“The only joke I see around here is you,” I tell him.
Levi chokes back a laugh before quickly righting himself, not in the mood to have his big brother’s fist saying hello to his jaw. “What’s it going to be, Shayne?” he questions, glancing across at me, watching me as I slowly ease up on Roman’s throat.
I hold his stare for a moment before nodding, despite my every nerve ending telling me this is a terrible idea. “I’ve got this.”
“Good,” Marcus mutters with irritation, reminding me that he’s still pissed I spilled the beans to Roman about his Flick theory. “We’re here.”
Ahhh, fuck.
My hands shake as they fall back into my lap and I glance out at the run-down property. There’s an old wire gate across the front of the lawn that’s definitely seen better days. Two of the home’s windows are boarded up and it’s hard to tell in the dead of night, but I’m pretty sure there’s a line of bullet holes spanning the complete width of the home.
This isn’t anywhere I should be, but I just had to go and stupidly declare that this was the life I wanted, and for once, I can’t blame the brothers for the fresh hell that I’m about to endure.
My finger curls around the door handle and just as I’m about to pull the lever and push it open, I quickly realize that none of the guys are making a move to get out with me. I turn and gape at them, my eyes wide with horror. “You’re not seriously going to send me in there by myself?” I question, my determination to do this only going so far. Without the threat of the brothers standing at my back, I’m just some stupid girl wandering into a madhouse and demanding all their cash. I’ll never walk out of there alive.
“We weren’t,” Levi says, his brows arched in amusement. “We just figured you might want a few weapons first but, if you think you can do this all on your own, go right ahead. We’ll be here waiting.”
I narrow my glare at him, hating how blasé they’re being about this, as though this isn’t the biggest, most fucked-up thing I’ll ever do. Maybe they forget that most kids aren’t raised in the mafia, playing with guns and learning the best ways to slaughter their enemies. Don’t get me wrong, I had a phase where I’d sleep with a knife under my pillow but that’s about as far as it got.
I don’t bother responding to his comment. What’s the point? They all know what I think about that. Instead, I simply wait as Levi turns back around to the glove compartment and pulls out a small gun. He hands it to me and as he places the cool metal into my hand, I feel as though I suddenly have the weight of the world resting in the palm of my hand.
A sense of false power rocks through me, rattling me right to my core, but I do what I can to mask the unease. “Do you know what you’re doing with that?” Marcus questions, looking at me as though he’s worried I’m about to accidentally shoot him. Though, it’s not him who should be worried.
I glance across at him, lowering the gun so I’m not pointing it at anyone. “I managed to shoot my father, did I not?” I remind him, the memory sitting uneasily in my mind.
Marcus grins. “You did,” he says before gently shrugging his shoulders and musing to himself. “Not the shot I would have taken, but effective enough.”
“What ever happened to him?” I muse, getting way off track to what I should be focused on.
“Never you mind about that,” Marcus tells me, his eyes glistening with a fucked-up kind of darkness that tells me to back away from the topic like it could strike me at any given time.
My lips press into a hard line and I find myself glancing back up at Roman. “How is this supposed to go down?” I question, my voice lowering with a mix of nerves and embarrassment, feeling more than just out of my league and hating to have to admit that. “Do I just storm in there and start demanding what you’re owed?”
“That’s one way,” he agrees, thoughtfully. “Messy, but dangerous. If you go in there, guns blazing, he’s going to panic and get defensive, and when a motherfucker like that gets defensive, it’s shoot first, ask questions later. You’ll eventually get what you need, but it could be easier and done without causing bodily harm or putting yourself in a worse situation.”
I arch a brow, wishing he would just tell me what I need to know. “Don’t talk to me about worse situations,” I mutter, my irritation starting to get the better of me.