to him. “There’s a backdoor in the storage room your friends went to. You’ll see a shelf, pull out the book with Emilia’s name, and it will open. There’s—” A bullet rips into his throat, his body convulsing. Blood spurts from his mouth as he gurgles out one last word. “Sta—Stacey.” Then his head drops.He’s dead.

This time, Detective Rossi is truly, irrevocably dead.

I suck in a sharp breath and whip around. Standing there, cold eyes glinting above a smoking gun, is an older woman with black hair pulled back in a severe bun. Slowly, I get to my feet, weary and on edge, body aching from the explosion, but my gun steady in her direction as I retreat.

I know her.I remember her.She was there that night Emilia disappeared, when I stormed into that damn restaurant she was working at after reading her letter.

The woman was one of the patrons, who watched me lose my mind looking for answers. And when I finally stopped raging, she had the nerve to look me in the eye and say, “It’s a good thing she ran away, isn’t it?” I can still feel the fury that burned in my chest, the way it fueled me as I stomped out, even more pissed off than when I went in.God, I hated her then.

Time slows as the puzzle pieces click into place. She must have worked with Tomassi. She might even be the ‘connection’ he was so sure would look after Emilia. Did she recruit her? Is she the reason Emilia’s with the bureau?

Emilia.Christ. She’ll be devastated when she finds out about her father. But fuck, I have other things to worry about right now. Like the fact that I’m clearly outnumbered here with several guns pointed at me.

“If you’re going to shoot me, do it already,” I spit out as I cock my gun. “But I promise you, I won’t go down alone.”

One trigger-happy agent hisses at me and starts to squeeze, but the woman stops him with a raised hand. “No.”

So, she’s in charge. I keep my gaze and gun trained on her as I edge backward, every muscle coiled tight.

“But he’s getting away, Agent Rodrigues! What do we do?” The agent asks, his finger still itching on the trigger.

Rodrigues holds my gaze as she says, “We need him alive. Besides, according to the blueprint of this building, that room he’s going into is a dead end, so it’s not like he can escape.”

Without lowering my gun, I back into the darkened room. I lock the door behind me, not even sparing my brothers a glance as I take out my phone to use my flashlight.

Then I walk straight to the shelf, scanning for the book with Emilia's name and there—a hardcover copy titledAzaleas.

How the hell did Tomassi know I’d recognize Emilia’s middle name?

Well, no time to dwell on that now.

I yank the book, and a quietclickfills the air as the entire bookshelf swings inward. “Let’s go,” I hiss, eyes flicking back to the locked door that I expect to be kicked down any second now.

We jog out into the new hallway, making sure to close the shelf behind us. The hallway’s tight, and I can feel the tension squeezing my lungs as we head for the stairs at the far end. Up we go, taking them two at a time, then out into the night.

By the time we hit the van, we’re ghosts. Gone without a trace.

“Shit, you’re bleeding out, Rafael,” Michael mutters when I slump next to him in the van. His jacket is off in a flash, wrapping around my arm while Maximo floors the engine.

“It will be fine. I’ll live.” I try to sound tough, but the pain tearing through me makes my words sound hollow. Michael pulls the jacket even tighter, and I have to grit my teeth to fight back a groan as the pressure digs into the wound.

“Shit. Wasn’t that Detective Rossi in there? How is he still alive?” Maximo asks. “The man has a fucking headstone somewhere in this city.”

“Well, he’s dead for real now.” Romero’s quiet correction fills the van with heavy silence.

Michael’s brow furrows. “Hell, forget Rossi—how did the fucking feds find out about that den? You think… you think he was right? Did we lead them there somehow? Have they been watching us?”

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