Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 82524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
But that’d leave my daughter alone, and I can’t risk it.
Nunzio might not want her now, but he could change his mind.
I careen down the hall and back up the steps. He’s running behind me, roaring like a wounded animal. I slam my shoulder into the wall at the top of the stairs and keep going, sprinting, wild and out of control. I’m gasping, lungs burning, muscles straining—
“You killed him, you fucking cunt! You bitch! I’m going to fucking cut your throat, you bitch!” It sounds like he’s crying as he screams at me.
But I reach Marnie’s room first.
I pound on the door. “It’s me, it’s me, please, Priya, I know you’re in there, let me in let me in let me in—“
The lock clicks. “Byron told me to stay hidden.”
I ram the door open with my shoulder then slam it shut behind me. I lock it in time, throwing the bolt at the top, as Nunzio bashes into it a second later. The frame flexes but it holds.
“June, I know you’re in there,” he snarls from the other side. “You can come out now and make this easy. Or I can break my way inside and make this hard. Your choice.”
I step back, vomit rising into my throat.
Behind me, Hattie’s sitting with Marnie on the bed. Both look pale and scared. Priya’s shaking, hands wringing in front of her.
I brought Nunzio here. If I had only run—
“Mommy!” Hattie sprints over and throws herself into my arms, and I’m sure I made the right call. I hug her tight and tell her it’ll be okay, even though I know this whole episode is going to be another year of therapy to unpack, assuming we make it through.
“Is there another way out?” I ask Priya and glance over to Marnie. “Do you have your phone?”
“It’s not working,” Marnie says. “What the fuck, June? Did that asshole go nuts?”
“There are windows, but—“ Priya doesn’t sound confident.
“Time’s up!” Nunzio shouts.
Then he slams into the door.
It shudders and shakes.
I back away with Hattie in my arms. She’s trembling, she’s so scared. I tell her it’ll be fine. Everything will be okay.
But I don’t know. I don’t know.
Windows. Drops. Escapes. There’s no good plan.
We’re trapped.
And as Nunzio keeps working on the door, I realize we’re out of time.
32
RAFE
The front of my truck smashes through the gate.
Metal parts like butter and sparks across the driveway. No time to slow down. I hit the gas harder, nearly swerving out of control up the steep hill, barreling toward the house in a frenzy.
Dread fills me.
There are no guards on duty.
Nobody manning the front. Nobody walking the trees. I’ve never come through here without spotting at least a half-dozen well-armed men before.
Cold horror spreads into my toes.
Is the problem bigger than I thought? Are they all traitors?
I can’t dwell on it. Not right now. If I’m too late, I don’t know what I’m going to do. My daughter, my wife, my entire world is in that mansion, and if either of them are hurt, if they’re taken as hostages, used as leverage—
I’ll slaughter everyone involved.
Death will be a mercy for any man who tried to harm my child and my woman.
Tires screech as I slam the brakes. The mansion looks quiet. I fling myself from the front seat and spring up the steps to the door. I hesitate, thinking I should be more careful, if someone’s waiting on the other side I might be walking into a trap—
But to hell with my own life.
I kick the door open and storm in, gun drawn and ready. I clear the front room in hunting mode, quickly speeding along the first floor, heading back to the kitchens.
The scent of blood hits hard.
June. Hattie. Oh fucking Christ. Please, no.
I enter, scanning the space with my weapon.
Clean counters. Immaculately organized pots and pans. I take a step forward slowly, the smell of blood sharper now, and there’s a groan toward the back.
A trail of fresh, sticky red’s on the floor. I follow it and slow, heart thudding, to find Byron lying on his side near the back door.
The big chef’s eyes are half closed. Sweat’s beading his forehead. Blood’s leaking from a wound in his chest. He’s clearly only half alive. I crouch beside him and put a hand on his arm.
“What happened?”
His gaze focuses. “I tried… I’m sorry…”
“Byron. Where is my wife?”
“Running… always running… never… please… hurts…”
Fuck. I’m losing him. I shake his arm. “You have to stay with me. Where is June? Where is my daughter?”
A moment of lucidity. “Upstairs.” But it quickly fades. “Upstairs… heaven, God, I hope… I miss…”
His body goes still and he lets out a long exhale.
Fuck. Byron.
He was a good man. I remember meeting him for the first time years ago. He was a young chef in Philly. I sponsored him back then, paid some of his bills, got him jobs, helped him grow. When he got sick of commercial kitchens, he came to work for me, and we haven’t been far apart since.