Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 45040 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 225(@200wpm)___ 180(@250wpm)___ 150(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45040 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 225(@200wpm)___ 180(@250wpm)___ 150(@300wpm)
When we reached the fifth floor, Marco shouldered open the stairwell door and unzipped his leather jacket. The familiar shrug of his shoulders let me know that he was freeing up easy access to the gun holstered at his side.
“You brought a gun?” I hissed, edging down the hallway one step behind him, sticking close to the wall.
He glanced back at me, brows raised. “You didn’t?”
I shook my head but said nothing. Maybe it was stupid, but I hadn’t even considered arming myself. I’d been so determined to thoroughly leave violence in my past. I didn’t realize Marco still owned a gun. I probably should’ve asked. I should’ve talked to him about his concerns, his fears for our family. He wouldn’t have a weapon if some part of him hadn’t been afraid that we weren’t entirely safe in Boston.
As we passed the beige-painted doors that punctuated the rust-colored walls, I formulated a quick plan. I wouldn’t allow Marco to do all the dirty work. Not this time. We were a team, and I’d meant every word I’d said to him last night: I wouldn’t hesitate to use violence to protect my family. I’d prove it to him right now.
“You keep the gun on him, I ask the questions,” I murmured, keeping my voice low to prevent it from echoing off the yellowing, water-stained ceiling.
I caught his frown in profile, but it was too late for him to argue. We’d reached Rafael’s door, and I rapped it with my knuckles, standing to one side of the threshold with my back pressed to the wall. Marco shot me a scowl, but he took a mirrored position on the opposite side of the doorframe. Our enemy wouldn’t be able to check who was outside his door without opening it.
Low grumbling and shuffling footsteps floated through the door. “What do you want?” a gravelly voice demanded, slurring slightly.
It was barely seven o’clock, but Rafael wasn’t sober. That would be helpful in loosening his tongue. I was prepared to spill his blood, but I’d prefer not to torture him.
My stomach soured, and I forced myself to think of Ashlyn. I made myself remember her delicate features twisted in pain and terror as Gabriel Costa pinned her down. A shadow of the helpless rage that’d suffused my bleeding body that day darkened most of my compassion. I would never allow that to happen again. I would never watch while a monster tried to violate Ashlyn, too wounded to save her.
I sank into the searing heat of that rage, allowing it to temper my will into something sharp and merciless. Rafael would answer my questions, and I would eliminate the threat to Ashlyn.
“Who’s there?” My enemy’s voice boomed through the door. He was smart enough not to open up when he didn’t know who had knocked.
But he was also inebriated, and his decision-making was impaired. I glanced at Marco, nodding my approval when he unholstered his weapon. He held the Glock in both hands, pointed at the floor. The lethal readiness in the lines of his body let me know that he was prepared to act as soon as Rafael cracked open the door.
I banged my fist against the wood, drawing a curse from Rafael. I didn’t let up. I kept hammering until the drunk man roared in frustration and flung open the door.
Marco moved in immediately, shoving Rafael back and lifting his gun. “Quiet,” he growled as he stalked into the apartment.
I followed on his heels, closing the door behind us. Rafael stood in the center of his dirty studio apartment, his raised hands shaking slightly. I nearly gagged on the stench of unwashed clothes and stale cigarette smoke. The only inch of the apartment clear of filth was a corner of a tiny dining table, where half a dozen pills had spilled out of an orange plastic bottle. A half-empty handle of Jack Daniel’s sat beside them, the cap missing.
No wonder Rafael sounded like he was fucked up. I assessed him more closely. In addition to his shaking hands, his brown eyes were bloodshot, and his tanned cheeks had gone pale. His ratty white t-shirt was stained with a blotch of red low on his abdomen, toward his right hip. Marco took a step forward, and he shrank back, his eyes wide and wild. He obviously recognized the man who’d stabbed him; the reason he was bleeding through his bandages.
“You shouldn’t mix alcohol and painkillers,” I admonished, my voice shockingly soft and steady in my own ears. If that tone had come from anyone else, I would’ve found it unnerving. As it was, Marco’s jaw went slack for half a second before his cold mask froze once again.
His gaze remained trained on Rafael, along with his gun. It seemed he was going to allow me to do the talking, after all.