Ruthless Spring

The man raises his uninjured arm as he barks out another response and whatever he says must be the wrong thing because Amarie squeezes the trigger, firing two rounds right in his chest.

He dies with a strangled gurgle.

Amarie looks up at me slowly and for a second I flinch, thinking I’m her next target. Her eyes narrow before she relaxes, pushing a hand through her curls. She blows out a breath of irritation, muttering something under her breath.

She walks over to me, pulling me to my feet.

She shakes her head, letting out a little tsk as she surveys me. “You’re trouble,” she tells me, putting her hand against the back of my throbbing head. When she pulls her hand back, my eyes zero in on the blood covering her hand. “How to explain this,” she mutters before her eyes move to the door.

She looks down at the two dead bodies and I can practically see the wheels turning in her head.

Finally, her gaze snaps back to me and I can tell that she’s all business. “You shot the first man when he came in,” she tells me. She points to the wall just off to the side of the door. “You were standing right there and waited for them to walk in before you shot that one in the back of the head.” She points to the man who backhanded me.

“And with that one, he hit you before you could shoot him. He hit you and banged your head against the desk. You managed to kick him in the balls and scramble to the gun before shooting him,” she says, and her lips press together before she nods. “Yes, that’s the story.” I’m not sure which one of us she’s trying to convince, but I only nod in response.

“And I was never here, that’s the most important part, Winter. Do you understand me?” She asks, her gaze hard once again as she looks me in the eyes.

I nod.

“I need to hear it,” she snaps. “I was never here.”

“You were never here,” I repeat back to her, swaying slightly on my feet as my head spins.

“Another concussion,” she mutters, shaking her head in disappointment. “Weren’t you just off for weeks because you had one of those?” The question seems rhetorical. “Sometimes, I think you’re made of glass, Little Spider.”

I watch as she methodically wipes the gun with her shirt before handing it to me, the cloth of her shirt covering where she touches the handle.

“This would have been easier with my gloves, but I figured you would be as dead as the fish I had this morning if I took a second longer,” she informs me.

“Gloves?” I ask, my brain short circuiting for a moment.

“Definitely a concussion,” she says. She reaches into her pockets, periodically checking behind her as she pulls on the gloves she just mentioned.

I’m unsure what she’s doing as she grabs my hand and moves it around, manipulating the way I touch the handle.

“That’s good,” she tells me, “I have to go now. You shouldn’t bleed out before one of them finds you,” she reassures me with a pat on the shoulder. “But you should sit down, don’t want you doing any more damage to that poor brain of yours if you pass out.”

I let her guide me into sitting down on the ground, putting me at eye level with the bodies on the ground. I feel numb.

“Remember, you never saw me,” she says once more and the way she grows serious again lets me know that if I let it slip that she was here, the cartel, The Drake or anyone else would be the least of my worries.

I nod, placing my chin on my knees. “You were never here.”

She gives a sharp nod before poking her head out the door. She leaves a second later and I place my head between my knees, taking deep breaths.

“Winter.”

My head snaps up, my hand reaching for my gun before I realize that the person in the doorway is Enzo. I don’t know how much time has passed since Amarie left. I just know that the throbbing in the back of my head is killing me and my limbs feel weak.

Enzo’s staring at me, his lips pressed into a thin line. He steps further into the room and Vito steps in behind him, his gaze surveying me before scanning the damage in the room.

“What happened here?” he asks, his gaze moving over me once again as he draws closer.

I open my mouth to give him the fabricated story that Amarie gave me, but a wave of nausea hits me and I tether to the side. I place a hand out to support myself, struggling to take deep breaths.

“I think I have a concussion,” I tell him a moment before the contents of my stomach come right up.

“Enzo, call the doctor,” Vito directs before kneeling in front of me.