Married to the Bad Boy(81)

I reach into my purse and pull out a few of the bricks of cash. I let them fall over the table. His gaze flicks to the men behind me.

“All right—”

“And I want a gun.”

His grin widens, exposing a row of silver teeth. “I don’t think so. No.”

“But—!”

“I’m not giving Tony’s wife a gun.”

Fine. I can probably get one myself anyway.

I extend my hand. “Deal.”

We shake hands and he keeps my fingers in his grasp for a moment.

“I don’t usually get involved in mob business, but your husband was always a decent guy, not like the pricks we usually have to deal with. I’ll get some people on the streets to look for him right away.”

“Thank you.”

The weight lessens somewhat, but then Rafael’s cruel face twisted in malevolence haunts my mind. I touch my belly and another stab of panic hits me.

Tony is the only person who ever made me feel as if I was worth a damn. My sister, my mom, they basically left me to be consumed by my ex the moment Dad passed.

I walk outside with the bikers, who escort me back to my car. Nothing feels any better. I’ve someone on my side, but I’m not any closer to finding Tony.

It all comes down to him. Rafael. It’s the fault of his stupid male ego that couldn’t accept that I’m a person who made her own fucking decisions. I was never real, just a prop in his life. I was just the boss’s daughter. If he was with me, maybe his career would advance. Maybe he’d be made capo. Who knows, maybe he’d succeed my dad as boss. But none of that ever happened. All that work he put into courting me was for nothing, because Dad’s dead. My value is completely gone, and now I’ve left him. Why couldn’t he just leave me be?

Fuck him. Fuck him.

My hands clench my cell phone as if it’s his neck, and I have a glorious vision of his eyes bugging out as I cut off his airway. Let’s see how you fucking like it.

I drive back to Tony’s apartment, because I don’t care about confronting Rafael at this point. Once I’m there, I find a gun in Tony’s nightstand and I pop open the safety. My dad taught me how to shoot when I was a kid. I pace back and forth in place with it in my hand, my head steaming with images of Tony lying on some rotten floor, dead. A scream suddenly tears from my throat as sobs shake my chest. I can’t stand it—I can’t fucking stand this inaction. Hours tick by slowly, and I resist the urge to call Carlos, over and over. No, sorry, they still haven’t found him.

I take my cell phone and stare into the glowing blue screen. My thumb hovers over it.

Tony, come home. I’m waiting for you here.

The response is almost immediate: All right, I’m coming.

I want to smash the fucking screen and feel the shards of glass dig into my hand. My vision sears with red as I grab the pistol in my purse and wrench open the door to outside. My finger tenses over the trigger as I step out, just waiting for one hint of that fucker’s face. I’ll wait for the asshole.

That’s right. Come for me, Rafael. I’ll get rid of you and I won’t give a flying fuck about it.

Energy roars through my veins like too many caffeinated drinks. I feel more alert than I’ve ever been as I hurry down the steps and hide behind a garbage bin just off the side of the brownstone. It’s tall enough so that I have to only slightly bend my knees.

The streets are too cold for anyone to mingle outside, and I desperately rub my fingers together to keep them from getting numb. I need to be able to shoot him. Just point and shoot.

My heart feels as though it’s on the verge of explosion. Even though I want to fucking kill him, I’m scared. It’s so fast and painful against my chest that I feel dizzy with the rush of blood to my head.

It’ll be a fucking miracle if he doesn’t spot me, but I’m counting on the fact that he’ll be so anxious to see me that he won’t be careful. He’ll just run up the steps, ignoring the sides of the apartment.

From the glow of the streetlights, I see a dark, lean figure walking across the street with his hands deep inside his pockets. He looks both ways and hurries across, wet boots shining as he crosses the slick street.

This might be it.

I extend my arms just like my dad taught me, following his shape as he walks up the steps to my apartment, but I still can’t make out his face.

Fuck!

Time slows down. His gait lengthens. He raises his fist to the door, and all the while a clear voice whispers in my head. It knows exactly what I need to do.

Wait ’til he turns. Then shoot.

The porch light flares on, and his haggard face slowly turns away from the brightness, wincing. He looks across, directly at me—and I recognize him in an instant. Half of a second—that’s all it takes for me to make up my mind to kill. My finger trembles. A blast explodes from the muzzle of the gun and Rafael screams into the night. It’s so fucking loud that it startles me.