Page 82 of Salvatore

“It’s not mine.” His voice is barely audible, only for me to hear. “Are you hurt?”

I shake my head. Swallow.

“Don’t lie to me,” he growls, his attention straying to my injured cheek, the fading bruises on the other side of my face, then finally the healing cut on my lower lip. “They beat you.”

I guess the damage hadn’t been visible before, my pink cage too dark and the stakes too high to notice in the moonlight.

I shrug. “My family aren’t known for friendly reunions.”

His nostrils flare. “You weren’t shot?”

I give another shake of my head, fighting to keep my hands at my sides and not entangled in the material of his shirt.

“That was a fucking shit show.” Matthew leans against the opposite wall. “The only saving grace was that Alonso has worse aim than a blindfolded squirrel.”

“No joke.” Remy scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I could shoot better with my eyes closed and my dick in my hand.”

Salvatore and I remain silent, our stare-off continuing.

Breathe.Just breathe.

I can feel his adrenaline. His anger. The emotions ebb from him, his instability seeming just as volatile as mine.

“My brother was drugged,” I clarify. “One of Gabriel’s men sedated him so he wouldn’t notice when…” The memory of José on top of me renders me speechless.

It seems impossible but Salvatore’s face hardens further, the tight furrow of his forehead carving a deep crevice between his brows.

I hang my head, needing a break from all the protective goodness that doesn’t feel right to crave.

Unease fills the compact space.

Thankfully the discomfort only lasts a few seconds before the descent comes to a swooping halt and the doors reopen in a parking garage.

Salvatore leads me into the cooler air of the concrete structure, the quiet of night torn apart by the harsh rev of a car engine, its lights snapping on and blinding me.

I flinch. Retreat.

“It’s Bishop.” Salvatore adds pressure to my back. “Come on. We need to get out of here before we’re followed.”

I struggle to keep up with his longer stride as a dated Chrysler sedan accelerates toward us in a rush, then stops abruptly in front of us.

We climb in, Matthew in the front passenger seat while Remy and Salvatore flank me in the back, both of them working together to secure my belt.

“I suggest leaving in a hurry.” Matthew turns around to focus out Salvatore’s window, his attention on the elevator. “Who knows if the cartel have the ability to lock down the parking lot.”

“Understood.” The driver—Bishop—shoots me a glance through the rear-view mirror, the lower half of his face covered in the same skull bandana, then takes off in a squeal of tires. He navigates the turns like a rally driver, the sharp changes in direction forcing me to slide shoulder-first into Remy, not once, but twice, before we reach the city streets. “Where are we headed?”

“We’ll ditch this car as planned, then go straight to Lorenzo,” Matthew answers. “He’ll?—”

“No.” Salvatore yanks off his bloodied gloves and throws them into the foot well. “After we switch cars we’ll head out of town. I need a few hours to figure out our next move.”

“Head out of town?” Matthew turns to stare at Salvatore. “You’re fucking kidding, right?”

“You can’t put off facing Lorenzo, momma’s boy.” Bishop speeds through the streets. “No matter what happened up there, I assure you, he’s already being told about it. You’ve got roughly twenty-five minutes to get your story straight.”

“What exactlydidhappen up there?” Remy asks.

There’s a heated pause. Am I supposed to fill it?

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