Page 67 of Tank
“Bakers and soldiers,” he says. “We keep weird fucking hours. I’ve been up for a while. What’s going on?”
His voice grounds me. Steady. Solid. I take a breath and push forward. “Remember how I told you I had someone else doing desserts for the fundraiser?”
“Yeah.”
“Well,” I say, swallowing hard. “Turns out I was wrong. Very wrong. Their bakery blew up. So… I need to ask you a favor.”
There’s a pause. Then Tank says, “You want me to save your ass, huh?”
I close my eyes and sigh. “Yes. Please. I need you.”
I can hear the smile in his voice, even through the phone. “Then it’s a good thing I’ve been prepping dough since midnight.”
My lips twitch. Relief floods me, warm and dizzying, and I have to bite my tongue not to burst out laughing. “You have?”
“I have.” Tank grunts. “You just tell me how many mouths I’m feeding, and I’ll be there. We’ll make it happen.”
“Oh, my god. Fuck, oh my god. Thank you.” Then, before I can say anything more, I hang up and stare at the ceiling again as a giant smile crawls across my face.
Victor tried to knock me down.
But tomorrow, with Tank at my side, I’m going to show him what happens when I get back up.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Tank
I pull the rental van around the back of the venue, brake lights casting red stripes across the asphalt like warning lights. Ricky hops out first, bouncing and eager, like a dog at the park. I follow with the first load of boxes stacked high in my arms — pastries, cakes, trays full of tarts that glisten like jewels under their plastic covers. The sweet, intoxicating smell of sugar and butter trails after us. Ricky's already at the door, holding it open with a grin like he can't wait to get inside.
Once in, the place is already buzzing — tables dressed in white linen lined up in neat rows, and strings of lights crisscrossing the ceiling like glowing cobwebs. Volunteers move around like bees in formalwear. Bianca spots us from across the room, and her eyes catch mine and light up with something that makes my chest hitch. Even from this distance, I can see the exhaustion carved into her features.
Tired. She looks so damn tired, but beautiful.
She doesn’t need rest to shine. She’s someone who saves lives while the rest of them sleep. She might not be as bad as her brother, but she’s still my opportunity to complete my mission.
Bianca is my way in.
Ricky and I set up. He’s just like I taught him — fast hands, no wasted movements — unloading pastries like he’s done this a hundred times before, like he’s competent, a far cry from the piece of shit he was when I met him. Vanessa’s already there helping Alex, and I spot her giving Ricky a small, shy smile from her place setting up the tablecloths. Ricky glances back at her, uncertain but hopeful, like a man taking a breath after being underwater too long. I look at him again, and it hits me: for the first time since I chained him to my bed, he looks like a man. Not a junkie. Not a problem. Just a man doing right.
I grin.
I keep my hands busy and my head sharp as I move. My piece is tucked under my jacket, strapped across my lower back. Hidden but ready, just like it needs to be. Tonight, I’ll serve desserts. Compliment old ladies. Flirt with Bianca. Smile for the cameras. And then I’ll kill Victor Moretti. It’s all laid out in my mind — from what it’ll look like when I catch him alone and unaware and blow out the back of his skull, to the exact route I’ll take to get out of town once my mission’s complete.
This is what I came here for.
This, and nothing else.
Nothing.
Bianca wanders over and leans in beside me, eyes scanning the dessert table with both admiration and hunger. She's radiating something electric, charged with an energy that seems to defy the exhaustion that anyone else would find crippling. She reaches out to touch my wrist, stopping me mid-motion, and her touch sends sparks through my skin. It's soft, warm, a promise wrapped in skin and bone.
“This all looks amazing,” she says. “Like magazine-cover level amazing.”
“Wait until you taste it,” I mutter, focusing on the final touches of a whipped ganache. I want her to try it. I want her to see that I'm good at this, at something honest, something sweet. It's more than just flour and sugar; it’s me, all the unbroken parts of me I’ve scrounged together.
She grins, and her eyes glint like she’s holding back a laugh. “I’m not waiting.”
She reaches over and steals one of the plated specials — a dark chocolate tart with espresso caramel and sea salt — the one I made just for tonight, just for her. I watch as she closes her eyes, savoring.
