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She shoots me a death glare.
Her hands pause over the last guard's ankle, where she’s found yet another knife. With a triumphant grin, she waves the blade before placing it with the rest of the confiscated goods, then stands up and winks at them.
"Remember boys, be good and stay quiet if you want to keep your faces dry."
I can't help but shoot her a glare behind their backs before I steer her towards the car with a firm grip on her arm. We slide into our seats, and as I start the engine, I press the gun to her temple.
“No more. You understand me?”
“I understand,” she says, voice deathly quiet. Nothing more.
Satisfied, I lower the gun, put both hands on the wheel, and pull the car onto the road.
“Fuck, I really thought you were going to pop one off there,” she adds. “Just blast me right in the face. You know, like you blasted that guy.”
I can’t suppress a chuckle, or the grin on my face. “I hate you so fucking much.”
She rolls her eyes. “Sure you do. Just like I hate you, too.”
Chapter Eighteen
Alexandra
After a long time driving in silence, Dixon speaks.
“You did good back there, Alexandra. More than held your own,” he says. His eyes are on the road, but it still feels like his focus is on me; I don’t just feel watched, I feel seen. “Whoever taught you, taught you right. The way you kept calm, kept your wits and knew how to fight back, you’ve done them proud.”
Silence falls between us again, nothing but the rumble of the car’s engine and the sound of the road beneath the wheels. I stare out the window at the passing dark.
What do I say to that?
How do I answer the man who I hate more than anything, who’s just cut through that icy wall around my heart with a compliment that brings tears to my eyes?
Do I tell him that the person who taught me everything was my brother?
That making Lucas proud is the kindest thing he ever could have said to me?
But, when I look at him, I see the glistening of truth in his eyes: he already knows.
“Thank you.” I let silence resume between us, hating him a little less.
Or maybe a lot.
It’s not long before the outskirts of Costa Oscura rise in the distance and the smell of salty sea air hits my nose. I breathe it in, let it bring life to my aching body. I’ve been up for way-too-long, been in a bareknuckle fight, and I’m still feeling gentle, fading aftershocks of the orgasms that Lars ‘Bison’ Buckowski gave me in the guest suite of Jeremiah Brock’s mansion.
“Where to now?” He says.
“My place. Seraphina and Kyle can wait. I want to shower, I want to eat something, I want to sleep.”
Dixon turns the wheel, taking us down the streets that’ll lead to my crappy apartment in the crappiest part of Costa Oscura. It ain’t much, it ain’t even worth the rent, but it’s home. When we pull into the parking lot, Dixon suddenly slams on the brakes. “Son of a bitch.”
My senses spring to alertness and I clench my aching hands into fists. It’ll hurt to hit someone in the face again, but I’ll do it if I have to.
“What is it?”
He gestures, his voice a mix of irritation and something that might be amusement. “See that?”
“Why is there a semi-truck parked here?”
