from the Chevy. We’re surrounded. We’re screwed.
“My men are not to be harmed,” I tell him as the other men all pull their pistols, aiming them casually at the car. I can hear a trickling noise that I hope isn’t oil. I wonder if this car’s about to explode. “That’s my condition.”
“Boss!” Felice protests. “I can’t let you do this—”
In Italian, I say, “Quiet, brother. This is the only way.”
The man with the cuffs turns to the others, says something, and they all shrug. I assess my body. There’s a numb pain draped over me, but other than that, I’m okay. Felice took the brunt of the impact.
He reaches for the door and pulls it open. Cold night air stings at me. He leans into the car and takes my gun and, all I can do is sit here, thinking about how Father is going to be fucked now. They’ll have his son, the best leverage they could ever dream of.
Then Felice whispers quickly in Italian, “He has a blade in his boot, boss. Left foot.”
I nod shortly and climb from the car, but—oh, silly fucking me—I’m so rocked from the crash that my legs turn to Jell-O beneath me and I stumble. The men all step back, laughing like I’m here for their personal entertainment.
What I do next hurts my pride, even if I know it’s just for show. I start begging to the man in the cuffs, pawing at his boots.
“Please,” I moan. “Don’t do this. I’ve got money!”
“Angelo fucking De Maggio,” one of the men chuckles. “Jesus. And this is the man we’re supposed to be scared of—Jesus. Let him keep going, Mikey. Begging for his life suits the prick.”
“Don’t use my name!” the man with the cuffs, Mikey, snaps. “What the hell is the matter with—”
As I’ve been faux-begging for my life, I’ve been moving my hands over his boot. Now I flip up his jeans and grab the blade and spring to my feet all in one fluid motion. They all seem shocked for half a second, caught off-guard at how quickly I can move after the crash. And that half a second is all I need to put Mikey between me and the others and place his own knife against his throat.
“Gun, Mikey,” I growl in his ear. “Give me the gun.”
When he doesn’t move, I reach around with my free hand and ditch the knife and grab the gun. I put it against the side of his head, watching the men carefully. They’ve all got their pistols raised.
I’m counting on Mikey mattering to them in some way. If he doesn’t, they’ll just execute him right here. Without a hostage, it’ll be four against one. Goddamn, this is a mess. I feel my heart pounding. I want to snap Mikey’s neck in rage.
“Who wants to die tonight, gentlemen?” I say, feigning confidence, like I’ve got it all under control.
“Seems like you do.” A gruff-voiced man steps forward, a blood-red teardrop tattoo under his eye. “What sort of idiot’d do a fool move like that—fuck!”
He glances over my shoulder. I don’t turn, but I feel a presence walk up beside me. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see Felice raise his pistol. He can barely stand, his legs trembling, but he holds the pistol steady. When he talks, his words are choked with pain and I wonder if the impact of the car was holding something in place, if he made the bleeding worse by sliding free from the wreckage.
“Idioti,” he snarls. His signature ponytail has come loose, his blood-streaked hair falling around him, making him look deadly capable and unhinged. “You threaten my boss? You threaten the son of Carlo De Maggio? Are you crazy? Do you have a fucking death wish?”
“You know who this is,” I say, eyeing the teardrop man. I can see it in his eyes. I can feel the tension in Mikey as he quivers in my grip. I also know that Felice can’t stand here forever, that he’s bleeding out. Levi is still unconscious.
“So how do you want to play this?” I snarl.
“You are a fool if you think this is the end,” the teardrop man says after a long pause. They are slowly backing away to their car.
“Threaten my boss again,” Felice barks. “Go on, little man. Do it. Do it.”
He licks his lips, considering it, and then shakes his head in disgust. “We’ll be seeing you, Angelo.”
Felice curses in Italian and makes as if