Page 32 of His Savage Vow
We slip through the shadows toward the metal building. A single overhead light casts shadows across the cracked pavement.
Inside, voices echo in a foreign language that I’m almost certain is Russian. Their coarse laughter spills out into the night, along with the sound of something heavy being dragged.
Enzo’s crew fans out, rifles up. Maximo raises a hand, motioning them to wait as he peers over a pile of crates. Then, in one fluid motion, he signals, and the world explodes into chaos.
Gunfire suddenly rips through the air. I dive behind a stack of wooden pallets, my heart thundering.
Maximo moves like a man born to commit violence. He peers over his cover, carefully lining up shots with his pistol. At least one of the Russians seems to recognize him in the chaos. I hear one of them shout his name, then a man runs around the side of the warehouse close to the two of us. I can see his eyes narrowing in the band of light cast from the warehouse, then the barrel of his gun swings towards us.
The impact from the first shot throws him sideways. He stumbles, hitting the ground hard.
“Max!” My scream tears out of me before I can stop it. The sight of him falling, it knocks the air from my lungs. He can’t die. Not after last night. Not like this.
Maximo’s vest takes the worst of it, but I can see him clutch at his side, grimacing. As he scuttles across the ground trying toget into cover, a second shot shatters the air, and Maximo curses bitterly as a spurt of blood flies from his left calf.
Something in me snaps.
I fire back wildly. My aim isn’t perfect, but training kicks in, the stance Maximo drilled into me and the breath control. One of my shots lands.
The Russian that shot Maximo staggers backwards and collapses. Another appears in the warehouse doorway but goes down immediately clutching at his neck. I have no idea if I shot them both, or if it was one of Maximo’s men who are surging around us. My ears ring from the noise, but I keep shooting until someone, Enzo, grabs my shoulder and hauls me behind cover.
“Keep your fucking head down!” he shouts over the firing.
By the time the last of the Russians scatter, the warehouse smells of gunpowder smoke and the hot metal of spent shell casings. Enzo runs over to a truck where a dead Russian is slumped over the steering wheel. He throws the body back in the seat, then digs through the cab and comes up with a phone.
He holds the screen up to the dead man’s face to unlock it, then scrolls through the texts as he walks back towards us, his face darkening. “Boss… you need to see this. Here, take it and forward everything while I get you guys out of here.”
Maximo takes it from him, leaning on me for balance as we limp back towards his Escalade. His jaw tightens with each message he reads as I help him climb into the back seat and Enzo starts the engine.
“What is it?” I ask as soon as we pull away. My hands are trembling uncontrollably, and I grab both my knees to try and steady myself.
Maximo meets my eyes, and for a moment I wish he’d lie. But he doesn’t.
“The Volkovs are making moves to end the Luciani family.They’re planning more than just a hit here and there. They want to wipe us out. Permanently.”
He passes me the phone so I can look at it myself. It feels heavy in my hand; heavier than any weapon I’ve held.
A chill cuts through the last of my adrenaline. This isn’t just revenge for my father anymore, or even justice. This is an all-out mafia war, and I’ve tied myself to its most dangerous soldier.
12
Maximo
Enzo’s voicecuts through the ringing in my ears as he yells into his phone. “Sweep the warehouse! Anything we can use, load it up in the trucks. Destroy any cameras or surveillance gear. Everything else—burn it. Move your asses, people, before the cops get there!”
I’m more than happy to let him take point while I settle myself in the back seat, trying to shift my left leg into a position that isn’t agony. My calf burns like fire, but it isn’t the worst of it. Every breath I take scrapes against my ribs, a hot reminder that even a ballistic vest can only do so much to protect the human body.
Constance reaches down to grab my ankles and pull my legs up into her lap. I try to wave her off, but she seems determined to roll up the leg of my suit pants and assess the damage. She holds up her phone for light and inhales sharply as she sees the blood leaking from the bullet wound.
“I’m fine,” I assure her.
“You’re not fine, you’re bleeding!” she says as she pulls off my shoe and sock, then ties the sock around the wound. Constance’s hands tremble slightly as she ties the makeshift tourniquet. She doesn’t try to hide it from me, and something about that hits me harder than the bullet.
“Lie back and stop fidgeting!”
She barks the order like she’s the one in charge. Like she commands me.
Fuck, I think part of me wants her to.
