Page 4 of The Mob Boss's Bride
I shake it briefly. "Let's see what you're offering."
He gestures, and one of his men brings forward a metal case. Inside are neatly packaged samples—high-grade product, better than what's currently flowing through my territory. I examine it while Vex keeps his eyes on Silva's men.
"Price?" I ask.
Silva names a figure. I counter with one thirty percent lower. He laughs, counteroffers. The dance begins.
Ten minutes in, my phone vibrates again. Marco:
Subject completed delivery, now walking back to car. Parked on Westlake, east side.
Fuck. That's too close. I need to wrap this up.
"Forty percent of profit, exclusive distribution rights in the northern district," I say to Silva, cutting through the negotiation. "Take it or leave it."
His eyes narrow. "Forty-five."
"Forty-two."
"Deal." He extends his hand again.
That's when I hear it—the crackle of a radio, a voice too low to make out the words. Silva freezes, his men suddenly alert. Someone else is here.
"You brought cops?" Silva snarls, reaching for his weapon.
"Stand down," I snap. "This isn't my play."
But it's too late. His man draws, Vex responds, and suddenly the warehouse erupts in gunfire. I dive for cover behind a stack of pallets, drawing my own weapon. Bullets splinter wood around me.
"Vale, you fucking set me up!" Silva shouts over the chaos.
"I don't work with cops," I snarl back, squeezing off two shots toward the sound of his voice.
Glass shatters—a window. More shots, a scream of pain. Police sirens in the distance.
"Move!" I shout to Vex. "Back exit!"
We run through the dark warehouse, staying low. Outside, rain has started, turning the alley slick. I scan for threats, for the source of the ambush.
And there she is.
Standing frozen under a streetlight, umbrella hanging useless at her side, rain soaking her blonde hair. Fern. Her eyes are wide with horror, fixed on the warehouse door where Silva's men are now spilling out, bleeding and shooting behind them.
"No," I whisper, the word punched out of me by fear. Not for myself—for her. She's seen everything. She's in the middle of a fucking gang war and police raid.
I move without thinking, sprinting toward her as bullets ping off the pavement. She sees me coming and takes a step back, pure terror on her face. But I'm faster, stronger, more determined.
I reach her just as shots explode behind us. My body curls around hers instinctively as I drag her into the shadows of a loading dock.
"Don't scream," I growl against her ear, pinning her back to my chest. "Don't move."
She's trembling violently, her pulse a frantic butterfly under my palm. I can feel her heart hammering, her breath coming in panicked gasps.
"Atlas?" she whispers, her voice broken with fear. She knows me. Recognizes me even in this chaos. Something possessive and hungry flares inside me.
"I've got you," I promise, tightening my hold. "You're safe."
Sirens wail closer. More shots. Someone screams. I press her deeper into the shadows, shielding her with my body. She's so small against me, soft and warm despite the rain. I breathe in the scent of her hair—vanilla and sugar, now mixed with rain and fear.
