with my limbs. Whatever Tito had given me was strong, even though pain still existed. Maybe it was wearing off. Which meant I had to get out before he came to give me another dose and found me gone.
I slipped past the men in the kitchen. I knew the man standing guard outside, though, was going to be a problem—a six-foot, four-inch, two hundred and fifty pound, solid-muscle, Sicilian issue. I’d met the guard, Rizzo, who they sometimes called “The Giant” at the door before, and I knew he was from Sicily. The Fausti’s reach was long, and they had family in every area imaginable.
“Kelly,” he said, squinting at me. He had a red stain on his cheek.
I lifted a gun to his head. “No offense, Rizzo, but I need a set of keys.”
“I’ll drive you,” he said. “Sala gave you—”
I shook my head. “Have to do this alone.”
He sighed and pulled out a pair of keys from his pocket. He threw them at me, and I caught them with one hand.
He nodded to an all-black Hummer across the street. “I am going to bust your ass as soon as you heal,” he called after me. “I would do it now, but I am too afraid of Sala. You know how he feels about stitches—they are his art.”
I pressed the button on the Hummer and it chirped, but right before I climbed inside, I felt someone watching me. I looked over my shoulder but didn’t see anyone. I knew, though. That Machiavellian motherfucker. Mac. He was like a ghost, always watching, and when you felt him, that was all it was. A feeling. He was never where you expected him to be.
And if he called Keely “my wife’s friend” one more time, I was going to swing on him. It was like no other woman’s name was good enough to come from his mouth except for his wife’s.
“Keely,” I said, as I strained to get inside of the Hummer. It was a road beast, and after I shut the door, I found a clean shirt on the passenger seat and a new pair of shoes on the floor.
I looked around again, but nothing but darkness surrounded me. There was no telling when Mac had arranged this ride and the clothes. Probably as soon as my wife called them for help. Again, he was a smart killer, one of the most dangerous of all. He plotted before he executed.
So how did my wife slip past the men in the house and Rizzo outside?
The stain of red on Rizzo’s cheek explained it. He was fucking eating. I could smell the aroma of tomatoes and garlic coming off of him. It was the same dish the guys were eating inside of the house. And if I knew Rocco, and somewhat Mac, they’d just arrived after taking care of the massacre outside of our place in Hell’s Kitchen. Keely had slipped out before then. Or they wouldn’t have allowed her to leave on her own.
I removed the shoulder holster and slipped the shirt over my head. It rubbed against all of the slices, separate little fires, the material trapping the heat underneath the bandages. It reflected what was going on inside of me. I was a walking fire—about to combust from anger.
The day at the country club, after the attempted hit on my life, I knew.
It was someone who knew me. Someone close. But I’d had to find out how far the operation went before I could take action.
I knew the why, too, but it was hard to concentrate on the reason. Not when my eyelids were heavy and my head kept going under and coming back up. My skin battled hot and cold—I was feverish. My teeth clacked.
“Fuck!” I yanked the wheel of the Hummer to the left, clipping a parked car on the right, taking its bumper completely off.
I shook my head, trying to keep it clear, while I sped through the streets like a drunk. It wasn’t even from the drugs anymore. The pain was ramping up because the buffers were wearing off. The motherfuckers must’ve stabbed me numerous times, and deep. The one on my neck had the deepest pulse. And my face. I was starting to feel it again. My nose the most. One of them must’ve kicked me when I was down and broke it—again.
It all came second to the pure determination to get to my wife, though. The pain reminded me that I had a purpose.
A raindrop