Page 58 of Loathe Me (Touch of Death 1)
Una passes the kitchen doorway and pauses. “Tommy, watch her. Keep away from the windows.”
I have the smallest of opportunities, and I know it. Everyone is concentrated on the front of the house.
“Come on,” Tommy jerks his head toward the doorway, and I follow him into the lounge. “What do you want to watch?” he asks, turning on the TV. He can’t be serious; they’re about to start blowing up the lawn, and he wants to watch TV.
“I don’t mind,” I say, creeping around behind him. I carefully pick up the lamp off the side table and move closer.
“How about—”
I bring it down on his head, and he hits the floor. Unconscious. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” I whisper, tears stinging my eyes. Guilt festers away at me as I pat him down, taking the gun from his chest holster. Placing a pillow under his head, I leave the living room. The back of the house is relatively quiet. Stepping into a hallway, I aim for the back door. Only when I’m close, do I see two figures.
“No one is allowed in or out,” one of the guys says in Italian.
Shit, shit, shit. My heart hammers, and my lungs seem to shrink. My hand trembles as I lift the gun and fire. Two bullets in quick succession. There are groans of pain as the two men roll around on the floor. I kick their weapons away. “I’m sorry!”
Stepping over them, I open the back door and walk out into the clean night air. My breath fogs in front of my face, and when I look up, stars scatter across a crystal clear sky. On the other side of the house, I can hear the sharp crack of gunfire in rapid succession—a machine gun.
The grass is beginning to frost, and it crunches under my feet as I round the corner of the house. I intend to cut through the woods and outflank the fight, but I halt when a shadowy figure separates from the side of the house, blocking my path. At first, I instinctively shy away from the person dressed in black, but it takes only a moment for me to recognize Sasha’s silhouette. And then I have to wonder if I wouldn’t rather run into an Elite out here. They’d be easier to get away from.
He inhales a deep breath, releasing it on a sigh. “I almost wish you weren’t this predictable, Adelina.”
I clutch the gun in my hand. “What choice do I have?”
“You said you trusted me.”
“I do!”
“If that were true, we wouldn’t be here.”
“You don’t understand.”
He steps forward, and the reminiscent light from the house makes his features distinguishable in the darkness. “I understand revenge perfectly.”
“Have you ever lost anyone, Sasha?”
“Many.”
“Did you ever lose anyone who wasn’t a soldier? Someone you loved?”
He narrows his eyes. “Not yet.”
“I hope you never do. I don’t want you to lose any of them.” I glance back towards the house, picturing Nero and Una, Gio and Jackson, Tommy, all taking a stand.
“It doesn’t have to be like this. Please, just…think it through.”
“I have thought of nothing else. My burden is not theirs. It’s not yours.”
“My burden is whatever I choose it to be.” His fists clench, and the muscle in his jaw ticks. “Don’t put this on me, malyshka. If you run now, you do it for your own selfish reasons.”
“He killed my father! It’s not selfish. It’s justice.”
“You kill Enrique, and then what? His men kill you? What is it all for, Adelina? It won’t bring him back.”
“He’ll no longer be walking around while my father rots in the ground.” Tears sting my eyes. “I have nothing else.”
“You have me,” the broken confession slips past his lips, burrowing into my chest.
The tears break free, sliding down my cheeks. “You can’t fill this void, Sasha. No one can.” I’ve realized that in the last twenty-four hours, with the possibility of retribution so close.
It’s all-consuming. Sasha is a beautiful and heroic distraction to a lonely, broken girl. He makes me feel safe, and truthfully, I don’t want to leave him, but I need more. I need a purpose beyond just hiding while allowing others to fight for me. I need Enrique Bianchi’s blood.
“I won’t let you do this,” he vows, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
I hate what comes next, but he leaves me no option. Desperation claws at me like a rabid animal. “How can you not see; this will fix everything.”
“It won’t fix you.” He won’t listen, won’t see reason.
With a trembling hand, I lift the gun. “Move, Sasha.”
“No.”
“I don’t want to hurt you!”
He tosses his own weapon on the ground and takes a step forward. The barrel of my gun nudges against his stomach, but he never wavers. I hate him for doing this, for being the noble hero, when I just need him to be a cold bastard right now. It would make this far easier.
