Page 103 of Relapse
The heel cracks directly against the side of his head.
A horrible sound snaps through the chaos.
Bone maybe.
Or plastic.
Or the universe finally applauding my terrible decision-making skills, one will never know.
His grip loosens instantly.
Mina tears herself free while he staggers sideways, blinking like his brain just blue-screened. I don’t wait for him to recover. I swing again, harder this time, catching him near the temple.
He drops.
Straight down.
Like a sack of violent trash in a polo shirt that had definitely survived at least three divorces.
Mina grabs my wrist immediately.
“Blair!”
“What?!”
“Those are Dante’s guys!”
Cold shoots straight through me.
“What?”
Mina drops beside the guy I just introduced to my platform heel and yanks his limp hand up by the wrist.
“How can you tell?”
She twists his hand toward me beneath the flashing lights.
There, inked across the back of it in black and red, is a thorned halo wrapped around a split snake tongue.
Dante’s mark.
Subtle, obviously.
Nothing says low-profile criminal organization like branding your henchmen with evil Etsy symbolism.
Mina’s face goes pale.
“Dante’s inner crew all have it. The halo means they work directly under him.”
My stomach drops.
The music keeps pounding.
People keep screaming.
For one stupid second, my brain tries to reject the information like, no thank you, we are closed for trauma today.
Then gunshots explode somewhere near the entrance again.
