see you.” That’s a polite way of ending a conversation, if ever I’ve heard one, and I inwardly shake my head at Pedro. Silly man really doesn’t know who he’s speaking to. But how does Danny know him?
“And you,” Danny says quietly, menacingly, and starts to tug me away.
“I don’t think he recognized you,” I murmur, looking back over my shoulder, seeing Pedro shrugging at his friends, clearly still clueless.
“He soon will.” Danny opens the door and takes my neck, directing me onto the sidewalk.
A nasty feeling comes over me as I’m led to the Mercedes and helped into the seat. Danny shuts me in the car and walks off, turning down an alleyway a few yards up the street with his men in tow. My hand reaches for the handle of the door and pulls. It opens. Why would he leave it open? Just leave me here unattended, free to run if I choose?
But I can’t run.
I get out and walk to the entrance of the alleyway, finding Brad standing quietly to the side with five more of Danny’s men. Danny’s eyes are on the concrete under his dress shoes, his fists opening and clenching by his sides. Rage is building, polluting the already stale air in the alley. He looks up and spots me, and he slowly shakes his head. He’s telling me to go.
Brad sees me and comes over, trying to usher me away. “What’s going on?” I ask.
“Fucked if I know, but he doesn’t want you here.”
Brad is halted from trying to shift me when Ringo appears, dragging a bewildered-looking Pedro with him. “What the fuck, man?” Pedro yells, stumbling along.
Danny’s eyes jump from me to his old friend. And he smiles. Wide, bright . . . and one thousand percent deadly. Brad’s spare hand goes to his hip, resting on his gun, ready to draw.
“Pedro,” Danny sings, arms extended in front of him, as if inviting him in for a hug. “I’m just so fucking pleased to see you.”
Pedro still looks clueless, his worried eyes bouncing between Danny and his men. “What is this?”
Danny steps forward, and Pedro starts to retreat, only getting a few paces before he backs into Ringo. “I’m just gutted you don’t remember me.” Danny reaches for his cheek and draws a line down his scar. “How could you forget me, Pedro?”
My lungs drain, my hand coming up to my mouth to try and push back my gasp.
“Oh fuck,” Brad breathes, confirming what I think I know. He moves in front of me, blocking my view. No. Something sick and disgusting inside me wants to see this. I step to the side, bringing Danny back into my sights. His blue eyes are dancing, pure joy mixed with hatred. The penny has dropped for Pedro. His eyes are wide. His body tense, ready to fight. I pity him.
“We were kids, Danny.”
“Just kids.” Danny nods, pulling something from his jacket pocket. A switchblade. He releases the blade and inspects it. “I think mine’s sharper.” He looks up and smirks.
Pedro’s hands come up, his body moving back until Ringo shoves him forward. My eyes are burning with the need to blink, yet they refuse, as if scared they’re going to miss it. But I’m forced to turn when Pedro’s friends crash into the alleyway. They skid to a stop. Take in the scene. Then hold their hands up, backing away when Brad pulls his gun out. “You should have stayed in the restaurant, boys.” Brad nods to Ringo, who moves in, along with a few more of Danny’s men.
“No, wait,” one guy says, tripping up a trash bag as he backs away. The other turns to run and gets no farther than the end of the alleyway. Both men are seized, and I watch in silence as they’re held against the wall by guns to their foreheads.
“Come to watch?” Danny asks, pulling my attention back his way.
“I’m sorry,” Pedro whimpers.
“I’m not.” Danny steps forward calmly and lashes the blade across Pedro’s forehead, opening up his flesh with one long slash.
The squeal of pain is piercing, his hands shooting up to his head. Another slash, this one across the back of his hand, slicing through muscles, tendons and probably even bone. His hands drop and Danny’s arm moves so fast, it’s a mere blur, though accurate, slicing up Pedro’s face from his chin, through his nose, his eye, and crossing the gash on his forehead. He drops to his knees, screaming, his bloody hands slipping