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“Wake up already!” Vespa snapped. “Fuck, you’re a wimp when it comes to substances.”
“Didn’t drink,” Montrell slurred as he forced his heavy eyelids open.
“No, but you were drugged.” Vespa’s face looked bloody and bruised as it hovered above him. “You with me yet?”
Memory started to return, and their foreheads almost smacked together as he pushed his body upright.
Vespa fell back on her ass, her right arm hanging limply at her side.
“Damn, Ves, you look like hell.”
Her working hand wiped under her nose, smearing blood. “Yeah, but they’re dead.” Her head nodded at the nearest body.
More than a dozen bodies surrounded them—a mixture of Irish and Italians in what looked like an underground parking garage. “You did all this?” he asked, giving his head an experimental shake. He was still feeling dopey as hell.
“Had a little help,” Vespa admitted, her eyes cutting to the side.
The Di Salvos’ pet assassin crouched near an open town car, his back pressed against it as he looked away from Vespa.
The last of Montrell’s annoyance at the hitman melted away. He was still trying to make sense of what had happened, but it was obvious Luka had helped. “Thanks,” he said as his eyes searched the area. His panic built when he couldn’t find the person he was looking for. “Where’s Bea?”
Vespa grimaced. “The Irish must still have her. I came to as they were dragging us out of the elevator, and I started putting up a fuss, and, well, here we are.” She nodded toward the bodies.
Montrell pushed to his feet, staggering, but with another shake of his head, he finally began to focus. “We have to get Bea.”
“Don’t go off half-cocked. I already called the boys, Montrell, but shit, this place is a fortress.” When he glared at her, she scowled back. “I’m not saying no; I’m saying let’s think this through! Walking in and getting shot won’t help our girl.”
Hearing the fear in her voice as Vespa called Beatrice theirs brought on even more panic. Montrell tried to think, but he kept imagining Beatrice with his mother, especially the longer he stared at Vespa’s injured arm.
Vespa nodded at the assassin. “What about you? Why are you even here?”
Luka stood but wouldn’t look at her, not that that was so surprising. Montrell had noticed the hitman avoided looking at most women, with only one exception. He’d never looked at Beatrice either.
Beatrice. She was with his mother.
“Meeting. Something off. Sent to follow.” The hitman’s half answers made no sense to Montrell’s mind, but he followed Luka’s gaze to the body of an Italian, focusing on the familiar features of the Lucchese soldier who had put his hand on Beatrice.
“We were being given to the Lucchese?” he asked, his fear only growing.
Vespa sighed. “Not exactly. The Lucchese were intent on shooting us. That’s what made me put up a fuss a little sooner than I intended.” She winced. “Managed to not get shot, but the results weren’t pretty.”
She looked like hell and needed a doctor.
Beatrice had something over her father. Something that made him want her silenced, not traded.
“When the boys get here, I want you to go.” Montrell looked toward the elevator. “I’m going to try to talk some sense into the O’Connells. Maybe I can convince my mother that—”
“Don’t be an idiot!” Vespa staggered to her feet, her face paling even as anger snapped in her eyes. “You won’t convince that bitch of a goddamn thing. We should have never trusted that woman. Going in there will just get you killed, along with your wife.”
Montrell moved to his friend’s side to steady her, careful to avoid her limp arm. She met his gaze, and he saw fear mixed with her anger. “I can’t leave Bea with her, Ves,” he said, knowing she’d understand. “I can’t.”
Vespa bit her lip, then shoved at his chest with one hand. “I know!” she snapped. “But help me pop this arm back into place first. Then I’ll grab another gun from one of these fuckers. I’m going down shooting.”
“Vespa…” Montrell didn’t know what he could say to convince his friend.
She already scowled at him. “If you’re going, I’m going. No way we’re getting out alive, but we’ll try.”
The assassin stepped forward. “I can.”
