Page 7 of Tank
What a fucking team.
The front door of the rundown house swings open, and I’m ready to see more of Victor’s boys. The Moretti crew always hunts in packs, but it’s just one guy, and from the dingy look of him, he’s not who I was expecting. I’ve seen his type enough times to know exactly what I’m dealing with — he’s a dealer and he’s a fucking user, and he’s out of it and antsy, like he’s tweaking bad and half a second away from losing his cool. His complexion is pale and sweaty, his eyes bug out of his skull, agitated and half-mad, and he flexes his hands over and over, like he’s not sure whether he’s still got feeling in his damn fingers. He stumbles down the steps and heads straight toward Vanessa and Bianca, and by the time he reaches them, he’s already yelling.
Vanessa's body tenses as she flinches back, her face contorting in pain as if she had actually been slapped. Her shoulders curl in, protecting herself. The guy points at her, agitated and angry. A word leaves his mouth, and even though I’m no lip-reader, I can tell the dumb son of a bitch has stepped in it. Vanness’s eyes flare, she points back, just as angry, and Bianca steps forward and now it’s a three-way fight that’s too damn heated not to be about money.
I smirk, watching the three of them argue. If Moretti’s people are fighting among themselves, that’s good news for me. Means it’ll be easier to exploit the cracks in their little operation when the time comes to pick them apart.
Then Vanessa says something — whatever it is, I can’t hear it, but I can see the impact in the way the guy’s face shifts and the way Bianca tenses. The man blinks, and his face becomes a mask of rage. One second, he’s pointing in Vanessa’s face, yelling.
The next, his hand flies up and smacks her across the mouth.
My blood goes ice cold.
Everything else falls away—the mission, Moretti, all the calculated shit I was planning.
And then Bianca steps in.
She shoves herself between them, protecting Vanessa. Her stance is defensive, her voice raised, and even from here, I can tell she’s not afraid.
But she should be.
Because this drug-pusher didn’t hesitate in smacking Vanessa; he’s the kind of man who doesn’t give a shit about hitting women.
And a second later, his fist slams into Bianca. Vanessa’s eyes go as wide as her mouth as she screams. Bianca stumbles, catches herself against the hood of Vanessa’s car, and though she stays on her feet, it looks like it cost her everything to do it. The man’s mouth is moving again, and even if I can’t hear it, I know he’s egging her on, his taunts nothing more than a string of worthless garbage that he thinks is enough to break her. I know that type, too; the shithead who wants to see how far he can push a woman before she shatters.
But the mistake he’s making is forgetting that he’s not the only one on the damn street with a temper.
Or fists.
Plans can change in the blink of an eye, or in the space of time it takes for one man’s fist to hit a woman’s face. My hands ball up so tight that my knuckles crack, and I swear it’s the sound of something breaking inside of me. My control, maybe. Or maybe just my patience. I see red.
There’s no hesitation. No thought. Just pure, unfiltered rage.
The car door slams behind me, and I barely hear it over the snarl ripping from my chest.
"Don’t you ever fucking dare hit a woman, you piece of shit,” I roar as my feet pound the pavement, harder, faster, matching the rhythm of my pulse. It’s a straight shot up the street, and with each step I feel myself losing any shred of calculated intention. None of that shit matters, not when I’m this close to the target, and definitely not when the target is a son of a bitch like him. My body is already lunging forward, already closing the distance, and I see the man’s head jerk toward the sound of my voice. He turns just as I reach him, and the last thing I see before my vision goes black with fury is the shock in his eyes, the startled widening of them, like he’s just realized his night is about to get a whole lot worse.
Chapter Four
Bianca
I don’t trust Caleb. Tank. Whatever that bearded, tatted, menacing baker’s name is.
Not with Ricky DeMarco. Not with anything.
Well, except maybe flour, sugar, and yeast, because I ate one of his pastries on the way here — something like a croissant, shaped like a muffin, but with tons of flaky layers and filled with some kind of raspberry marmalade — and even though I knew at the time I was racing to save Vanessa from her drug-pushing foot soldier of a boyfriend who works for my horrid brother, I let out a little moan.
More than one, actually.
Damn, the man can bake even better than he crushes heads or wears an apron.
Caleb — if that’s even his real name — is dangerous. He stepped in like a wrecking ball, tearing through Ricky like he wasn’t even human. And now, he’s taking him somewhere, and I don’t know what he’s planning to do, and I really need to, because I know, whatever it is, it’s going to be brutal, violent, and against everything I stand for.
I can’t let him.
I’m not stupid — I know Ricky is trash — he’s hurt me, he’s hurt Vanessa, he’s hurt plenty of other women with the drugs he sells for my brother; I’m sure people have died because of Ricky DeMarco.
But I won’t stand by while another man plays judge, jury, and executioner. I’ve spent too many years trying to stop that kind of violence, and I refuse to just watch it happen now.
