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I can't pull the trigger. Can't paint the Lexus's immaculate upholstery with this man's blood and brains. Can't watch those summer-green eyes go dull and empty.
Instead, in a moment of uncharacteristic impulsivity, I make a decision that will alter the trajectory of my life like a bullet to the brain. I flip the gun in my hand and bring the butt of it down hard on the man's temple, my aim precise even in the confines of the car.
His eyes roll back in his head and he slumps sideways, unconscious before he hits the leather. I catch him before he can faceplant into the seat, easing his limp body down onto the bench. His head lolls against the upholstery, his lips parted and slack in repose.
"Boss?" Gio's voice floats back to me, edged with confusion and the barest hint of concern. "You want I should pull over?"
I tear my eyes away from the unconscious man, my mind racing as I try to figure out what the fuck I'm doing. This isn't the plan, isn't protocol. I'm supposed to eliminate the witness, not take a sudden detour into kidnapping.
But as I stare down at his vulnerable face, at the dark fan of his lashes against too-pale cheeks, I know I can't go through with it. Can't snuff out the incandescent spark of him, no matter how much the ruthless, calculating part of my brain is screaming at me to do just that.
Pushing aside the cold voice of reason, I make a choice that I know will come back to bite me in the ass. But in that moment, with the weight of the man's slack body cradled in my arms and the phantom flame of his hopeful eyes searing my retinas, I can't bring myself to care.
"No," I say, my voice rough and foreign to my own ears. "Take me to the brownstone. We have a guest."
Gio's eyebrow climbs even higher, but he knows better than to question me. With a muted "Yes, boss," he banks the steering wheel to the left, aiming the Lexus's gleaming nose towards the quiet, tree-lined streets of Lincoln Park.
I settle back into the seat, the man's head resting in my lap. My hand hovers over his hair, fighting the inexplicable urge to run my fingers through those soft-looking curls. Instead, I let it drop to my side, curling into a fist against the leather.
What the fuck am I doing? This goes against every instinct, every lesson that's been beaten into me since I was old enough to understand the weight of my last name. You don't leave witnesses. You don't show mercy. You do the job, quick and clean, and you never let it touch you.
But as I stare down at the man's slack face, at the smudge of blood on his temple from the butt of my gun, I feel something stir in the barren cavity of my chest. Not quite pity, but something close. Something dangerous.
This man, with his hopeful eyes and his vanilla scent, represents a threat far greater than any bullet or blade. He's a risk, a liability, a chink in the armor of Enzo Vitale. And yet, I can't bring myself to do what needs to be done. Can't extinguish the fragile flicker of light in those green eyes, even if it means putting my own neck on the line.
As the Lexus purrs through the sleeping streets, carrying us closer to the brownstone and the reckoning that awaits, I let my eyes drift closed. Behind my lids, the man's face swims into focus - not pale and slack as it is now, but flushed with terror and alight with that guttering flame of absurd, untenable hope.
Those eyes pierce me, stripping away the layers of ice and steel I've wrapped around my blackened soul. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel a flicker of something that might almost be fear. Not of the man himself, but of the things he stirs to life inside me. Things I thought long dead and buried.
My eyes snap open, my breath tight in my lungs. Beside me, the man sleeps on, oblivious to the war raging behind my ribcage. I force my gaze away from his face, staring out the window at the blur of passing buildings. My hand flexes on my thigh, itching for the familiar weight of a gun.
What happens next is on me. I'm the one who lowered the gun, who chose mercy over expedience. And now, I'll have to live with the consequences of that choice - whatever they may be.
The car slows to a stop, the wrought iron gate of the brownstone rising up beyond the rain-spattered glass. With a heavy sigh, I gather the man into my arms and step out into the waiting darkness, my heart a leaden weight in my chest.
There's no going back now. The die is cast, the bullet chambered. All that remains is to see where it lands.
CHAPTER 2
LUCA
Iwake to darkness and the rumble of an unfamiliar engine. My head throbs like it's been split down the middle, a dull ache radiating from my left temple. I try to lift a hand to touch it, but my arms won't cooperate. They're trapped at my sides, pinned by something unyielding and solid.
Panic slams into me, chasing away the lingering cobwebs of unconsciousness. My eyes fly open, straining to make sense of my surroundings. I'm in a car - a nice one, judging by the buttery leather beneath my cheek and the sleek lines of the interior. But I'm not sitting up like a normal passenger. I'm stretched out on the backseat, my head cradled on something warm and firm.
I tilt my chin up, blinking rapidly to clear my vision. A pair of dark, hooded eyes stare back at me, glittering in the dim light that filters through the tinted windows. They're set in a face that looks like it was chiseled from stone - all sharp angles and harsh lines, with a jaw that could cut glass. I've seen that face before, in the fractured memories that swim behind my eyelids.
The alley. The gunshot. The blood.
Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God.
I try to scramble upright, fighting against the weight that pins me down. But it's useless. I'm trapped, helpless, completely at the mercy of the man who killed someone right in front of me.
The man whose lap I'm currently lying on.
"Easy." His voice is a low rasp, like gravel over silk. It sends a shiver down my spine, even as my heart kicks into overdrive. "You're safe."
Safe? Is he fucking kidding me? I just watched him splatter a man's brains across a brick wall, and now he's telling me I'm safe?
