I hang up the phone and toss it next to my keys and coat. Tonight is the night I show all of those bastards why I deserve my position. Nobody will ever again think I got this role because of my father and grandfather. They’re gonna know I got it because I fucking deserve it, because I’ve proven my loyalty.
I run into a hidden room off the kitchen and spin the dial on the combination to unlock the safe with all of the weapons I’ve collected. Tonight I wear a bullseye on my forehead, but damn the motherfucker who thinks he’s taking the shot.
I stick two Glocks into the back waistband of my jeans and grab a black duffel bag that holds three more guns and as much ammo as I need to pepper those assholes with lead until it comes out of their asses.
My iPhone buzzes with a text, and I run back to the bedroom, stumbling forward as my foot catches on a corner of a throw rug. I land on the bed and slide my finger across the screen. It’s a picture of Shaye, blindfolded, gagged, wrists bound with duct tape. Her head is leaning back against a cement wall and her feet are bare.
There’s no message, No caption. No need.
My chest tightens as I pick up my phone and forward the image to Max. I know he sure as hell won’t pick up the phone if he sees my number, not that I blame him. But I need that crazy motherfucker now more than ever.
Not a minute passes before I get a response.
Where are we going?
I let out a shaky breath and respond.
Bayonne. I’ll be over in 5.
I throw on my coat, toss the duffel over my shoulder, and grab my keys before tearing through the front door. Once I’m in the driver’s seat of my car, I allow the toxic thoughts to erupt.
You fucking let this happen. You watched her leave, and you didn’t even try to stop her. This is your fault!
I press the button to start the engine and stomp on the gas, the accusations looping through my mind as I maneuver through the side streets in the direction of Max’s house. My pulse throbs against my neck. They won’t hurt her. They only want me.
I hope. I pray.
The tires screech to a halt in front of the house and he’s already out the door, wearing a black baseball cap and black overcoat. I know what he’s packing under it. I’ve seen this getup plenty of times before.
As soon as he’s inside the car, I zoom down the street, headed toward the northbound entrance of the turnpike. “Get in touch with Duke at the club. Let him know what’s going down. Send the address to the other guys.” I swallow hard. “And call Rocco. He’s part of this now, too, and we need all the backup we can get. Make sure he gets his ass up there as soon as possible.”
Max’s jaw twitches, but he does what I ask without saying a damn thing. I need the few minutes to get my head screwed on straight before telling him what I allowed to happen.
The silence is deafening. I scrub a hand down my face, accelerating onto the ramp. Wind whips across the car, making the Range Rover sway back and forth. I grip the steering wheel tight, so tight I lose feeling in my fingertips.
Shaye tied up. Shaye gagged. Shaye unconscious.
My stomach rolls, and I clamp a hand over my mouth to hold down the Kind bar I’d eaten on my way home from the club.
“Don’t you fucking dare, you asshole. This is all your fault. You couldn’t keep your dick in your pants, could you? If I’d have smashed in your pretty little face before like I’d wanted to, she wouldn’t be holed up in that warehouse.”
I swallow hard and take a few deep breaths. “Don’t you think I know that?” I rasp, swerving around a slow-moving car. A dumbass move, especially on New Year’s Eve. Getting pulled over right now is not an option, not with the fucking arsenal we’re hauling.
“I don’t know, Nico. You don’t tell me shit these days. You fucked my sister, hired my damn nemesis. Those fucking images of your naked ass plowing my sister are burned into my memory, thank you very much. Anything else I’m gonna find out about tonight? ’Cause I’d like to be mentally prepared this time.”
I rub my temple, debating which of the two things he needs to know. “I’m in love with her, Max.” My voice cracks again, my mind conjuring up a hell of a lot of stomach-clenching scenarios involving Shaye and those goons. They may not kill her, but Christ only knows what they’ve done to her, what they may still do if I don’t step on it.
Max turns to face me, his mouth twisted into a grimace that I can clearly see in my periphery. “You don’t love her. You love you, Nico. And that’s exactly why we’re headed to the armpit of New Jersey right now. You saw something you wanted, and you took it with no regard for her safety. So either you never thought she’d be a target or you just didn’t give a fuck one way or the other. Both of those scenarios show how fucking selfish you are.”
His voice drips with disdain and anger, and if circumstances were different right now, I know he wouldn’t hesitate to take that baseball bat to my skull. “You’re wrong.”
“You’re full of shit.”
“Look, I hired Rocco, yes, and I’d do it again to protect my dad’s interests. I did what was expected of me because it’s what I always do. But just so you’re completely informed, the dickhead who grabbed Shaye? He’s the same guy your father tried to get involved with years back.”
I stomp on the brake outside of the warehouse and glare at Max who stares at me, open-mouthed. “Yeah, that’s right. Cappadamo, your dad’s buddy? He’s the one who has her in there. The drug smuggler who has been on the FBI’s radar for the past decade, the one who would have brought down our whole family if my dad hadn’t stopped it. And just so we’re clear, and so you’re completely informed, the other guys who are meeting me here tonight? They’re the fucking Russian bratva. I’ve been working with Viktor Ivanov for the past couple of years now, another thing I couldn’t tell you because, again, it’s to protect our interests against this motherfucker Cappodamo.”
I throw the car into park and turn off the engine. “Before you start pointing fingers, just think about your father. He’s the fucking reason why we’re all here right now. If he hadn’t been such a greedy and underhanded bastard, none of this would be happening. And if my grandfather had any foresight at all, he’d have had a bullet put into his brain a long fucking time ago!” I reach behind me and grab the duffel before shoving open the door. In the distance, I see a few blacked-out Ford F-150s. The Russians always seem to favor the pickups. Maybe it’s because they’re usually transporting body bags.