Page 51 of Tank
“Okay, I think it’s officially time we call it,” she says, standing and stretching.
I nod, rubbing my eyes. “Long day.”
“Amazing day,” Alex says.
I grab my purse and jacket, feeling that tiredness mixed with satisfaction as I head for the door.
The night air is cool, brushing over my flushed skin as I step outside into the parking lot.
I close my eyes for a second, letting it all settle, letting myself enjoy the sheer triumph of it all. The event is coming together. Safe House will survive.
I have a man in my life who makes me feel something I never thought I’d feel again.
Things are… good.
I smile, heading toward my car…
And freeze.
A voice — low, silky, familiar — grips me by the throat. “It’s time you and I had a chat.”
A slow spike of ice carves its way through my chest until it settles its sharp shard right against my heart. I turn, my muscles locked, my stomach twisting.
And there he is. My Brother.
Victor.
Leaning against my car, casual as sin, and flanked by three of his men. His eyes rake over me, smug, knowing, gloating. Like he sees something I don’t. Like he knows exactly how to rip away every last piece of happiness I just let myself feel.
And just like that, the moment is gone.
The night darkens. My pulse thunders. My stomach wants to squeeze and contract and force every meal I’ve eaten in the last two weeks right out of my throat and into his ugly, putrid, vile face.
And I know — without a doubt, without the need to see the guns bulging conspicuously beneath the jackets of each of his thugs — that this isn’t just a chat.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Tank
Ricky shifts in the passenger seat beside me, his fingers busy picking at a loose thread on his sleeve, like there’s an itch underneath his skin he can’t quite scratch. The air between us is thick with his nervous tension. He has a reason to be twitchy. A reason to fidget. I wish I could tell him it was all in his head. It isn’t.
He’s right to be nervous.
"You sure about this?" he mutters, staring at Safe House through the windshield like it’s a goddamn battlefield and he can already hear the bullets singing through the air. “I mean, I want to see her. I love her. But maybe this isn’t the best time, you know? We should come back later.”
I don’t answer right away, just scan the parking lot, the front doors, the woman standing under the glow of the streetlights — Bianca.
And the men surrounding her. A knot of men who aren’t supposed to be there, surrounding her like she’s in the middle of a noose.
I go still.
My hands tighten around the steering wheel, white-knuckling the leather until it groans and creaks. I know exactly who the walking piece of shit in front of her is, the one in the shape of a smug, soon-to-be-shot-in-the-head man. Victor Moretti. The reason I’m in this godforsaken city instead of back home in Ironwood Falls; the reason I’m breathing — the reason I’m alive — is to put that man in the ground.
And he’s standing right there, in the flesh, all casual-like, leaning against Bianca’s car, acting like he owns everything in his goddamn sight. Acting like he owns her. His cocky smirk makes me want to grab my gun and end him right now, once and for all.
Ricky sees him at the same time as I do. He flinches; then he shakes his head, quick and panicked, like he's seen a ghost.
But that's all it takes.
