Page 102 of One Filthy Kiss

“Get her airlifted to the closest hospital under our control. Whatever it takes.” I can’t bear the thought of Meggie losing her best friend.

Bruno is already on his feet and barking instructions to his men.

How did she get outside? Ric had given them strict instructions to stay inside and head to the bunker at the first sign of trouble, so what went wrong between him leaving them in the cabin and Nikki getting shot out here? Did it involve Tommy Romano? Was she naïve enough to believe that he would keep her safe?

I think back to her and Meggie sitting on the kitchen floor together. Best friends. Meggie must have forgiven her for selling her out, so I don’t believe that they had another fight.

The only alternative is that Nikki sacrificed herself for Meggie.

I kneel on the grass and rest my hand on top of Nikki’s, noting the Band-aid, and whisper in her ear, “Hang in there, Nikki.” It’s all I can do right now.

Standing, I slide my pistol out of my pocket and follow Bruno and his contacts inside.

We don’t flick the light switch. Even in the gloom, it looks exactly as it had when I watched Enzo ransacking the place. The men make their way methodically through each room in formation. No one speaks until we reach the guest room.

“I’m checking the bunker.” I’m already on my knees and rolling back the carpet to reveal the trapdoor that leads underground.

“You’re not going alone.”

Bruno lowers himself through the hatch before I can respond that I need to do this. I need to find Meggie. If the worst-case scenario has come to pass, I can’t bear the thought of anyone else finding her. She deserves better than that from me.

Following the weak arc of light from Bruno’s cell phone, I force myself to imagine my reunion with the woman I love. Her beautiful smile, her green eyes, and the way she blushes when I call hermio fiore. If I believe it, it will happen.

I punch in the code to grant us access to the bunker when we arrive at the solid metal door. My pulse is jumping like a grasshopper as Bruno opens the door and enters with his revolver primed, but my breath staggers like an alcoholic at closing time when we discover that it is empty.

I knew it. My gut was telling me that she wasn’t here, but I had to see for myself.

We turn around and head back upstairs where one of Bruno’s men is waiting for us by the trapdoor. “There’s something I think you should see.”

We follow him outside and around to the rear of the property where the trees offer privacy for the occupants from the vacation homes further up the slope. My breath hitches, and bile rises in my throat when I spot the man hanging from the tallest tree like Jesus on the cross, arms tied to thick branches, head hanging over his chest.

I don’t need to get any closer to know that it is Ric.

His chest is riddled with bullets, and when Bruno lifts his head, there’s no mistaking who killed him. Ric’s eyes are hanging from their sockets, blood turning his features into a macabre Halloween mask.

“Get him down.” I turn away and head back towards the car.

There’s only one way The Fish would have gotten close enough to kill Ric. Two people have sacrificed themselves for Meggie, and I’m still one step behind the killer.

But not for much longer.

23

MEGAN

I keepAmber close to the wall as we make our way carefully down the slick, stone steps to the basement, holding her hand tightly. I watched my best friend get shot. We almost killed a man on the way here, driving like a lunatic. But I’m still worried about my little sister slipping on the steps and hurting herself.

It’s a basic instinct: she’s a child, and I’m her protector.

I brought her into this situation, and now I’m going to get her out of it.

When we reach the bottom, I shine the flashlight around the room searching for a hiding place. In one corner is a tall wooden wardrobe with clawed feet that would easily conceal us both, but that would be too obvious. I must treat this like a game of hide-and-seek, figure out where the seeker will look first, and hide somewhere else.

There are plenty of cardboard boxes and storage cartons, sacks of clothing— donations to the thrift store perhaps—an old gramophone player, a rocking horse, a haphazard stack of vinylLPs, some mannequins, and a store window backdrop of a fake waterfall surrounded by rocks with one-dimensional tourists sipping cocktails through pink straws.

The cartons are our best shot.

I crouch in front of Amber and hold her hands. Her face is pale and grubby, her eyes puffy with tears.