Vendetta

eighteen

DEVON

I read the message again. They couldn't have been that stupid, could they? Last location reads one of our warehouses. They're fucking morons, but I'm thankful. At least I know exactly where to go. And I had my phone tracked as well, because they never told me where I am.

I could tell my uncle about it, but I don't. I know it's stupid, I'm wounded and I'm probably no match for however many of them are there, but they think I'm dead, and there's an element of surprise there. They won't expect me to come after her. And who knows who else of our men, or Keith's, is a traitor, and could tip them off that we know the location.

No, I'll have to do it myself. Or, well, with as little help as I can get.

I wait until midnight. I don't know why. Time is wasting, and God knows what they're doing to her, but I can't risk getting caught. Even as I get out of bed and search for any clothes I can find, I know it's a stupid idea. Thankfully, there's a button-up pajama top that will have to do, all the better for not hurting my shoulder trying to wear a shirt.

As I'm fumbling with the buttons, my phone screen flashes, letting me know it's go time. My heart skips a beat. What if I'm late already? What if they did something to her and it's all my fucking fault?

I'd know if she was dead. I can just feel it; I know she's still holding on.

I grab the phone and try the door. For some reason I expect it to be locked, but it opens and I walk out into the corridor, trying to find a way out. As I pass through the dark hallway, I see a figure standing and duck. The pain from my shoulder slices through my body, but I ignore it. I couldn't risk taking any pills, for fear of them slowing me down. It helps, too, keeping me alert.

I hear a couple of unintelligible voices, and then they fade away, until I can’t hear them anymore. I exhale in relief, but stay low as I head for the huge glass doors on the other side of the room. Hopefully, they lead outside.

I open them just a little, and squeeze myself outside, inhaling the cold, fresh air. I look around and want to groan in frustration. It's a fucking garden, iron fence all around, and I don't see a gate or anything like that. The house is an old one, and everywhere I look there are mountains.

I backtrack, but then the figure is back with a friend and there's no way to get inside without them seeing me. I turn back and look at the fence. If my shoulder wasn't so bad, I could jump it. Too bad I have to do it either way.

I run across the garden until I reach the end. The fence only comes to my chin, but it's still a struggle. I raise my good hand and latch onto the railing, then, applying as little pressure as I can on the other, somehow maneuver myself over it, landing on the other side on my back with a thud.

“Fuck.” Now my whole arm hurts, not just the fucking shoulder.

Why couldn't she fucking shoot somewhere else, like my fingers? Or not at all? All she had to do was tell me she didn't want to come with me, and I would have let her go.

Even as I think it, I know it's not true. I wouldn't have let her go, because I was so focused on just the two of us, thinking it should be enough. I didn't stop to consider that she's still losing her family. Of course she would have fought me. God, I'm such a jerk.

I bring my good arm up and cover my eyes, breathing deeply and trying to calm my pounding heart. Finally, I stand up. It's a fucking effort. I look down and the plaid fabric is stained with crimson, spreading fast.

I trek through the snow-covered ground for I don't know how long, hoping I'm going south. My feet are freezing because I don't have any shoes on. I just need to find a road, and then it should be easy. Emerging between the thick trees, my feet finally hit solid ground. I turn my head from one side to the other, looking for any light source. And then I see it, flashing way further down the gravel road. I look back and the house I left is nowhere in sight.

How long until they realize I'm gone?

I walk slowly down the road, already weakening from the blood loss. Not my brightest idea, this. Finally, I reach the car and the door flies open, and Colin steps out.

“Fuck,” he says, supporting me as we walk to the car. “You look like shit, Devon.”

“Let's just get the fuck out of here.”

He brings me to the back door, and it opens. I groan, seeing Amber in the back. “What the fuck did you bring her for? Do you know how dangerous this is?”

“Trust me, man, you want her here,” is all he says.

I want to argue, but then I remember I'm on a mission, so I shake my head, throw my phone in the bushes by the car, and hop in the back with her. She immediately presses a towel against my shoulder, soaking up the blood. I wince in pain.

“Oh, man up already, that bullet barely grazed you,” she says, biting on her lip and pressing harder. She doesn't sound like Soraya or Amber. Quickly, she lifts her hand off my wound and takes off the bandage from my shoulder. This is the first time I've looked at it since I woke up. It looks . . . like it more than just grazed me. I narrow accusing eyes at Amber.

“That was a smart shot. I've seen worse.” She takes my hand and places it over the towel. “Hold that.” Reaching with her arm behind her back, she produces a duffle bag, and takes out a medical kit, looking through it.

“How much do you weigh?”

What the fuck? “How would I know? What do you think you're doing?”

She looks me over, ignoring my question. “How bad would you say the pain is, one to ten?”

“It hurts like a fucking motherfucker, that's how bad it is.”

Her eyes lift to mine, and I realize she's laughing at me, fumbling with a syringe and a small drug vial. My eyes widen, but it's too late to back away. She sticks the needle into my bicep.

“What the fuck did you just give me?”

“Relax, it's just for the pain. It'll take half an hour, but then it should start to ease.”

“I fucking didn’t take any meds on purpose, and you do this? It’ll slow me down.”

“It won’t, it’s not a narcotic. Just calm down, sheesh.”

“Who are you?” I ask in disbelief, looking at Colin in the rearview mirror. He just shakes his head in that don't even go there way.

This is not the sweet Amber, or the seductress Soraya.

“If you start to feel any abdominal pain or tightness in your chest, you need to tell me straight away,” she says, all business. “You're welcome, by the way.”

“What for?” I ask, confused. She can't mean I should be thankful she just stabbed me with a needle containing God knows what.

“Saving your life.” A duh is implied.

“Wha—what?”

“Yeah, if I hadn't been on time the other night, you'd be dead by now. I came to pick up the car. Didn't see that one coming, I have to say. Girl's got balls.”

“Holy fuck, who the hell are you?” I try to sound angry, but I'm really just astounded. Not to mention my shoulder is starting to numb, the pain lesser and lesser, the way she said it would be.

She brings up a badge from her jeans back pocket, and all I can read is FBI before she takes it away.

“A fed,” I say, sounding like an idiot. “How old are you?” For some reason it seems important to know this.

“I'm twenty-six.”

“But you look barely legal.”

“Well, yeah, that's the idea.” And she even says it in her Soraya voice. I'm completely taken aback by the transformation. The woman is good.

As we drive in silence and the pain eases, my anxiety skyrockets. I shove my phone with the warehouse location at Colin until something dawns on me. “Colin?”

“Yeah, man. I've been undercover for a while.”

For at least two years, if I remember correctly.

“You okay?” Soraya slash Amber slash who-the-fuck-even-knows-her-name asks while putting a new bandage on my shoulder. I don't even realize she's doing it until I look at her, the area already numb.

“Yeah,” I say, finally realizing what I just found out. For fuck's sake, is nothing sacred? We've had the feds around us all this time and no one fucking knew.

“Why are you two here?”

“You called us,” Colin says.

I growl in frustration. “I mean, why are you undercover?”

Colin turns around and looks at me, then back to the road.

“The short version?” Amber asks. “There was a buzz something big was about to happen. It took us a while to figure it out—”

“And a lot of cock-sucking,” Colin adds, flat.

“Shit, St—Colin,” Amber says. “It's not like I had a choice, is it? This is why I fucking don't mix business with pleasure.”

“Are you two Mulder-and-Scullying it?”

They're both silent, confirming my suspicions. I laugh, and it's a scary, out-of-my-mind sound. “This shit just keeps getting better and better.”

“Okay, lover boy,” Amber says, her brown eyes laughing with me, but her voice all serious. “So, the plan was to create one central family. Stevie Romano and George McDougal started it years ago.” She looks at me sadly.

Take down the bosses. I get it. It started with the death of my family. But nothing has happened since, not until recently, with the Potenza’s car bomb, and now Gino Fermi.

“You can see why we had to get involved,” Colin continues. “Controlling several clusters is easier than it is to have one powerful family. You people war between yourselves, and it's hard enough infiltrating you like this, but to have you united—you have a very strong code of honor and loyalty as it is.”

“Yeah, strong, my ass,” I say bitterly.

“There's a new boss in training. We think it's someone they can control and influence, but so far, we’ve no idea who it is.” Amber shrugs. “It goes against everything we know about the mob, which is why it's so dangerous. Your whole hierarchy suits us. This would change everything.”

“What's your name?”

“You know better than to ask that,” she answers, tsk-tsk-tsk-ing.

I lean my head back on the leather seat, closing my eyes. “Well, I'm out. No need to control me, or anything. I'm out.”

“Devon Andre,” Amber says knowingly. “I’ve been watching you for far too long to believe that.” She’s been fucking watching me? Hey eyes meet mine. “It's who you are," she says simply.

The worst part is she's right. There's no way out, even though my father thought there could be. My uncle knows it; I know it. I mull over it for the rest of the drive off the mountain, realizing this could mean a few things. I'm in it for life, whether I like it or not. Even if I leave, I'll always be Devon Andre, the son of Joe Andre, the grandson of Mario Andre, one of the biggest mob names in Boston. But the thing that's really bothering me is that this could mean that there's no way Leighton and I can ever make it work. If I stay here, I'm still Devon Andre, and she's still Leighton Moore. Oil and water.

It is what it is.

“We're here,” Colin says, slowing down the car as we near the Boston harbor just as I’m putting on the shoes Amber gave me. He parks on the side of the road.

I glance outside the car window, my surroundings familiar, but we're not quite there. I touch my newly bandaged shoulder, not feeling any pain yet.

Amber hands me a gun and buttons up my pajama shirt again. It's fucking surreal; I have a fed handing me a gun. She rests her hands on my pecs when she's done.

“Stop that,” I tell her.

She throws her head back and laughs, bringing her hands up in surrender. “The meds will wear off in an hour or so,” she says, looking at her watch.

“That's all I need,” I say.

I try to play it out in my head—if I took someone and held them in one of our warehouses, where would I take them?

There's an iron hatch in the office floor leading underground to a big storage area, separated into two. That's where, I decide. I quickly explain to them where it is, and that's where I'm going. They can cover me, or something. Whatever cops or feds do.

Colin shakes his head. “No, man. You're on your own.”

It takes me a beat until I finally nod, understanding. We are on different sides of the law. “You're not coming back at all?”

Amber snorts. “In an hour this place will be surrounded by feds. Consider it a gift.”

“What? Why—”

“I think I owe you,” Colin interrupts me. “I wouldn’t have died, but you stood up for me. You're a good man, whether you believe it or not. You've got old-school morals and beliefs. If we're dealing with the mob, we'd rather it's you.”

I don't know if I should be insulted or flattered.

I get out of the car, holding the door open. Amber follows me out, and so does Colin. She leans down and takes out another gun from under her jeans leg, throwing it to me. “Just in case.” She winks, smiling. “Good luck,” she says, saluting me, and closes the door, then walks away.

Colin hands me the keys to the car. “Yeah, man.” That’s all he says, turning around and going after her.

I look down at the keys. “What about you two?” I ask. Colin just raises his hand and waves it. I stare at their retreating silhouettes as they disappear behind the building, thinking—well, I still can’t wrap my head around it. They're fucking feds.

I look up at the sky, the stars still visible, although it's early morning. Then I square my shoulders, and head in to get back the woman I love. Whatever happens, I won't let anyone take her away from me.

I walk slowly inside the warehouse, and immediately spot an armed man outside the office. Only one. Cocky bastards. I approach him quietly, holding the gun Amber gave me in my injured hand, the other one secured at my waist. It's not like I plan on shooting; that would only attract attention. I sneak up on him from behind and dig it into his back, clamping my good hand over his mouth. He tenses under my grasp, but I don’t give him time to react. I pull his head to the side and hear the crack in his neck, then lower his lifeless body to the ground.

The lights are off in the office, making me nervous. I can't see a thing in there. I walk, the sneakers Colin brought me making no sound against the floor. It seems to be clear.

I lift the hatch, and as I suspected, the lights are on down there. I descend the stairs, shifting the gun to my good hand. Again, nobody seems to be around. Did they really think no one would search, or find them here?

I open the door to the bigger storage area, pointing the gun inside. It seems to be empty. Then I hear a voice booming behind the other door, the one to the smaller storage room. Suddenly, the door opens, and I move aside against the wall. That fucker, George, closes it behind him, lighting up a cigarette. I emerge from the shadow, my gun already pointed at him.

He looks taken aback at my appearance, shifting on his feet, then opens his mouth to say something. I shoot, straight between his eyes. There's rustle in the room and then the door flies open one more time, Stevie coming out with a drowsy looking Leighton in front of him.

She smiles at me, a huge gash across her cheek and her left eye all swollen. I don't have the time to feel relieved that she’s at least alive because he has a gun against her temple. Why is she smiling?

“What did you do to her?” I yell.

He leers at me. “What didn't we do to her?” he asks, grinding into her back.

I see red.

I charge at him and he pushes her away and against me. I clench my teeth in pain; all the adrenaline made me forget I have a gunshot wound in my shoulder.

He turns to run away and I raise my gun to shoot him, holding up Leighton with my bad arm.

I was always told shooting someone when they turn their back on you is not an honorable thing to do. In fact, this is what Stevie himself taught me.

Well, fuck honor. This prick has killed my family, manipulated me, and now, he’s done God knows what to the one person I’d kill for at this point.

I shoot him in his left leg, then the other, and he falls down, cursing in pain. He turns around on the floor, his gun pointed at us, and I quickly pull Leighton in the storage room, placing her down to sit. She clutches with her arms around my neck when I try to pull away, so I forcefully unclamp them and leave her sitting there, heading back out.

“No, stay,” she calls for me, a desperate sound that stops me in my tracks.

I come back to her, thinking I'm wasting time but I need to make sure she's okay. I cup her face in my hands. She looks at me, her eyes unfocused, her pupils dilated, and smiles. “Am I dead?”

“No, Leighton,” I say, placing a kiss to her forehead. “You'll be fine. I came for you.”

Her eyes fill with tears, making my heart hurt. “I didn't mean to—” she sobs. “—I killed you. I fucking killed you.”

“Leighton, I'm here. The bullet barely grazed me.” I repeat Amber's lie. It wouldn't hurt like a bitch if it just grazed me. Then again, I've never been shot before, so maybe it can be much worse than this.

She just cries harder. Whatever they gave her isn't anywhere near wearing off. I wipe away her tears, kissing her salty lips. It hurts like hell to leave her when she's like this, but I need to take care of Stevie first.

I peek from the room, and see Stevie is trying to crawl away, sliding across the floor toward the other storage room. I walk after him. He turns on his back and shoots, barely missing. I raise my gun and shoot his arm. His gun clatters to the floor, echoing in the hallway. He scrambles for it, so I shoot again, this time aiming at his stomach. He falls down to the floor, unmoving, as a red patch soaks his shirt.

I walk up to him, my gun still at aim, and kick his gun with my foot out of his reach, although there's no point. Blood gurgles audibly up his throat and out of his mouth, sliding down his cheek and dripping onto the floor. He's trying to say something, still conscious. I like it like that. I aim the gun at his groin, smiling, and shoot again. And again. And again, until there are no more bullets left.

I stand there for at least ten minutes, watching him die. It's a glorious feeling. I was fooling myself, thinking I'm above this. I wanted this revenge so bad. Amber was right; this is exactly who I am.

I walk back to the room where I left Leighton, only to find her still crying, mumbling to herself. “I just want to die,” I hear her say.

“Come on,” I say, lifting her up and supporting her on my good shoulder. The other one is starting to throb already.

She puts her arms around my waist, squeezing, still mumbling. We're slowly making our way up the stairs, when we hear another gunshot.

“Fuck,” I say, at the same time as Leighton squeals. I take out the spare gun from my waistband, and continue climbing up the stairs, hoping Leighton doesn't make another sound. We're so fucking close to being out of this place, and I am not letting anything stop me now.

I sit her down at the top of the stairs, then lift the hatch and look out. The lights are on this time, and I recognize the person sitting against the wall as Dom, clutching a gun in his hand. I'd say I'm relieved he's alive, but that would be a lie. I've only seen him a handful of times, and I couldn't care less.

But I decide to be a good Samaritan, and lift the hatch all the way up, looking around to see if there's anyone else out there. “Don't shoot,” I shout. “It's Devon Andre, Leighton's with me.”

His eyes widen when he finds me on the other side of the office as I step out, and then lift Leighton up, as well.

“She's okay?” he asks, a tremble in his voice.

“Yeah, I think she's drugged. I have no idea what they gave her.”

He stands up, and I realize he's been shot in the leg. He sees me eyeing it. “He ran.” He points somewhere outside. “I got him, too. They held me separate.”

I consider going after whoever is out there, but decide against it. We better get out of here fast.

“We need to get away from this place. I have a car waiting,” I say, motioning for him to follow me as I lift up Leighton over my good shoulder. Now that the rush is wearing off, I can definitely feel my bad shoulder throbbing. Whatever drug I was given is wearing off. But if there are more of them out there, we need to get out of here fast. When Dom doesn't follow me, I turn around. “Can you walk?”

He nods, and then slowly gets up. I can see it hurts him to walk as he catches up to me, but he bravely soldiers on, and I lead the way outside to the car, my gun at my side, though it's no use in my hurt arm. I unlock the car and put Leighton in the back, placing a kiss on her temple when she moans. I take off my jacket and cover her with it. Dom gets in on the passenger side, slumping in the car seat and leaning his head back. The grimace on his face is just about how I feel right now.

I get in too, starting the car and getting the hell away from that place.

“God, this hurts like a bitch.” He leans down to inspect the wound on his thigh.

“Yeah. How did you get away?” I ask him after a while, turning on the radio at low volume.

“We heard a gunshot, and he didn't want to leave me to go see what it was all about, so he took me with him. We fumbled for the gun, and it fired before I took it from him. And then I shot him too, but he ran away.”

“Good,” I say. “You did good.”

“Yeah,” he answers.

LEIGHTON

I hear voices through the fog in my head, thinking there's no way I'm hearing it right. It's Dom's voice, but it's Devon's I know for sure I'm hallucinating.

He's dead. And I killed him.

“We thought you were dead,” I hear Dom say to Devon.

“Yeah, safer that way,” Devon says.

Even my imagination wouldn't make these two have a friendly conversation, no way, no how. Not after what I found out.

“You think she'll be out much longer?” Dom asks.

A familiar, heavy sigh from Devon. “No,” he replies shortly.

I try to move, but it's no use. My head, my arms, everything feels heavy and hurts. I try again, the sticky leather squeaking under me. Dom turns around sharply. I close my eyes quickly, hoping he didn't see.

I risk opening my eyes again after a couple of minutes. He's looking straight ahead.

That's when I register that I just heard Devon's voice. I can barely contain myself from jumping up and throwing my arms around him, even if I know I can’t move. He's alive. The bastards fucking lied to me. And he came here for me, after what I did.

I make an effort to move my arm, careful not to squeak against the leather seats again. Something heavy rests on my hip, and when I bring my hand to touch it, I could squeal from happiness. It's a gun.

I guess it serves him right, after he left me to those bastards to do whatever they wanted with me. I'm about to grab for it, when a hand flies at me, squeezing my wrist. I look up, and Dom looks at me meaningfully, his eyes darting toward Devon.

A warning.

“What are you doing?” Devon asks, glancing back.

It happens in slow motion. One minute he's looking at me, the next Dom grabs for the gun and points it at him. I can see the moment Devon decides to just go for it. He wrestles with Dom for the gun, swerves off the road, and makes my head hit the door. As the car flips over and hits the ground front-first, the airbags pop out from the dashboard, fat and white and violent, hitting them both, hard, and then there's a gunshot. I hold my breath, waiting to see what happens next.

Neither moves.

I reach out with my arm, which still feels heavy. “Devon,” I whisper, shaking him, trying to see if he's breathing.

Dom grabs my wrist, twisting my arm. There’s another gunshot from under his neck, his head blown to pieces right in front of me, spraying blood all over the car.

Devon lifts up his head, looking me over. For a minute we don't say anything, just looking at each other, the only sounds in the car radio static and our heavy breathing.

“Are you okay?” he asks me, bringing his hand to my face and wiping the wetness from it with his light touch. I wince in pain when he touches my cheek.

I can't help it; I start crying. I'm not sure if they're happy tears, or sad tears, or what they are, but I can't keep it in anymore. Everywhere I look there's blood, and Devon looks pale and tired, and like he's about to drop dead, and I feel like there's a truck flat on my chest—I place my hand over his, stopping the wiping motion he makes, and pressing it into my cheek. I close my eyes, but the sobs don't stop.

He's really here.

His hand disappears and I hear the car door open, the seat dipping next to me, and then he cups my face and leans his forehead against mine. “It's okay,” he says, kissing my lips softly, grazing his thumb down my jaw. “We're okay.”

I clamp his shirt into my fist, banging it against his chest. “You're alive.” Another sob escapes me. “They told me I fucking killed you.”

“It's okay,” he says, his voice strained. He puts his hand over my fist and flattens it, bringing it down to his heart, where I can feel it thud-thud-thudding under my palm.

I open my eyes, looking into pools of his green ones, and then I back away, looking further down, making sure he's okay. There's an angry bruise on his neck, probably from the force of the airbag, and aside from the stain on his . . . pajama top, he doesn't look harmed. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Devon.”

“Can you see if he has a phone on him? I—I lost mine.”

I get up and bend over the seat, trying not to look at Dom's blown-up head. My own flesh and blood, turning on me. I rummage through his jacket, his lifeless hand draped over his stomach. I pick it up and move it, bile rising up past my stomach. I fish out the phone from his pant pocket, and turn back to hand it to Devon. He's leaning against the seat, his eyes closed and a frown between his brows.

“Devon.”

He opens his eyes halfway, and then closes them again.

“Devon.” I shake him. “Devon?”

He's not responding. That's when I see it; an angry red stain spreading all over his lower stomach. I press it with my hands, trying to stop the blood, but I don't think it's helping. I take off my shirt and press it there with one hand, my other hand fumbling with the phone. It's fucking turned off. I wipe my bloody hand on my jeans, and turn the phone on, hoping to God it has battery. My shaky fingers scroll down, looking for my dad's number, until I finally just punch it in myself.

His frantic voice comes on the other side. “Dom? Where are you, son?”

It fucking hurts hearing my father call him son, after everything.

“Dad,” I say. “You need to send someone.” I look around, searching for any clue as to where we are, but all I see are trees and a road a couple of feet up.

“Leighton?”

“Yeah, Dad, can you find us by the GPS on Dom's phone? I have no idea where we are, and Devon's—I think he's losing too much blood.”

“Stay on the line,” he says. I drop the phone and press with both of my hands into the shirt.

“Please, please, please,” I chant over and over. He looks pale, lifeless, but every now and again his chest rises, giving me hope.

I don't know how much time passes; seconds, minutes, hours, I hold my hands pressed there, feeling them cramping but holding, not taking my eyes off his face. Eventually, someone moves me away from him, and I start thrashing around, fighting them.

I need to keep him alive.

My dad's face fills my vision and he engulfs me in his warm embrace, covering me with a soft blanket. I watch helplessly as two men are directed to move Devon onto a stretcher, taking him away from me. I look around, searching for the ambulance, but I don't see it. They should have called an ambulance.

I rip myself out of my father's embrace and run after Devon, but I'm stopped by his uncle halfway to him.

“I want to go with him,” I say through tears, my eyes on the van where they’ve put Devon.

He glances briefly at my dad, nodding. “Let them do their job now.”

My dad comes over and puts his arm around my shoulders, squeezing me lightly and taking me toward the car. I squint trying to see through the tinted window, sparing one last look at the disappearing van.

My dad’s driver starts the engine and we go in the opposite direction.

They don’t let me near him again.

They don’t even let me say goodbye to Devon Andre.