Page 199 of Rosetti Family New York
"Different how?"
Round over. Arms aching, we step down. I fish my phone from my pocket, heart pounding. No message. No missed call. Great.
"Give it a fucking rest," Domenico says. "She'll call."
I scowl. I never should've told him about her. He shrugs, peeling off his gloves.
The memory of finding Sloane in Reyes' apartment last night hits me with sudden force. Her wrists bound, her eyes wild with fear and defiance. The relief that flooded through me when I realized she was alive, followed by a rage so consuming I could barely see straight. I'd wanted to kill every person who had touched her, who had caused that flicker of fear in her eyes.
It scared me, that intensity. That kind of feeling, it's not professional. It's not rational. It's not me.
But it is me now.
"When did you get so soft?" Dom asks, breaking into my thoughts.
"I'm not soft," I growl.
"No?" He stares me down. "Then why are you still standing here instead of going after her?"
He's right. I'm already moving toward the stairs. A blast of cold air greets me as I burst onto the street.
My bike's nearby. I kick it into life. The engine rumbles in approval. I weave between yellow cabs and honking horns, cold wind slicing under my jacket like tiny knives. I let it. I need to feel it cut through me. Need it to keep me sharp. I drive fast, faster than I should, knowing where she'll be. Where she's stupid enough to go.
She doesn't know men like Reyes. Small fish with big attitudes who want to prove they're sharks and take it out on minnows like her. And now, she's not picking up. I know what that means, and the more I think about it, the harder I drive. The cabbies honkand shout, their words lost under the rush of cold February air. The bridges and buildings blur past me. Our fighting ring sits on the edge of Brooklyn. It isn't a long drive to Reyes' place in Queens, but it feels endless.
I curse her. I curse the way she gets under my skin. But I keep driving.
Damn it. Why doesn't she listen?
I turn off the expressway, heading deeper into Queens, the buildings growing smaller and dirtier as I go. This part of the borough is bad. Full of people who think they can run their games without cutting the Rosettis or anyone else in. I respect their nerve. Almost always have to kill them for it.
The streets narrow as I get closer to his place, five stories of barred windows and grimy concrete.
I pull the bike up onto the sidewalk and kick the stand. People scatter like rats. I want them to. I don't need an audience. Don't want a scene.
The wind punches me in the face again as I climb over trash bags and broken bottles, elbowing past a woman leaving the blockhouse. I race up the fire escape—two steps at a time—my gloves scraping rusted metal.
I reach the second floor, my feet loud against the metal steps. Don't care. Let them hear me coming.
I knock once, polite. Then I kick. The wood splinters under my boot. A grin tugs at my jaw.
And then I'm inside.
The place swallows me whole. Darkness and noise close around me, broken voices and chaos. I let them. Let it get thick and hot and reckless.
She is in there somewhere, and the thought of her being hurt is enough to push me through. It hits me like a drug.
And then fear is here. Thick as smoke, sharp as meth, eating into their eyes. One man tries to run, his chair scraping hardacross the floor. Another shouts. All that fear, all for me, and they're fucking right to be scared. I don't stop. Her name is a fist in my chest. Her face is a bruise in my head. I let them guide me like a gun. I will break this whole place open if I have to. Will bury Reyes and his men. Will kill the entire world if it keeps her breathing. The thought of her being hurt makes my vision go white with rage.
The main area is chaos. Bodies pack the place, the air swollen with heat from sealed windows and an overactive radiator. From too many sweaty assholes. Every eye turns to me, waiting to see who moves first. I kick a chair out of my way. A man stands, hands up, looking like he wishes he were anywhere else. I grab him by the collar and shove a gun to his head.
"Where is she?"
Color drains from his face, bloodless as a fucking corpse.
"Back room," he says. "Please—"
I let him go, but the others don't get off that easy. They freeze for a second, like I kill the whole room just by being here. Then it all breaks loose. I'm already moving, blood pumping fast in my veins. She'd better be alive. If they touched her, they'll wish they were dead.
