Page 97 of Mafia Queen
“If you kill me…” He leverages his good arm to get himself into a crouch. “My father’s coming after you. Hard.”
“That’s a wish. Not a prayer.”
“He’ll kill you.” Damiano’s useful arm takes the gun from the dangling one. “And then his own—”
Santino doesn’t wait for him to finish. He raises my gun—the one thrown to the side of the road—and hits the other shoulder. Damiano’s gun clacks to the ground. Both arms are useless now.
I can’t hold back another second. Santino’s here, alive, in my embrace. The taste of him and the rain is on my lips. My heart is thawed. All I want is to spend days in bed with him, telling him how much I love him.
I bury my face in his chest, letting him hold me up—still so strong after everything he’s been through.
“We’re not done,” he says softly. I shake my head against his bare skin, but I know he’s right. We’re not done. “Kick his gun away.”
Letting Santino go takes more strength than I feel, but there won’t be days in bed until I do what he says, and I trust he knows what to do. But when we separate, I feel the pang of want and the safety of the ties that keep us together.
With a breath, I take a few steps toward the man with two flopping arms.
“You think being with him makes you something,” he says. “It doesn’t. He doesn’t give you any power.”
“I know.”
Using the side of my foot, I send his gun skittering over the wet pavement.
“Now pick it up,” Santino says, keeping Damiano in his sights.
Santino takes nothing for granted, but I do because I’m looking at him when I bend for the gun. His competence. His grace. His shredded shirt. The way the rain plays over his face and body.
“Shit!” Santino shouts, and before the whole word’s out of his mouth, the gun is swiped from under me. “Gia!” He aims at her, then Damiano, then her again.
“Stop it!” Gia cries, snotty and bloodshot, aiming the gun at me. “Please. Can you all stop?”
“Put it down,” I say.
“I can’t stand it!” She’s shouting now, raising her voice to a shrill scream. “No more killing. No more fingers. No more pain. It’s too much. Do you understand? It’stoo much to take!”
Her hands get tighter around the pistol, and I’m a dead woman.
“Gia!” Santino roars.
That will be the last word I hear. Her name in his mouth.
With a jerky motion, she aims over her head and with a long, primal scream, takes five shots into the air. She runs out of energy and tosses the gun at my feet.
“Fucking Gia,” Damiano mutters, kneeling, knuckles dragging, held in check by the threat of death.
“Shut the fuck up,” Santino barks.
I pick up the gun.
“Shoot me,” Gia says. “I don’t care. Just end this. It’s not what I wanted. I hate it.”
“On your knees,” I say, aiming at her.
She complies, palms upward.
Will Santino stop me? Will Damiano beg for her life?
“Do it,” she pleads. “Please.”
