Page 148 of Shades of Grey & Gold

I look down at the youngest man on the floor.

“The Volkovs will find you,” he chokes on the words and the blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. “And they’ll find your whore, too.”

He tries and fails to lift his gun towards me and anger boils to the surface.

I step into his space, and his eyes go a little wide. He sputters on blood and coughs. I press the toe of my shoe into his wrist and the gun falls from his hand with a dull thud on the dirty tile floor.

I tilt my head slightly, the gears turning.

The Volkovs think they have me.

My eyes find the hole in the hood where the gas is coming from and the stove below, covered in old grease rags.

The Volkovs deserve to burn. And not just these two, but all of them.

I put more of my weight on the man’s wrist and he moans around a mouth full of blood.

The plan forms in my mind and my body moves.

I kick the gun far enough away from the man on the floor.

The grease rag is in my hand as I cross the kitchen to the gas range.

“Well, either we blow up or this works.” I glance back at the man who is still wide-eyed and sputtering.

I spin the igniter and it clicks and clicks before a small flame gasps to life.

“Oh, good, you have a few more minutes left.” I smile around the words. “Not long though, which is probably music to your ears because that looks painful.”

I light the rag and turn off the burner, throwing a few more rags on the pile. The flames grow and I step back over to the man, kneeling.

“You’ll never find a Renzetti on their knees, but where you’re going, I bet you’ll find yourself there plenty.”

I slap him on the cheek roughly, sending blood splattering across the tile, and stand, taking one more look around the kitchen.

I can disappear. I can get revenge while they think they killed me.

I can get Max somewhere far away from this—get her safe.

I turn as the flames breathe and grow, partially covering the doorway Max left through like a curtain.

The front of the restaurant is boarded up as I walk through the front dining room. Tables are set up and empty glasses sit on top. Plywood is covering the windows, a chain through the crash bar of the front door with a padlock the size of my fist.

But I know the fire is eating the back of the building with hunger.

My gun is still in my hand, and I lift it, turning my head slightly after aiming at the padlock and I pull the trigger.

The chain whips free and the door gives under my palm.

The pressure wave hits me from behind at the same time—heat and force and the shriek of metal—and then I’m outside, or I’m in the air, or I’m on the ground, and the sidewalk is against my face and there is glass in my hair and the sound in my ears…

There isn’t sound anymore, just a high sustained note where the world used to be.

I put my hands flat on the concrete and lift my head. My gun is a few feet in front of me and I push myself up to grab it.

One knee and then the other and then I’m standing, hobbling to pick it up.

My left side feels wrong, something in my ribs, maybe my shoulder, and a deep ache of damage somewhere. I can feel blood running down my face.