Joker's Wild (Vegas Underground 5)

Fuck. Can she be trusted not to squeal? I hold the gun steady as I make my decision.

“She’s a witness,” Luca murmurs, like I don’t already know. But we don’t kill the innocent. My mind spins on how loyal her family was, and whether that bond still holds.

Her eyes fill with tears. “Mr. Tacone…”

Merde. I shove both guns in my pockets. She’s loyal. She wanted to warn me, I’m sure of it.

“No, not Tacones,” I tell her firmly. I sweep a hand around the room. “Russians.”

“Right,” she nods shakily. “All Russians.”

Smart girl.

“Give me five minutes before you call 911.”

“Got it.” Her head’s still wobbly on her neck.

I back toward the door. “I’m good for the damages.” I jerk my head toward the window, the bullet-riddled interior.

Tears spill down her cheeks as we leave and jump into the running car.

Paolo takes off, driving fast but easy-like. Not squealing tires or calling attention to us.

“Gio. Gio? Talk to me.” I sit beside my brother, pressing my hand over his where he holds the wound.

“I’m hit.” Gio’s slumped in the back seat, blood soaked through his shirt and jacket.

“I know. Just hang in there. You’re gonna be okay, you hear me?”

“Where to, Junior?” Paolo shouts from the front seat.

“My place. Then you three go pick up Desiree Lopez.”

“Ma’s nurse?”

“That’s right. She owes me a favor. She’s works in Trauma at Cook County. If she’s not at work, she lives on 22nd in Humboldt Park. Find her and bring her to my house. ”

* * *

Desiree

I barely notice my surroundings as I walk, keys in hand, to my old but running fourteen-year-old Honda Civic. I don’t see the shiny black Range Rover parked a few spaces down.

My instincts don’t warn me.

Maybe they would’ve if I hadn’t just worked a twelve-hour shift in Trauma. Maybe I wouldn’t have just plodded out to my parking garage, brushing off the security guard’s offer to walk me to my car.

Not until two big guys in trench coats get out of it and come right for me.

Oh God. This is it. I’m about to be raped and killed.

I freeze for one second, heart pounding, then dart forward, racing to jump in my car before they can reach me.

“Hold it!” One of them yells and they both lunge, one blocking my driver’s side door, the other coming after me. “Desiree Lopez?”

My brain can’t even compute how they know my name. I open my mouth to scream, but the guy claps a hand over my mouth. “Quiet.” His terse command comes out deep and scratchy. He smells of cigar smoke. He takes my purse from my shoulder, pulls out my wallet and looks at my I.D. “Yeah, it’s her.”

Adrenaline pumps through my veins. I know what they say. If someone drags you to a car, you’re not going to come back alive, so fight for your life. I elbow my kidnapper, turn my head to bite his hand.

But it’s useless. He mutters a curse in some other language and tightens his hold. All my weight thrown around, all my twisting and writhing is nothing to him. He picks me up and carries me forward.

His buddy comes up behind us and presses a gun to my ribs. “Enough with the struggle. Get in the car.” They haul me into the back of the Range Rover, sandwiched between the two men. One of them strips me of my purse as the vehicle takes off.

A bag drops over my head and I renew my fight, but they control me easily, each one taking a wrist and pinning them down by my sides.

“Yeah, we got her,” one of them says. At first I think he’s talking to the driver, stating the obvious, but then I realize he must be on a phone. “See you there.”

“Wh-what’s going on?” I warble.

No one answers me.

The phone call gives me pause. They wouldn’t call someone to say they had me if their intent was to rape and kill, would they?

They would if they’re devil worshippers who require a virgin sacrifice.

Not that I’m a virgin. Or that my theory is likely.

“I don’t know what you want, but, please. Please let me go.”

Again, no one bothers answering.

The Range Rover drives fast—and the way it only briefly slows, I’d bet they are rolling through stops or red lights, making me plow into the men beside me when it turns.

We drive long enough for me to get good and scared. For my breath to shudder in and out on silent sobs. No tears, though. I must be too afraid to let go.

And then we stop. The asshole on my right drags me out of the car, and I stumble for my footing, the blackness of the sack over my head stealing my sense of balance as well as my sight.

The surroundings are quieter—not a city street anymore, but still a sidewalk under my feet.