Page 2 of Perfect Vengeance

No way was she giving up. Not only was she so not ready to die, but there were too many desperate women counting on the money in that safe. Still facing the open closet, she fisted her hands, then froze as the muzzle of a gun pressed against the back of her head. The tip of the metal barrel bit straight through the thin fabric of her hood.

Taking a deep breath, she lashed out, knocking the barrel of the gun away from her head. Rocco cursed. Gina jabbed first, one fist, then the other, hitting nothing but air. She struck out with a right cross. One of her knuckles grazed his jaw.

Left jab. A miss but close. Her right hook finally connected with something solid—his wrist. She peppered him with blow after blow. Jab, cross, hook, uppercut. Each time, he parried, blocking her shots with expert precision. The man had skills. If she didn’t take him down soon, she’d tire and he’d overpower her.

Backing off, she whipped her leg up and around, executing a flawless roundhouse kick. The duffel hindered her movement, but her foot still made contact.

He grunted. “Sonofa—” A large hand spun her, shoving her against the wall.

She flung her hands in front of her. Too late. Her forehead smacked into the drywall, sending pain splintering through her head.

“Next time, do what I tell you when I tell you.” He loomed over her, keeping his hand rammed between her shoulder blades, pinning her to the wall.

She squirmed beneath his hand, but he only mashed her face tighter against the wall. If he’d wanted to pump her full of lead, or at least activate her dental plan, he would have done it by now. Teeth-bashing had always been a mob favorite.

Through the haze of pain jabbing her forehead, it occurred to her that Rocco really was looming over her. But he shouldn’t be.

At five foot four, the plump little mobster was an inch shorter than she was. Gina knew that from surveilling him steadily off and on for the last four weeks. She’d never heard the man speak, but it had to be him. This was his apartment, after all. Who else would it be?

Yet the man towering over her had to be a good foot taller than she was. Come to think of it, his voice didn’t have that unmistakable accent all New Jersey mobsters were known for. This voice was deep and rich, reminding her of a country music singer. A very pissed-off country music singer.

Of all the things to take notice of with a gun jammed against your thick, stupid skull.

“I’m not in a good mood tonight, and your bullshit isn’t helping.” His hand dropped from her back. “Turn around. Slowly.”

Gina obeyed his order and turned. Click. A bright light blinded her, and she squinted. Figures he had one of those fancy cop flashlights. Tiny white stars danced in her vision. She couldn’t see a thing other than the guy was huge with broad shoulders and a chest as wide as a gorilla.

Something touched the back of her head. The hood of her skintight catsuit was yanked off and fell onto her back.

“Ouch.” She flinched and massaged her stinging scalp where he’d pulled out several strands of her hair.

“You’ve gotta be kidding.” He let loose with a string of colorful words, some of which she’d never heard before. “A woman.”

“Last time I checked.” The words had flown from her mouth before she could stop them.

“Listen, wiseass.” His hand clamped around her arm, and he hauled her upward, forcing her to stand on her toes. The flashlight was so near her face, the light so harsh, she had to squeeze her eyes shut before her retinas fried. “You weren’t invited to this party, so you’re damn sure gonna tell me who you are.”

“Dream on, caveman.” His viselike grip on her upper arm tightened. Strong fingers bit into her flesh. She gasped, and he eased his hold, as if he hadn’t realized he’d been hurting her.

“Once more,” he said, pulling her closer but surprisingly more gently this time, “tell me who you’re working for.”

“You first,” she snapped with more volume than intended, considering he was the one holding the gun.

She gulped hard, and the microphone Velcroed around her neck bobbed up and down. That microphone was a dead giveaway she had communication with someone else. Revealing her name wasn’t an option, and she’d die before giving up her accomplices. If anyone discovered she and her friends were stealing from the Falzone Crime Family, they’d either be whacked or get tossed in jail, where the long arm of Franco Falzone would eventually reach out and knife them in the back. Literally. And the helpless women Gina and her friends had been donating money to for the last two years would also be imprisoned. A different sort of prison, one filled with savage beatings and emotional hell for the rest of their lives.

“Lady, you have no idea what you’ve walked into or how much you’ve royally screwed things.”

“I screwed things?” She tried opening her eyes to glimpse his face, but the light from the flashlight was too intense. “Forgive me if I don’t apologize, but your presence here doesn’t exactly help me out either.”

He snorted. “Helping you isn’t at the top of my list. Now for the last time, who⁠—”

The sound of the apartment’s front door opening filtered into the bedroom.

“Shit,” he whispered, then released her arm so abruptly she nearly collapsed on the floor.

It had to be Rocco. The real Rocco.

The flashlight clicked off. She still couldn’t see anything but flashes and pops of white and yellow. She was as helpless as a bat in daylight.