Page 10 of Tortured Hearts
Torch.
Henry clears his throat. “I take it you know what this means?”
It means my father has drawn a line in the sand I’m about to obliterate.
I lower my gaze to Becca. “Considering the heavy security around here, I’m assuming someone called her father.”
“As soon as dispatch got the call, a car was sent to his house.”
I dip my chin, both grateful and pissed. Despite being a duplicitous and manipulative bastard who mind fucked his daughter, I don’t think Reese is a danger to her. In fact, I believe in his own warped way, all the deranged shit he did was to protect her. It backfired spectacularly, but it was still a commendable effort. That’s why I know she’ll be safe with him. He’ll ride in on his painted white horse and pick up the pieces I broke.
I turn to Henry, my hand outstretched. “Give me my keys.”
“What? Are you crazy?”
For the second time, I pull my gun and aim it at his face. “I think we’ve already established that. Now give me the fucking keys.”
“You won’t pull the trigger, not here. There are too many witnesses.”
A slow, sadistic smile pulls at the corner of my mouth. “Are you sure about that? You’ve listened to those missing audio tapes. We both know what I’m capable of.”
His demeanor shifts. I’m not surprised. Reminding a man confined by morality that you piss on its very existence always tips the scales. There’s a slight tremble in his hand as he hands me the keys. “This is suicide, Gianni.”
“Then you should be happy. A dual homicide officially ends yourassignment.”
He doesn’t respond, which is just as well because I’m no longer listening. My attention is on the only innocent person in this shit storm. I lower my gun, three silent steps bringing me to Becca’s bedside.
There’s so much I want to say, but I won’t bring down walls just to drag her into more darkness. So I hover like the vulture I am, spilling truth I know she can’t hear. “They’ll burn for what they did to you,cara mia.Scusami se sono così.”
“I’ll have to report you as a fugitive,” Henry announces, his nasally voice shattering the moment.
“You do what you have to do.” Straightening my spine, I turn to walk out the door when a weak voice from behind stops me mid-stride.
“Who’s the frantic butterfly, now?”
Chapter Three
BECCA
Johnny is facing away from me, his arms braced on either side of the doorframe. His body is tense, every muscle retaliating against a confrontation he obviously didn’t expect. But then, he turns, and his eyes hold all my attention. They’re red and glassy, as if he’s defied sleep only to walk through a dust storm.
His soot-smudged cheeks, hard-set jaw, and heavy brow give him the appearance of a tortured soul who’s straddling two worlds. Then, my gaze drops, and I see the gun.
I should be shocked, horrified, appalled, and whatever other adjective an intellectual like me is supposed to feel after waking up to find her lover holding a gun. Instead, I stare at it, oddly at peace with how natural it looks. As if it’s been there all along.
Tucked in his palm…
Hidden in plain sight…
Flipping through his fingers at every appointment…
“Becca.”
At his rough murmur of my name, I lift my gaze to his face and the tight pull of his black eyebrows. I try to mute my expression, but it’s a wasted effort. He’s a master at coaxing every emotion to the surface, especially when he clenches his jaw and looks down at his hand. The longer he stares, the more his head bows. Whether it’s in shame, hate, or resignation, I don’t know. The energy radiating off him is different.
Then, the curtain drops, and detachment spills across his face as he tucks the gun under his shirt. “How long have you been awake?”
“Long enough.” I’m about to redirect back to the gun when I notice the wires. They’re everywhere along with an incessant beeping noise. “Where am I?” I try to lift my head, but it feels like a cracked bowling ball. I squint as the noise gets louder. “And what’s that sound?”
