Page 92 of Venomous Throne

I tried to wrench free.

“Where are we going?” I choked out, voice metallic in my mouth.

They didn’t answer at first. The only response was the cannonade of distant gunfire and the muted thump of men moving through the gardens. I tripped over the uneven flagstones—limestone, imported from Verona, my late husband’s pride—and would have gone down if Johnny hadn’t steadied me.

“Out of the Moretti territory. Somewhere with protection, where Bonetti won’t dare to touch you,” Franky said, not looking back.

And where the hell is that?I was breathing too hard to snap at him.

We rounded a blind corner, almost running headlong into a marble cherub. I pressed flat against the sculpture’s cold back, sharp wings biting into my shoulder blades as Johnny scanned ahead with his weapon raised. The faint screams of the wounded carried over the hedges from the house. The whole place was being taken apart, brick by brick, as if they could erase us by morning.

“Where—” My question died halfway down my throat.

The answer hung unspoken between us, horrible and obvious: We weren’t running home. We were running to another wolf’s den.

If I wasn’t so fraught with fear, I would have seen it earlier.

Hell, I would have been the one suggesting it!

I glanced at Johnny. He nodded once, grim. Franky grunted softly. Vincenzo’s face was blank as a tombstone—only his jaw clenched tight enough to show how bad this was for all of us.

They couldn’t be serious.

“They aren’t our allies,” I hissed. “They’ll hold us ransom if it suits them!”

“We have no other option,” Franky growled under his breath. “Signora, it’s the only way.”

My stomach twisted, sour bile rising past the taste of gunpowder in my nose.

“I’ll forever be in his debt,” I protested, stopping in my tracks so abruptly that Vincenzo nearly crashed into me from behind. “You know what the Blood King will want in return.”

Power. A stake in my organization. More money than we could ever repay. The list of possibilities was endless.

“It doesn’t matter,” Vincenzo said sharply. “What matters is that you see tomorrow's sunrise.”

Johnny’s gaze flickered over me—calculating risk versus cost—but he said nothing.

We hustled onward, hunched double beneath hedges now pocked with bullet holes. Every step away from the mansion felt like a betrayal; every step toward Mancini’s lair felt like a leap into hell. But Bonetti’s men were closing in fast. Their voices drifted closer now, some shouting orders, others whooping with triumphant laughter as they set fire to the drapes in the east wing.

I tripped again, fell hard this time—palms raw and stinging from broken glass and gravel. Johnny hauled me up without breaking stride.

The old garden gate loomed ahead. The wrought ironwork was ornate as prison bars.

Franky checked it; clear for now.

He slipped through first with silent grace.

Vincenzo eased me after him.

Johnny closed in the rear, pausing only to reload and toss his empty magazine into the roses where it clattered like a tiny funeral bell.

Beyond the gate lay open ground—manicured lawns that belonged to the neighbors, stretching two football fields to the street. No cover except three aging trees.

I gulped. This was where they’d try to finish us off.

I’m not losing another man tonight!

Vincenzo scanned for movement while Johnny dragged a hand through his hair.