Page 33 of Tank
Something sharp twists inside me; I want to shake her; I want to yell at her; I want to hit her for being such a foolish, untrusting weakling. I want to scream at her until she understands what she almost threw away, how close she came to losing everything. How close I am to losing her again.
But I don’t.
I wrap my arms around her, pulling her in. It’s the only thing I can do.
“We’ve got you, Vanessa. We all do.”
She trembles against me, sobbing. Her whole body shakes, and I hold on tighter, as if I can keep her from breaking into a million pieces.
The other women nod, murmuring reassurances. They gather around, making a circle of arms and warmth and safety.
“We’ll take care of you tonight,” I tell her, squeezing her shoulders. “All of us.”
And yet — my gut stays cold.
Because as I watch the dealer disappear, I realize something.
I know him.
I’ve seen him before.
He works for Victor.
Which means my brother will hear about this.
Which means…
There will be consequences.
Chapter Seventeen
Tank
I step out of the car into the cool night air, stretching the knots out of my shoulders, still feeling the ghost of Bianca’s lips on mine, the memory hot and electric.
The day turned out better than I planned. A fucking triumph.
The bakery was a damn success; customers bustled in and out like bees in a hive, swarming my counter and leaving me with empty trays and full pockets. Even if a fucking lot of those customers were hipster shits, treating my place like a goddamn bohemian hotspot, it still felt damn good to have their money. My pastries sold out in record time, and I squeezed in a solid hour or two of surveillance on Moretti’s operation once I locked up shop. I didn’t learn too much about Victor’s empire, but at least I learned I’ve got some damn fine self-control for not ripping the bastard’s throat out when he sauntered into my bakery like he fucking owned it and me along with it.
Bianca, though? Still a pain in the ass. Still fire in human form.
She shot down my offer to help, sure, but hell, I respect her for it. Even if she’s wrong. Not if — she’s fucking wrong, and I’ll change her damn mind, whatever it takes, but, for now, I have to give it to her for having more spine than anyone else in her brother’s operation.
I don’t think I’ve felt this good in years. Maybe ever.
And then I open the door to my cabin.
The smell hits me first — Rot. Vomit. Sweat. Stale piss. It’s a stench that makes your eyes water and your gut churn like you’re about to be sick yourself, the kind that grabs you by the throat and doesn’t let go, and then, while it’s gripping you, it fucks you in the eyes, nostrils, back of your throat, and even in your fucking ears for good measure.
Ricky is sprawled out on my bed, barely conscious, his body a shaking, twitching mess.
The sheets are completely ruined — drenched in sweat and other shit I don’t even want to think about. The air is thick with sour sickness, despair, and human suffering, so heavy I can taste it at the back of my throat.
He lets out a low, guttural groan, rolling onto his side, dry heaving into what looks like a fetid, bubbling lake of his own damn vomit.
I take a step back, rubbing my face, trying to get a fucking handle on what I’m seeing and smelling. “Fucking hell, Ricky.”
The man is a disaster.
