Page 47 of Stealing Cinder

Then there’s nothing but silence.

I count the seconds. Twelve pass before the second wave pushes through the gate. Five more men. Heavier armed. They fan out along the tree line with their weapons up and scanning.

Oliver opens on the far right. Two quick shots with a suppressor. Bastian comes from the west at a dead sprint and puts two rounds into the enforcer nearest the service entrance before the man can turn his gun. The muzzle flash lights Bastian's grin for a split second and then everyone settles into darkness.

Valerian and my enforcers end the remaining three. Brief. Controlled. Professional.

Bodies litter the garden path. The iron gate hangs open, gravel churned and dark with blood.

Edgar won’t be able to wait for long. He’s too impatient. So I wait. Twenty years of this, and the quiet after violence still tastes like copper and cold air.

Boots crunch on the gravel near the front entrance. This time it’s a single set. Heavy. Unhurried. Edgar.

I holster my Glock and crack my knuckles. The ridged scar tissue pulls tight across the joints and I love the feel of the pain that shoots up my wrists. It lets me know I’m alive.

"I see you and your henchmen of villains are dropping bodies just like the old days."

Edgar's voice carries through the open door of the living room. He steps through, brushing garden debris from his overcoat.

"Edgar." I tuck away the satisfaction pulling at my mouth and turn to face him.

The living room stretches between us, cold glass and concrete and the faint silver glow of the garden pressing through the windows. His overcoat hangs open. No weapon visible. His fingers flex at his sides, eyes locked on mine, measuring distance.

"Where's my stepdaughter, Samuel? And where's the child she's carrying? That child belongs to me."

My blood runs white-hot. Every muscle along my spine pulls taut and the tendons in my neck stand rigid. I roll my shoulders once.

"You'll never put your hands on either of them."

He lunges.

Edgar covers the ten feet faster than a man his age should. His fist catches the edge of my jaw and my head snaps sideways. The impact radiates through my molars and the taste of blood floods my tongue. He is stronger than I gave him credit for, the punch carrying real weight behind it, and my respect for his physical ability notches up even as my hatred for him deepens.

I absorb the hit and drive forward, dropping my shoulder into his sternum. The collision sends us both into the glass wall. The pane shudders but holds. Edgar's back slams against the surface and the breath leaves his lungs in a grunt that doubles him over.

I bring my knee up and drive all my force into his ribs. Bone flexes under the strike and he snarls, grabbing the collar of my shirt and headbutting me across the bridge of my nose.

White light explodes behind my eyes. Blood pours from my nostrils and runs hot over my lips, dripping onto the concrete between us.

He uses the distraction to drive his elbow into my throat. The cartilage compresses and my airway narrows to a whistle. I choke, stagger back, and he follows with a right hook aimed at my temple.

I catch his fist. My scarred fingers close around his knuckles and I wrench sideways, torquing his wrist until the joint pops. He roars. His free hand scrabbles at my face, fingers clawing for my eyes. I lean away from the gouge, pull his arm across my body, and slam my elbow down into the crook of his hyperextended joint.

The crack of his arm breaking is wet and final.

Edgar screams. The sound bounces off the concrete and glass and fills the cold room. He drops to one knee, his broken arm hanging at a wrong angle, his face gray with shock. I grab a fistful of his hair and yank his head back. My forearm slides under his chin and locks against his throat. I tighten until his windpipe compresses and his breathing turns to a high, thin wheeze.

His good hand slaps at my arm. His legs kick against the concrete. Spit bubbles at the corner of his mouth.

I could end him now, but I lean close to his ear. "You killed a good man. A man who called you friend. A man who will never walk his daughter down the aisle because of you."

I adjust my grip. One quick rotation of my forearm and his neck will snap.

"Let him go, you animal."

The voice comes from the corridor behind me. Female. Steady. Backed by the metallic click of a hammer being pulled back on a revolver.

Francesca steps into the living room, heels clicking against the heated concrete. Edgar's wife. Cinder's stepmother.