Page 71 of Devotion

But these guys are fairly well-trained. They fan out in a second, one of them backs off to run for help.

Ciro is a ghost out in the dark, making him vanish with nothing but a sharp scream. It echoes, making the rest frantically look around, waiting for an attack.

“Yes, it is a devil in the dark, come to seek vengeance. You think you can come into our city, our ports and just fucking take over?” I snarl, lashing out at the first one to go for his gun, slashing his hand.

The circle widens for a second, then they rush me.

I give them a prize for bravery. But they lose points for stupidity.

Disarming one with a twist of his gun, I pistol whip him with his own weapon, letting him fall back and using the opening to spin. My boot connects with a body, right as the two to my left hit the ground, knives jutting from their backs and a wild-eyed Ciro kneeling on top of them. The one on the right balks at the sight, the one I just kicked stumbling into him.

We stalk in as they tumble to the ground, scrambling. Like we were meant to hunt together. Our movements in perfect sync.

He is the balance of me.

Equally brutal. Possibly even more deadly.

As one, we pause, waiting for the two men to rise. They do, drawing those knives with the strange symbol we saw before.

Ciro offers me his hand. Palm up, and I take it.

He flings me into a spin as they charge, right between them, ducking down and swooping for their legs. Both leap, clearing my kick, blades aimed for Ciro. He deflects both, spearing hard fingers into one wrist, flinging the knife into the dark.

I’m there in an instant, slashing the gawking bastard’s throat out.

Our dance is precise, rhythmic. And they don’t hear our music. But I do.

Stepping out, Ciro dodges another attack, reaching for me, tugging me in his wake to parry the blade with mine. Rebounding from the momentum, he launches me over the man’s head, slapping his swinging arms out wide, keeping him from grabbing me.

I land lightly, spinning and taking his head from his shoulders.

Then Ciro is there, lifting me, twirling me. Just in time to miss the patter of bullets that hit the spot I was just standing.

His hands at my waist are searing fire, even in such dire circumstances. He makes me rage. Gets my adrenaline pumping.

Spotting the shooter, we split, sprinting to flank.

I see the figure, backlit in fire ahead. He is mine. His gun rises to take aim at me, he has me dead to rights.

Until I hear Ciro roar and the shooter’s head flips to the side. In the firelight I see the mask reflecting the glow.

The knife is gone from my hand before I realize it, flying toward the masked man.

At the last second, he raises his arm, taking the blade in the forearm and stumbling into the dark. Ciro darts after him. I start to run, feel the sting in my side. The pain forces me to my knees.

A few moments later, Ciro returns stalking back toward me with a closed expression.

“He got away again?”

“Like a fucking ninja,” Ciro spits, cursing. “You okay?”

“Fine. Took a hit to my side.” I shove his hand away before he can find the blood streaming under my jacket. It went straight through. Minimal damage.

Turning toward the house, we throw caution to the wind, storming up the steps and through the doorway. Inside, the rooms are ransacked, smashed to pieces.

“Pyotr?” I call softly down the hall.

Ciro splits off, clearing the other rooms.

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