“I’m not done,” the man seethed, as he pulled himself to his full height, his gun in his uninjured right hand. “You and your ‘white box’ comment this morning at the diner,” he snarled. “You know nothing about my brother. Nothing about how he was buried.”
I had no clue what he meant, and I didn’t care. I was nothing but nerves. I’d never held a gun, and had certainly never fired one. I didn’t know how to hit the side of a barn, let alone the heart of a man. But I didn’t have the luxury of practice. I didn’t have a second to spare.
My life tunneled to this moment, only this moment.
Nothing else in the world counted.
Nothing that had come before mattered.
All there was, was this—I had a gun, and I had to use it.
One choice. Life.
As the man lifted his arm, my focus narrowed, and my mind sharpened.
Adrenaline bathed my brain in pinpoint clarity. I was alive, I was unhurt, and I was going to be faster than the man who wanted to kill me, then finish off Michael.
I hoped to God I’d know how to shoot it. I hoped instinct would take over. I might as well be blindfolded right now.
Except . . .
I wasn’t flying blind.
This wasn’t unfamiliar.
I realized I knew precisely what to do.
For all intents and purposes, I’d had a lifetime of practice shooting.
It was like taking a picture.
That’s all I had to do.
Snap a photo.
Point.
I raised my weapon.
Aim.
Focus on the subject.
Shoot.
The bullet flew.
And I prayed. And hoped. And wished. My heart, my life in my throat.
In a second that felt both as if it lasted for days and took no time at all, the bullet hurtled at rocket speed, hell-bent on the mission I sent it on, and entered the man who’d tried to kill my love.
All at once, Charlie crumpled over, grabbing his belly where I’d hit him.
I couldn’t move. I wasn’t sure I could breathe. I didn’t know if I could speak.
Seconds later, the ambulance screeched to a stop, the medics rushed out, and I was on the way to the hospital with Michael, while my love was losing his hold on life.
82
Charlie
It was the nightmare when you can’t speak. When you open your mouth and call out.
But nothing comes.
No sound. No noise.
In your head, you hear it crystal clear.
What you’re trying to say.
As I lay in red, so much red, I fought desperately to say a single word.
West.
The name that had driven me.
My reason for everything.
More than forty years ago, I found my little brother dead, gunshot to the head. He was only nine.
West.
My throat constricted. Breath barely came.
Pain ripped through my gut.
Pain, and something else too.
Anger.
Because I wasn’t done.
I wasn’t done at all.
I hadn’t finished everything I started the day my brother died.
Revenge.
I had so much more to exact.
I had so much to do to fix all that had gone wrong.
So. Much. More.
A cough wracked my body, a horrible cough, a terrible sound.
Because it told me that all my plans were slipping through my fingers.
That everything I’d wanted was disappearing before its time.
I wasn’t finished at all, but it seemed the world was finished with me.
83
John
Now
Dead on arrival.
Annalise had shot him in the stomach, the bullet nicking an artery and tearing through his intestines, the doctors had said. No time to question Charlie Stravinsky—no chance for a deathbed confession, but one was hardly needed.
His confession had been given when he’d arrived at Michael’s building, ready to kill.
I had already put most of the pieces together that morning with the federal agent, and I needed to talk to Annalise to learn what had gone down in the parking garage. Her hands were still shaking, and she’d only managed to say the barest of details. There would be time enough for that later. After she’d been checked over and cleaned up, I walked her to the ER waiting room where I was rushed by family members—Colin and Elle first.
“What’s going on?” Colin asked, grabbing my arm.
“He’s in surgery. That’s all I know,” I said, wishing I had more news. The doctors didn’t know. The nurses hadn’t supplied any more details. That was standard practice for this type of trauma. Get the patient in the OR and try to save a life if they could.
“Okay. But how does it look? Can’t we get any more information?” Colin implored, his eyes wide with the plea.
I shook my head. “They don’t have any other details to give. As soon as he arrived, he was rushed to the OR. They’re probably trying to figure out the extent of the damage. If—”
“If they can save him?” Colin cut in.
I nodded. “Yes. That’s what they’re trying to do.”
Then an animalistic cry ripped from the throat of the woman next to me, and Annalise slipped from my arms, crumbling to the floor. In an instant, Elle gripped her, wrapped her arms around her, and ushered her away.
84
Thomas
Eighteen years ago
I tried.
I tried so hard to hold on.
I drew a shaky breath.
Fighting for air.
Fighting for life.
Or really, wishing I could. Wishing I could try to live.
But that choice was gone.
Taken.
I lay on the driveway, blood pooling beneath me, my eyes fluttering closed, and I knew this was the end.
I could no longer even move my lips to utter the word help.
The night seemed to wink on and off, the stars in the sky coming in and out of focus and then blurring. My body felt light, as if it were floating away from me.
But hell.
I wasn’t ready.
I wasn’t ready at all.
I had plans. I had things to do for my children.
Oh God, my kids.
My beautiful, precious children.
If only I could see them.
One more time. See Shannon, Colin, Ryan, Michael.
But the world . . . it warped away from me. It unwound. My breath barely came. My lungs hardly moved. My eyes could no longer stay open.
If only I could say my last words.
If my children were here, I’d call them to me. They’d gather around, and I’d whisper my final goodbye, rasping out the only word that would ever matter.
Love.
That’s what I would tell them all.
To live with love.
That was all that mattered.
That was the only thing that mattered.
As I gasped one more breath, one breath closer to the last, I took some solace in knowing—no, in being certain beyond any and all shadows of a doubt—that they knew. That they’d carry that knowledge with them for the rest of their lives—my love, their love, and their love for each other.
I said one last silent prayer. I prayed to God. I prayed so goddamn hard that they would live beautiful lives.
The world narrowed to a pinpoint, thinning, spiraling away. Blinking. Slowly. So slowly now.
The night wrapped its arms around me, lifting me away from my body, letting me know I was going, my time was over.
The agonizing pain had ebbed, and as I left my body, my last thoughts were of my children. How I would continue to love them for the rest of time . . . here in this world, and forever in the next one.
As the earth turned dark, I hoped I wouldn’t see them again for a long, long time . . .
85
Annalise
My head was in my hands.
“I killed a man,” I whispered barrenly. “And the man I love is dying.”
Doubled over in shock and consumed with the sharp, cold sensation of impending grief, I sat on the hard wooden bench in the hospital’s chapel.
Elle, who I’d just met today, stroked my hair, trying to comfort me. She must have been the one who’d brought me here from the emergency room an hour ago. Or was it minutes ago? I hardly knew anything anymore, except that all my fears were on the cusp of coming true. The prospect of Michael dying hurt so much—it was an ache in my bones that wouldn’t go away.
“You did what you had to do,” Elle said, her voice strong as she ran her hand over my hair.
“I did,” I choked out, needing the reassurance. I had no regrets about picking up the gun and firing. I’d only hoped it was enough to save Michael. But he’d barely hung on the whole ride to the hospital. I hardly heard the words the paramedics barked as they gave him an IV and fought to keep him alive while he bled and bled and bled. The ambulance had seemed to fly at the speed of light, confirmation of how tenuous his hold on life was.
Oh God.
I couldn’t imagine losing him. Couldn’t conceive of burying him. My chest heaved, and I coughed, choking on the pain.
Now he was in the operating room, and no one knew if the doctors could save him. There was a bullet in his body. Near his heart.
The door creaked open, and I lifted my gaze as a platinum blonde rushed toward us.
Sophie kneeled by my side and placed a hand on my thigh. “How are you doing, sweetie?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. I killed a man, and Michael is dying,” I repeated, because those twin moments of my life felt like everything. My before, my after, my now.
“You saved a life,” Sophie said, reaching for my hand. “Come now. You need to be strong for Michael.”
Strong? What was that? Did I even know what strength was anymore? Did I know anything? My world had been twisted inside out, shaken cruelly by the hand of fate, and now Michael was . . .
I squeezed my eyes shut, blocking out the word dying.
“Annalise,” Sophie said, her voice gentle but firm. “You’re allowed to be sad. You’re allowed to be terrified. But don’t think negative thoughts right now. Michael is in surgery, and they are fighting to save his life. He needs you. You can do this.”
Sophie held one of my hands, and Elle took the other. I was keenly aware that the three women in this chapel were in love with three brothers, and these two were here to help me be strong for the one who needed me. The man I loved.
I took a breath, inhaling hope and letting go of all else.
There was no room for thoughts of that killer. There was no room for hate or vengeance or for cold, heartless enemies.
There was only room for love. I would do everything I could to send my love to Michael, and my strength to the doctors working on him. We left the chapel, Elle and Sophie leading me to join the rest of the family in the OR waiting room.
We waited and waited and waited.
For an hour.
Then another.
Then for nearly one more.
Until at last, a woman in green scrubs pushed open the door and surveyed the scene. She had lines around her blue eyes, and strong cheekbones. “I’m Dr. Brooks. Are you the family of Michael Sloan?”
86
Annalise
Everyone stood.
Elle, Sophie, Ryan, Colin, Shannon, and Brent, his arm protectively around his pregnant wife. Their grandparents. Even the detective, Sophie’s brother, had stayed, and Michael’s friend Mindy had also joined the vigil.
Collectively holding our breaths, crossing our fingers, and praying to whoever listened, we waited for the surgeon to speak again.
“It was touch-and-go there for a while. We didn’t know where the bullet hit him until we opened up his chest. And he lost a lot of blood,” the doctor said, her tone measured and even. I was poised on the balls of my feet, every muscle strung tight, waiting, wanting, aching for answers. “Turns out he was shot in the spleen. We got lucky.”
Lucky.
Oh God, never had a word been more beautiful.
Never had anyone said such a perfect word. Lucky was good.
“We were able to remove his spleen, and he’ll be able to live a normal life without it.”
“Oh my God. He’s really alive?” I asked in a breathless rush, desperately needing a second confirmation.
The surgeon smiled and nodded. “Yes. Very much so.”
“Can we see him?” The question came from Michael’s grandmother.
The doctor shook her head. “He’s in recovery now. He hasn’t woken up yet.”
Two hours later, a nurse said he was asking for me. I brought my hand to my heart, then turned and embraced Elle and Sophie. “Thank God,” I whispered, my voice breaking as it had in the chapel with them, but this time for a much happier reason.
87
Special Agent Laura K. Reiss
A few hours earlier
Some guys were easy to catch. Some guys were slippery as eels. Either way, one rule applied to both.
Be faster.
That was one of the toughest parts of the job, because it was highly unpredictable as to when you need to put the pedal to the metal.
Timing.
It was everything since there’s a whole lot of hurry up and wait when it comes to cracking cases.
But once you’ve got the goods, you had to get the guy. I’d spent the last few years trying to break up organized crime in Las Vegas.
And the last few months working my butt off on a particular pair of crime lords.
Today, I had the chance to nab the number two man before he learned what had happened to the top guy.
So when my surveillance team told me where Curtis was, I didn’t even take a moment to roll my eyes at the sheer irony of his location. Instead, I went in motion, racing, heading to the place where he went every Saturday.
The thing about guys who’d been skirting the law for more than two decades was this—they get complacent.
They got lazy.
That was just the reality. It was human nature.
It’s like going to the gym and using the same piece of equipment every day. Your muscles got bored. You missed a workout.
And you turned cocky too.
The longer you evaded the law, the longer you thought you could slide through life, doing anything you want.
This guy? He had a routine. He followed it regularly. They all did, whether it was the errands they ran, the joints they frequented, the associates they met for drinks the same night of the week.
And for Curtis, it was golf.
That’s why I wasn’t surprised to learn where he was today.
I reached the golf course in record time. Got out of my car, my partner by my side, and marched across the parking lot. Opened the door to the clubhouse.
There he was. Chatting with his caddy. Golf bag at his side. Just a guy, with lots of dough he didn’t earn, ready to hit the links.
Acting like he was a regular joe.
Curtis held a five iron, like he was assessing the weight of it, as he talked to his caddy. “This one. Can’t play a game without it.”
The young guy grinned. “It’s your lucky club, sir. It always makes for a fine day.”
“I don’t believe in luck.” Curtis handed it to the guy, a stern look on his face, like he was about to give a life lesson to his caddy. “Don’t you either. You can’t rely on luck. You need to show up, do the hard stuff, work your way up. That’s what makes for a fine day.”
The hard stuff.
My jaw tightened from the grotesqueness of his words of wisdom.
And if it were up to me, this would be the last time he dispensed it on the outside. I closed the distance, flashing my best Southern grin as I said, “Curtis Paul Wollinsky?”
He turned t
o me, a big man, with a big face, the shape of a square, and a body to match. A man unaccustomed to people questioning him. A man definitely unaccustomed to women being anything but playthings at his clubs.
I’d talked to those women.
Interviewed them.
Protected them.
I knew what had gone down at the clubs, at the piano shop, at that damn limo company.
And God willing, what would stop today.
A slow, lazy, lopsided grin spread on his geometric face as he took me in. The grin he gave told me he thought I’d be the next plaything at his club.
“Depends who’s asking, sweetheart. If it’s you, I can be anyone you want.”
I didn’t cringe. I didn’t recoil.
This was all par for the course.
And in some ways, it was a blessing in my line of business that I didn’t look like an FBI agent. I looked like I stepped off the set of Sweet Home Alabama.
And sometimes criminals treated me as such.
He wasn’t the first to underestimate the petite blonde in front of him. Wouldn’t be the last.
“Allow me to properly introduce myself to you, Mr. Wollinksy.” I reached into my pocket, removed my badge, and showed it to him. “Laura K. Reiss. Federal agent.”
He blinked.
“You’re under arrest for suspicion of racketeering. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.”
The words were so damn satisfying to utter.
Curtis groaned as my partner snapped on the cuffs. “Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me, woman?”
I gave him my best cheerleader grin. “It’s Agent Reiss, please. And no, I’m not kidding. I am absolutely not kidding at all.”
We escorted him out of the clubhouse, off the golf course, to the back of our car, and took him in.
My Sinful Love (Sinful Men Book 4) Page 26
