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One of the Lucchese soldiers pointed his gun at Montrell’s prone body.
“Drop it or—”
Vespa shot him in the face before he could finish the threat.
Someone punched her, right over her cheekbone. She stumbled to the side only to have another grab her gun arm, using it for leverage to slam her into a concrete beam. The back of her head hit, and her shoulder screamed from the twisting. That was before another fist slammed into it even as the first soldier pulled to try to rip the gun away.
The flare of pain in her shoulder crescendoed, and Vespa’s dominant shooting arm went limp.
“Fuck!” she screamed, letting some of the agony loose. One of the men leaned on her chest to press her harder into the pole. She headbutted again, missing his nose and cutting her forehead on one of his teeth, but he stumbled back.
Another man lifted his gun, and she darted behind the pole. Where she’d been pinned a moment before, concrete flaked from a bullet’s impact.
A man in the shooter’s direction screamed.
When no more shots were immediately fired, she risked a peek and had to blink. The blur of motion she saw was dressed in black, tatted from head to toe… In short, it looked a lot like the Di Salvos’ pet assassin.
Her vision scattered when someone grabbed her limp and dangling arm and yanked. Vespa tried to catch herself, but the pain of the dislocated joint was excruciating. When the grip released, she hit the ground chin first with an unforgiving scrape. A foot found her already screaming shoulder and stomped down. She was the one who screamed this time, though she’d never admit to it if she was asked about it later. Assuming she survived.
Vespa tried to flip the soldier off of her, but her chest was being flattened into the concrete from the pressure.
His other foot edged into her vision. It was planted on the ground and not her goddamn back. She turned her head and bit the shit out of his shin.
He managed to jerk away. She spat out blood as she spotted his discarded gun, or maybe it was a different one, she didn’t care. It was right under the tire of the car in front of her. She grabbed the gun with her good hand, turning to find the man almost on top of her again. It was the Lucchese soldier, the familiar one. Her hand had only raised a little, and she sent three bullets into his stomach.
He stared down at her, looking so fucking surprised before he fell.
Vespa gained her feet, her eyes wild as she took in what was left—nothing. Montrell might not have liked Luka much, but the tatted-up shadow could kill better than anyone she knew.
Vespa capped the man she’d gut-shot before she crossed to where Montrell lay.
Beatrice wasn’t there.
Vespa nodded at Luka, who still had a knife out. “Thanks for the assist.”
He didn’t respond, but then again, he hated talking. He didn’t even look at her, just crouched near the Luccheses’ still-running car.
Vespa had thought they were being taken to be tortured, but the initial gun that had been pointed at her best friend had said otherwise. She couldn’t quite figure it out, but hell, they’d worry about the whys later. Reaching Montrell, she kneeled beside him. She gave the garage one more sweep—not that she thought Luka would relax if anyone had been left alive—then set the gun down to slap at Montrell’s face with her working hand. He didn’t stir.
Digging out her phone from her opposite pocket was a pain. “You know how to set a dislocated shoulder?” she asked the assassin.
Luka’s eyes dropped to his gloves as he avoided her eyes.
She wasn’t sure if that was a no to knowing how or to touching her. She pressed the call button.
Giulia picked up on the first ring. “How bad?”
“It’s fucking hell.” Montrell was out of it, and she didn’t know where the Irish were keeping Beatrice, but speaking her fears out loud never helped. “Send the calvary.”
Giulia hung up, always quick to take action.
Vespa slid the phone into a more convenient pocket to free up her hand. She slapped Montrell again, harder this time. To her relief, he began to stir, and she gave him another smack just because she could.
“Wake up already!” she snapped at him. “Fuck, you’re a wimp when it comes to substances.” It made no sense, given his bulk, but in a way she was relieved. Montrell would have been more hindrance than help in the scuffle once he realized Beatrice wasn’t there.
She tensed as he whined in that drunken, boyish way of his, waiting for the moment when he would realize what had happened.
They were likely going to die. Beatrice was up in the penthouse condo. There was no fucking way they could leave her there, but entering with guns blazing was a prayer for luck.
