The Dark Elite (The Dark Elite 1)

Unconsciously I brush my thumb over her hip, plunging it under one of those little straps at her waist, marveling at the softness of her skin.

“You could’ve just unzipped her dress,” Ciro says mildly from the front seat.

“Fuck off.”

Focus, focus, focus.

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The church was a fucking nightmare, and it’s a fucking miracle she doesn’t have any more wounds than she got. Most of the blood on her dress has started drying, showing me that it’s someone else's blood—most likely her father’s.

I follow a fresh stream of blood, thick and clotting, up to her waist.

“She’s been shot. Just one bullet, as far as I can see.” I’m careful not to touch her again as I observe the wound. “It’s just grazed her side, no shattered bones. Entered and exited.”

Without commenting, Ciro pops open the glove compartment and pulls out a box of medical supplies we keep for quick fixes, tossing it back to me. Even though I know I need to keep my hands away from her for my own goddamn sanity, I put pressure on her wound as I pop open the box, shuffling through bandages, antiseptics, needles, and thread.

You don’t grow up in the mafia without dealing with this kind of shit from time to time, so we all know the basics of fixing up wounds. Ciro’s better at injury assessment than I am, but he’s busy looking over digital notes, probably trying to figure out what we’re all wondering—what the hell went wrong today?

“You’ll probably have to do stitches when we get back, Ciro.” A bullet wound, especially one where the bullet isn’t embedded in her, is an easy fix, but stitches aren’t my specialty. “I’ll do what I can for now.”

A thud from the back of the van pulls my attention away from Grace. I look up just as Lucas speaks.

“Yeah. This fucker’ll live too. At least for now.” He wipes his bloody hands on his pants, stepping toward the front row of seats.

We’ve modified the back of the van, taken out the seats to leave an empty space back there. It’s useful for transporting prisoners or cargo, and it gives us more options in a pinch. Right now, a man’s body is slumped on the floor, his hands bound in shackles that connect to a bar on the side wall of the van.

Not that this asshole is going anywhere anytime soon. Our captive looks almost dead, although if Lucas says he’ll live, I believe him.

“Who the hell is he?” Zaid asks, glancing into the review mirror to catch his brother’s eye.

Even Ciro glances back at Lucas. We were all so focused on getting the hell out of that church before the cops showed up that we haven’t even dealt with the most important question—who the hell was the second group that crashed the goddamn wedding?

It was supposed to be an easy job.

Get in, grab Samuel Weston—or Samuel Taylor, as he’d started going by—and get the fuck out.

We weren’t supposed to take Grace.

And we weren’t supposed to get shot at by another group of gunmen who were obviously well trained and well organized.

When everything started to go to shit, I gave the evacuation order, aborting the mission. Our target was gone anyway. I saw Samuel get shot, and I know he didn’t fucking survive that.

Grace would’ve died too, if I hadn’t killed the man who was about to take her down.

As for why I took her with me?

Well, I’ll tell my father it’s because I wasn’t leaving the church without at least one member of the Weston family… even if I’m not entirely sure that’s the only reason I threw her over my shoulder.

“I dunno who the fuck he is.” Lucas jerks his head toward the man in the back. While I was busy chucking Grace into the van, he and Ciro grabbed a downed soldier from the other group and threw him in the back. “He’s barely conscious, and I didn’t want to rough him up too bad and risk killing him.”

It’s a good call. If we can keep him alive until we reach the safe house, we can patch him up a little and then let Ciro have a go at him. Interrogation is my second-in-command’s specialty, and he approaches each job with a methodical precision that’s both impressive and slightly stomach-turning to watch.

“Fuck. Bullet grazed me.” Lucas swipes his hands on his pants again before poking at a small wound on his arm. He glances over at me. “Toss me some of those bandages.”

I throw him a roll, and he begins to patch himself up one-handed, his gaze snagging on Grace as he does. He stills, and I can practically read the thoughts in his head—see his body flood with the same awareness I felt when I first looked at her. A sudden flare of jealousy tears through my chest. It’s been a long time since we’ve all seen Grace, but I hate the annoyance and possessiveness that rises inside me like a beast as I watch him watch her.

She’s not mine to possess.