Sinning in Vegas (Vegas Morellis 2)

“So I’ve fucking heard,” he mutters, dragging me off the couch. He keeps an eye on Sin as he drags me around the coffee table, but now that he’s experiencing so much physical discomfort, he is less gentle with me. Less patient. As I’m scrambling for what to try next, Sin catches my attention.

His head falls back briefly and he mutters a low, angry, “Motherfucking fuck.” Raising his gun, he points it at a spot beyond me. It’s beyond me, but it’s not Rafe, it’s past him, too. He’s looking behind both of us, at the arch between the living room and the foyer. His voice rises with helpless anger. “I asked you to wait in the fucking car. I’m so fucking sorry for this, Virginia.”

Then he fires his gun.

“No!” Rafe lets me go and turns to lunge, as pointless a gesture as it is. He freezes, his gaze dropping to the ground, but she’s not there.

I barely get out of the way before Sin attacks him. I stumble back, then kick into gear and run. My legs shake, but they carry me into the next room. Breath bursts in and out of my lungs as I run to the armoire and rip the door open. There are so many weapons in here, some I can’t even name, but I don’t know how to use any of them. There are guns, but they’re probably not loaded. I pull open a drawer and find plenty of ammunition, but I don’t know which bullets even go to which gun. I don’t know how to load them, or how to check if any are loaded. Fuck.

There are simpler weapons hanging on the door—probably more for décor than any practical reason, since I can’t exactly see Rafe brandishing a sword for real combat.

He has swords in this armoire. Jesus Christ. This whole thing would have had to go before the baby learned to crawl. This is just a cabinet full of danger.

Focus, Laurel!

I go to lift one of the swords, but I’m taken off guard by how heavy the damn thing is. I’m not going to be able to swing this with confidence, I’m going to be clumsy and he’ll get the damn thing away from me if it comes down to it.

All right, you know what, the sword is big, but bigger isn’t always better. A small blade can be just as effective as this monster. If I slip a knife between his ribs, that’ll hurt just as much.

The gun would be much easier, but even if I figure out how to load it right and don’t shoot my own face off, I’ve never fired one. I might aim for Rafe and hit Sin.

I grab a knife. Something sharp-looking and shiny, then I close the armoire and rush back to the living room. At least for the moment, I needn’t have worried. Sin is on top of Rafe, raining punches down on him. Rafe has his arms up, trying to protect his head, but Sin is laying into him. My stomach lurches. I stay back, but my fingers flex around the handle of the knife.

I’m hesitant to call out, not wanting to distract him, but I ask Sin, “Should I do anything?”

“Stay the fuck out of my way,” he answers.

Okay then, I can do that. I keep a coffee table’s length between them and me, then jump when Rafe lands a hit to Sin’s jaw. Now that he found an opening, he hits him again. Sin shifts and Rafe takes advantage, throwing him off his body and leaping to his feet with the grace of a fucking bobcat.

Holy shit.

Ra

fe’s ready now. Sin gets up just as quickly, lunging at Rafe, fists flying. Rafe ducks and charges Sin’s torso, forcing him back a few steps. They spin, hit, charge, it all happens at such a fast pace, I can’t keep up. I don’t know who is winning—or if anyone is winning.

“What’s wrong, Sin?” Rafe goads, arms up, guarding his face as he moves. “Did seeing me with a gun to Laurel’s head jog a few memories?”

Sin doesn’t respond, but he tries to hit him.

Rafe blocks. “Did it make you think of Paula? Did it make you think of Ellie? You couldn’t save them, could you?”

“Stop it,” I scream, glaring at Rafe.

“You thought you were gonna get a second chance with the girl I knocked up, then, damn, you almost lost another one. You must not be a very good fucking protector, Sin.”

Sin ignores all the bait Rafe is dangling. He ducks, charges, and sweeps Rafe’s legs, knocking him on the ground again. He’s on him fast, hitting Rafe in the face before he can get his arms up this time. His hands move so fast, even though I’m not in this fight, my heart pounds. I can’t keep track of how many times he hits him, the only reason I know to be alarmed is that Rafe stops defending himself as well as he was and now there’s blood on Sin’s fists, blood on Rafe’s face—blood all over the place. It starts to look less like a fight and more like Sin beating a human punching bag, and I recall his story about bludgeoning Paula’s lover to death. Did he use his hands? Jesus Christ, I don’t know why I assumed he used an object.

Just in case he’s in a blind fury, I call out, “Um, I think you could probably stop and use the gun now.”

“Ya think?” Sin asks casually, before landing another punch.

“I think you might kill him if you keep going,” I suggest.

“I think he held a fucking gun to your head, so the bastard gets what he gets.” He hits him again. “I don’t even fucking care anymore, I’ll call Vince up, train that little asshole to be my figurehead. I’ll run this fucking city myself. Fuck this family.”

Despite his words, Sin finally stops hitting him.

He cocks his gun and pushes the barrel against Rafe’s forehead. “You still in there, motherfucker?”