Page 13 of Wicked Mafia Beast
"Okay. Okay, yeah." She takes a breath, visibly steeling herself. "It's this way."
We make it maybe fifteen feet before I hear the footsteps behind us. Boots strike concrete in a steady rhythm that bounces off the alley walls and settles like ice in my stomach. My hand finds Sloane's arm and I'm about to drag her forward into a run when more footsteps reach my ears from the opposite end of the alley, cutting off our only escape route.
My stomach drops straight through the concrete.
"Stop." I grab Sloane's arm and pull her backward, my fingers digging into her skin. "Listen."
She freezes, her breath catching as the footsteps register. Her eyes dart from one end of the alley to the other, calculating, then meet mine with a fear that mirrors my own. "Please tell me those are drunk guys looking for a shortcut."
"Those aren't drunk guys looking for a shortcut."
They emerge from the shadows like they've been waiting there all along.
Because they have.
My heart forgets its job for one stuttering beat that leaves me dizzy. Then it kicks back in double-time, slamming against my ribs so hard I can feel it in my throat. My blood goes cold, my skin prickling with the ancient animal instinct that screamspredatorbefore my brain has time to catch up.
Three men from the direction we were heading. Two more blocking the way back to the club. All of them built like trucks, dressed in dark clothes, moving with the kind of coordinated precision that screams professional.
Trapped. We're trapped.
I recognize one of them. Brennan. He's been on my uncle's payroll for as long as I can remember, a fixer who handles the jobs too dirty for anyone with a conscience. He's got a scar through his left eyebrow, old and faded, and dead eyes that have never once looked at me like I'm a person.
"Ms. Malone." His voice is almost polite. Almost. "Your uncle is worried about you."
"Ha! I'll bet he is. Worried he'll lose his payday?" I position myself slightly in front of Sloane, anchoring one hand on the strap of my laptop bag and the other on her. Not that I can shield either of us against five armed men for long, but old habits die hard.
Brennan's lips twitch into a sneer. "He just wants you home safe."
"Funny definition of safe, considering he's the one who wants to sell me."
Brennan's eyebrows lift a fraction of an inch, the first genuine reaction I've seen from him. "You know about that." It's not a question.
"I know about a lot of things."
The surprise disappears as fast as it came, his face smoothing back into professional blankness. He takes a step forward, and the other men close in tighter, shrinking the space around us until I can barely breathe.
"We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Miss Malone. Your choice."
I snort. "How cliché of you. Did you learn that phrase in the How To Be a Hitman Resource Guide?” I shake my head. “Nah. How about a third option where you go fuck yourself?"
Okay, probably not my smartest comeback line, but I'm running on adrenaline and terror, and my mouth has always worked faster than my brain.
Brennan sighs like I've just made his day. "Hard way it is."
Everything hits fast forward after that.
The two men behind us move first, and I shove Sloane sideways just as one of them grabs for her arm. She stumbles, catches herself against the grimy brick wall, and comes up swinging her stilettos like weapons. The heel catches the guy across the face, and he howls, blood spraying from a gash on his cheek.
I make a mental note to never judge a girly girl by her looks. My girl can fight.
But there's no time to celebrate because Brennan is on me from behind, one arm locking around my waist like a steel band whilehis other hand clamps around my wrist hard enough to grind the bones together. He yanks me backward against his chest, and I'm engulfed in cigarettes and expensive cologne, the same kind my uncle wears. The familiarity of it makes my stomach heave. His breath is hot against the back of my neck, his body a wall of heat I can't escape no matter how hard I fight him.
I twist, driving my elbow back into his ribs the way my self-defense instructor taught me a lifetime ago when I thought the worst thing that could happen was a handsy date. His grip turns to iron, his fingers digging into the soft tissue of my inner wrist hard enough to leave bruises I'll wear for weeks.
If I live that long.
He grunts but doesn't let go. His grip tightens, and pain shoots up my arm like lightning.
