Broken (Dying For Diamonds Book 1)
Page 15
She bit her lower lip and she nodded, but she lowered her eyes.
Killian said, “All right? She got one of em twice in the belly and she had the other two looking for cover.”
“Oh no, Daniella, did they hurt you?”
“No,” she said, her voice a quiet sound under the cabin’s ambient hiss and the roaring motor. She pulled her hair around her neck, like she was bashful. He took her hands away and looked under her hanging hair. Her neck and her collar were caked with dried blood.
“Daniella...is this...is this your blood?”
“It’s just paint,” she said.
“That's not paint, Daniella...did you get hurt?”
“I’m all right.”
“Who did this to you?” A rage swelled within him, a bubbling red cauldron of lava, flowing over, hissing white blobs splashing. “Who fucking did this to you?” he growled.
“They're dead,” she said. “They're all dead.”
“Come here,” he said and he pulled her so she lay on him. It hurt his back like hell, it was engulfed now in an omnipresent throbbing. He didn't care. She lay on him, her weight felt so incredible against him. “You cold?” he said.
“Yeah,” she said. “You're cold?”
“Yeah,” he said. He lifted the edge of his jacket and she snuggled against him and he closed her up behind the leather with him. They shared their body heat and felt each other breathe.
daniella
Daniella lifted her head again when the car slowed. The absence of the intense excitement of the morning dumped chemicals out of her body and it had made her so sleepy. She might have drifted off against her lover’s chest.
She could see out the window that they were in what looked like another residential neighborhood. The trees were bare, their jagged branches like claws above them. He slowed and turned right and now she could see they were in a very narrow alley way that ran behind little post-war homes. One side of the alley was lined with the blank rectangles of metal doors set in garages behind the homes they belonged to. The other side was chain link and the brick sides of houses, and snowy backyards.
“Rocco,” she said, and she smoothed her palm over his roughly stubbled cheek. A sudden worry crept through her that he was unconscious but her warm touch made his eyelashes flutter and slowly those beautiful black eyes came awake.
She whispered, “Baby, you okay?”
He grunted an affirmation and sat up a little, his hand on the small of her back to brace her. “Where are we?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
Killian said, “The house in Sunnyside.”
Rocco grunted and nodded again.
The car slowed to a stop and Killian got out, trotted to the narrow battered single door of a small clapboard sided garage. He turned the chrome handle and swung the door out, then lifted it over his head and scissored it backward. Then he was back in the car and they were grumbling inside, the loud motor even louder in the tight enclosed space of the garage.
When Killian was out and had slid the driver’s seat all the way forward he held a hand to Rocco to help him out but Rocco growled and waved his help away.
“You stubborn idjit,” Killian mumbled.
Daniella followed behind Rocco as he squeezed between the folded driver seat and the frame of the door, her hands out to support him in case he fell back, though she would be no help—he’d probably just crush her. She saw that he had bled more while they were asleep, slick wet red pooling in the creases of Killian’s leather back seat, getting all over her knees as she tumbled out behind Rocco.
Killian took his arm when he was out and standing but Rocco pulled it away.
“I can walk. Just get your kit.”
Daniella asked, “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Killian said, “He’s the hardest cunt I know. He’s gonna be fine.” Then he left Rocco to walk on his own. As she went alongside Rocco, towards the single door at the grill of the car, she saw Killian go to his trunk.
She got ahead of Rocco and up a concrete step to the door, opened it and stood out in the snow, held a hand out for him if he needed but he didn’t.
By the time they’d crossed the yard and made it to the back door of the house Killian caught up with them and now he had a nylon bag at his hip, a strap over his shoulder. He used two long iron levers to pick the lock while Rocco weaved from side to side. Popped the lock open then they were walking into the kitchen. The house was an aged bungalow cottage, the narrow kitchen with outdated cabinets and Formica counters. Without being asked Rocco pulled a chrome-legged chair out from under the kitchen table and he straddled it backwards, his big arms draping over the back.
Killian threw his bag on the table and he zipped it open and she could see it was a medical kit full of small zippered cases, pouches, and gauze and towels and rolls of white tape.
He said, “Would you be a love, Daniella, and boil us a kettle?”
She rummaged through cupboards, distracted, looking back at Killian while he wordlessly helped Rocco’s jacket and shirt off, then examined where he’d been shot. He pulled out the rag Rocco had stuffed the bullet hole with, a ragged bloody strip of the shirt he’d been wearing over his T-shirt. He threw it to the floor with a wet plop. She found the kettle, a cheap plastic one and she plugged it in and switched it on, went to join them at the table.
Killian didn’t look like any doctor she’d ever seen. He looked homeless with his bushy beard and his long hair. She’d seen him kill three men without the slightest shake to his hand. But here he was, very confident in his actions, latex gloves peeled on, his fingers moving expertly, brow furrowed in concentration. He had one index finger inside Rocco’s bullet hole and her knees went a little wobbly at the sight. She moved to Rocco’s front so she wouldn’t faint. Rocco waved her to him and she hugged his head and leaned against the back of the chair while his big hands stroked her waist.
She asked, “What kind of doctor are you?”
Killian’s eyes remained on his hands, he held stainless forceps now and he was digging into Rocco who made no sound of displeasure. His breaths were a little ragged.
“ER doctor, Daniella. For a time. Til I got bored. Wanted a life of adventure so I enlisted, next thing, wouldn't you know it, I’m in the thick of it, jumping out of planes, living in the desert...you’re looking good, Rocco,” he said. “Not even in your guts, old friend.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“I could leave it in if I want, but it’s not doing any good. I think I can get it.”
“Get it,” Rocco grunted.
“Yeah, you don’t want to set off those metal detectors do ye? Although, I thought you like those special TSA patdowns...”
“Would you just dig it out...”
“I’m doing it,” he said, smiling wide in his beard and winking at Daniella. “You know, he’s made of different stuff than humans. I think it hit his leather, took a left turn—right near your spine by the way—but it just went in about four inches, tumbled sideways. He’s built like a bull.”
“I know,” she said, rocking Rocco’s head against her bosom, swaying with him.
Killian winked again, his eyes going up and down her, said, “I bet you do, you dirty bird.”
She laughed and felt herself blush, felt her cheeks go hot. God, when was the last time she blushed? The kettle rumbled and steamed behind her, then clicked itself off. She said, “You want your boiling water now?”
“Not yet,” he said, elbow bouncing up and down, hand holding the forceps twisting and bobbing.
Rocco grunted and flinched as the forceps dug deep. Probably to take his mind off it he grunted, “What did you find out? You learn anything about who wants her dead?”
Killian was down low, eyes peering into the bullet wound, elbows high, digging the metal tongs into the hole to retrieve the bullet. “Nope. So odd. I don’t know who’s lyin’ and who’s tellin’ the truth, but I feel like...no one knows where the hit came from...”
Killian stayed motionless, posed with his tongs buried inside Rocco, eyes rolled up to the ceiling as he considered it. “Huh. Isn’t that interesting. That means something...”
“Who in Italy could possibly want you dead?” Rocco said, rubbing an itch on his forehead against her collarbone.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“And how the fuck did they find us? That’s what I want to know first.”
Daniella murmured, “Yeah. Don’t know.” But she thought of the music app she used to keep herself company while she cooked but didn’t mention it. Killian’s eyes glanced up to hers and then away and she wondered if maybe he knew it was her who brought them.
At last Killian sang, “There’s the little bugger.” He laughed and there was a clunk on the linoleum and she watched a gray metal blob bounce, splatter a wet dollop of blood then roll in an indolent semicircle, drawing a red line before it plopped to its side and came to rest.
“Feel better?” Killian said, threw the forceps on the table and slapped Rocco’s broad shoulder.
“No. Worse,” he said.
After Killian bandaged his back, he said, “Want me to look at the one in your leg? ...Take your pants off.”
“It’s fine. I’ll clean it myself. He heaved himself up out of the chair, his hands gripping the back of it. He kissed Daniella on the lips and she pat his chest.
Killian shrugged, said, “You don’t need to be shy around me. I’ve seen it already.”
Rocco shook his head and she could see the twist of a reluctant smile. “I’ll be right back,” he said and he waved to them as he left the kitchen under an archway and he went down the hall and closed himself in a bathroom.
“He’s got some swingers, your man.”
“He does,” she said.
“Well, let’s find us some tea bags,” he said, going past her and snapping off his bloody gloves and throwing them in the sink.
She looked to the kettle and chuckled. “I thought you needed something sterilized.”
“No. I wanted a brew. You join me?” he said, pulling down a box of Lipton’s from the cupboard above the stove.
“Sure,” she said and leaned on the counter next to him while he located mugs and set them down. He tossed a couple bags in and poured.
She said, “You were in the army with him?”
He nodded, rolled his head idly from side to side as he considered it. “Sort of,” he said. “Not American...”
“I can tell by your accent.”
“Yeah,” he grinned. “He not tell you?”
“No. Tell me what?”
“Maybe I shouldn’t.”
“What’s the big secret?”
He shrugged again, looking reluctant. Then he said, “We were in a CT unit.”
“What’s that?”
“Counter-terror. Made up of Special Forces from different countries.”
“Sounds like a spy novel. Or a video game.”
“Aye. It’s no game though...” He took a spoon and fished their bags from the mugs, threw them in the sink with his gloves. He glanced over his shoulder, found her staring at him. He said, “Let me see your scalp. You might need a stitch.”
She folded her arms up and rolled her eyes, stepped to him and let him run his fingers through her scalp. He poked and prodded, hummed. They brought their tea to the table and she sat like Rocco on the same chair and he stood and stitched her. Her head throbbed, her eyes pounded like there was an oncoming migraine. Her neck was stiff and her body ached all over from being thrown down the stairs. She was more injured by the What ifs right now. The prospect of what could have happened to her frightened her enormously. Burned, beaten, set on fire, maybe—probably—violated...then, finally, executed. That was what was supposed to happen. She shivered suddenly and Killian laughed.
She shook her head, shook away the badness, said, “This your house too?” She looked around the old home, simple and well-tended, like seniors had been living here recently.
“My house? ...Oh, these aren’t my houses...”
“Who do they belong too?”
Killian was cleaning up, putting away his tools and gathering up the cord he’d stitched her with. He said, “He doesn’t tell you anything?”
She just looked at him blankly.
He picked up his mug and sipped his tea. “I guess he worries about you.”
“What’s there to worry?”
He lifted his shoulders and eyebrows high and smiled. He said, “He talked about you, you know?”
“Did he?”
“Yeah, he had it for you. He had it bad.”
“Who owns the houses, Killian?” she said, trying to stay on topic but her heart somehow soaring just the same.
“We don’t own them. They’re not ours. They’re government houses...”
“Like the projects?” she said sarcastically, one brow raised.
He said, “Safe houses. CIA.”
“You’re in the CIA?”
“Technically no. Kind of yes. We’re in part of it.”
“Part of it.”
“Disavowed, you’d call it. The part no one will admit to. We are...but no one would say we are. We get into trouble and we’re on our own...”
“From one mob to another,” she sighed.
“Aye,” he nodded and took another sip of tea. “You hurt anywhere else?”
She shook her head.
“Need some painkillers?”
She shook her head again. She wanted the pain right now. The pain came with many lessons and she needed to be taught.
“I should go out,” he said. “We’ll need supplies.”
“You can’t go out there,” she said. “It’s not safe...”
“They don’t know me. They don’t know my face...”
She slumped, made a long exhalatory breeze from her puffed cheeks. “We don’t know his face either.”
He nodded, said, “But we will. We will soon.” He motioned down the hall where Rocco had gone, said, “Then that man will put a bullet in it.”
18
Hearts
rocco
Holed up again. Hiding in the walls of Chicago like frightened mice while a killer cat prowled the streets. This was his worst nightmare now.
He was dreaming a few days ago, his heart and soul soaring high above it all, reunited with the woman he loved. Accepted and forgiven. Now plummeting to the earth, whipping through the clouds and crashing to reality. They had to solve this problem. His Daniella's life was in danger. They didn't know from whom. There was a mysterious cat out there, lurking, waiting to pounce. It had been toying with them, batting and tossing. But eventually it would get them if they didn't get it first. The problem would be so simple if he had a name. If he had a name the man would be dead. His soldiers would be dead. Daniella could rule the city like her father did and he would stand at her shoulder and chop down anyone that looked at her the wrong way. Or they'd move on. When the heat subsided over his heist, when they had a fence for their treasure, he and Daniella could disappear together. They could go and do whatever they wanted, be whoever they wanted. Just a name, Killian. Just give me a name. The rest is easy.
He was laying with her, laying on a mattress on the floor in a different dining room. This one small and compact, low and claustrophobic ceilings. A dusty chandelier hung above them with dim little bulbs. Daytime now. Daytime and he was feeling better. Felt like he could take on the world, take on this hidden killer. She was in the crook of his arm and she was curled against him. He was pretty sure she was naked. He'd like to check but he didn't want to disturb her.
She breathed. Made soft little Daniella sounds while she slept. Her eyes were closed, her lips pouted and misaligned against his chest. The bottom lip puffed with her exhales. She had a hand tucked underneath her chin, a fine and delicate hand, bent sha
rply, her little fingers curved and relaxed. Her nails were chipped and broken. He smiled. She was such a princess it was so strange to see her like this. He liked it. He kissed the top of her head. Her thick hair smelled of shampoo, something tropical and fruity. Could see the scar Killian had stitched there. She told him she'd been hit with a gun butt. Someone had cracked his angel on the top of her sweet head. She said who'd done it was dead. He wished he was still alive so he could take his own pleasure.
Outside it was getting dark now, growing to dusk. Killian had been gone for two days. Armed with new information his vigor was renewed and he'd headed out of here like a dog lunging on its leash. He’d clicked it loose and watched that fuzzy Irish pit bull go out in the world and he knew it would bring him back a name. Then he’d put the world right again and he'd have the woman he loved safe. They could live and love again. But for now he would rest. When the time came he would be lunging at his own leash but no one had the strength to pull him back.
He lay with his arm around Daniella, his big hand curled around her fine and narrow shoulder, his head turned so his chin rested against her crown and his eyes were cast out the window, watching the sky go from gray to charcoal, a brief moment when it turned the color of a bruise, then it was black.
daniella
His heart beat its powerful squish-squish in her ear pressed to his chest. She sighed. Contentment was superficial, her heart tasted it but couldn’t surrender to it. There was work to be done. A man from Italy wanted her dead. Until this was resolved there would be no contentment.
She kissed his chest. Lifted her head and let her chin settle in his muscle, watched him sleep. It was night now but the moon splashed its light on his masculine face, cutting deep shadows in the hollows of his cheeks and his strong brow. The rims, the high points, were painted in silvery lines. He was her beautiful Rocco. He breathed deep and heavy, his head turned to the window, its heavy weight settled in the soft pillow. They were under the covers and they were naked. It should be heaven but it wasn’t. Murderers looking for them, they were hiding, they’d almost been caught, both of them almost killed. Her lover took two bullets. His body destroyed by metal hurtled down the barrel of a gun at supersonic speed. He should be dead. He was tough but he could be killed. They could have killed him so easily, shooting him in the back. And her killers? ...Wished her to be hurt, not just to stop breathing. Wanted to set her on fire, burn her with wire, and she suspected they had other plans as well.