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Chapter 16
Vespa decided it would serve the O’Connell soldiers right if she threw up all over them. She felt woozy as hell, but kept her eyes shut and tried to acclimate to the situation.
Someone’s shoulder dug into her sternum, not helping the nausea at all.
“Fuck, he’s heavy,” one asshole complained, so at least that meant Montrell was being carried as well. The ding of the elevator helped her to orient herself. “Dammit, let him carry the woman on his own and help us.”
A pair of hands left her right side as they jostled her. Vespa risked opening her eyes and stared at a black-clad ass.
She blinked as the wide ass whirled a little when they started walking. She didn’t turn her head to get a better view. Let them think she was still knocked out.
She really wished they hadn’t found that last knife, but she could be lethal with her hands. From her vantage point, she thought she counted five distinct pairs of legs shuffling out. Her stomach twisted harder. It probably took that many just to carry Montrell.
Their shiny shoes echoed on the pavement of a garage, and a door slammed shut shortly after. As her brain tried to reason through solutions, a voice that didn’t sound the slightest bit Irish spoke her fear aloud.
“Where’s Lucchese’s daughter?”
“We’ve got a woman,” the man holding her muttered, his shoulder bunching to provide just enough warning before he tossed her to the ground.
Vespa kept her body from tensing and closed her eyes as lightly as she could, holding back a groan when she flopped on the pavement.
“Tell me you didn’t mistake Coronella’s sidepiece for a Lucchese.”
Vespa was going to make him pay for that. She was no one’s sidepiece, much less Montrell’s, and the sneer needed to be wiped out of his voice.
“Are you calling us stupid?” the soldier that had been carrying her growled.
Good. She could lie there while they took each other out.
“The deal was for one particular target.” A boot kicked Vespa in the side, and it took everything in her not to snarl in pain and anger. “I ain’t seeing her.”
“She’ll be along,” another person spoke up. “Liam O’Connell doesn’t go back on his word.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.” The voice above Vespa’s head had gone hard.
“It was a fucking mistake to deal with La Cosa Nostra in the first place,” the man who had carried her muttered. “You don’t want your gifts, then leave.”
“These aren’t the ones we wanted.” Vespa strained to hear past a metallic scrape that set her instincts on fire. “They’re useless to keep alive.”
Vespa burst up as fast as she could, her shoulder lifting the Italian soldier’s arm even as she slammed her fist right between his legs.
The bullet rang in her ears as it fired into the ceiling instead of Montrell, and the gun flew. It didn’t land close enough for her to grab, and she jabbed the man in the goddamn throat next. He’d almost shot Montrell.
Hands grabbed for her. She hadn’t miscalculated. There were five Irishmen, and two more Italians behind the big oaf she recognized as the one Montrell had punched at the Lucchese estate for catcalling his wife. A total of eight.
She could do eight.
Of course it was the fucking Lucchese behind this. Beatrice was going to be pissed.
If she was alive.
Vespa found that fighting eight people was more difficult with her depth perception off from whatever drug they’d given her. She also had no weapons, and more than half of them were already pulling out their guns.
Vespa headbutted the man who had carried her. The crack of his nose sounded satisfying before she leaped for the remaining group of Irishmen.
Their surprise prevented them from shooting her right away. She barreled into them, punching and jabbing and planting her boot into another one’s balls as she scrabbled for a gun. Her teeth ripped into one soldier’s wrist, and she grinned when he cried out and released his weapon.
A shot fired from behind her. Plaster fell from the garage ceiling. Fucking amateurs.
