The Hitman's Dancer: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Snake Eyes Book 2) (23 page)

Enzo crawls to his knees and pushes off the ground, wiping the sticky trash off his legs as he stands. He eyes Elijah for a moment but his eyes eventually fall on Lilah and they stay on her with confusion.

“I wouldn’t stare,” I warn him, watching Lilah’s eyes harden with annoyance.

He twitches in my direction and Elijah shoves him forward, grinning at his twin.

Chapter 22

Lucy

That motherfucker.

I pull on the cuff and it digs hard into my wrist.

“
Dante!
Get back here, you son-of-a-bitch!”

He’s long gone already, I know that, but calling him names feels pretty good right now. It always has, to be honest.

My veins throb as my circulation ceases, pinched too hard by my desperate attempts to slip free. I squeeze my fingers together, willing them to collapse in on themselves but I can’t manage to reshape them no matter how much I bend or twist them.

I’ll never trust him ever again. Who the fuck does he think he is? Or any of them for that matter? Who gave them the power to tell me what to do? This is
my
fight. It has been since day one and now Dante
fucking
Hart thinks he can just walk in here and bench me?

I don’t fucking think so.

They really locked me up and left me here. I have to wonder if Dante planned this from the start. He never had any intention of letting me kill Marty myself. He lied to me for weeks, letting me believe I was building towards something. At least, there’s one silver lining from my training and that’s the fact that I can probably get one, solid hit in before Dante’s forced to kill me in self-defense.

I spin around and raise my legs, aiming my bare feet at the metal bars. This would be a whole lot better with shoes, but alas, I hadn’t put them on yet before Dante walked in here with his gorgeous, fuck-me eyes and chilling, seductive voice.

What a fucking asshole.

I slam my heels into the bar, hoping to snap enough pressure on it so it breaks my cuff free but it doesn’t budge.

That lying, manipulative prick.

I hit the bar again, throwing every bit of force and strength I have. Again, it does nothing but shoot a bit of pain up my leg towards my knee.

And I’m a damned moron for falling for his shit.

Another hit and my knee joint seethes.
“Fuck
,” I hiss, rubbing the bone to soothe the fresh pain. I collapse against the bed, tears building in my eyes.
“Goddammit…”

I can’t give up. I can’t let Dante take this from me. Today, even now, when I close my eyes, I see Marty Zappia staring down at me with a crowbar in his hands and flames behind him. I see my father’s lifeless body tumbling down as life itself drains from him. I see the blood-soaked bodies of my friends.

I will not let someone else feel the satisfaction of ending him.

I sit up and take a deep breath. There has to be some way I can free myself from this mess. I pull closer to the headboard to inspect the cuff. Dante always knows just how tight to make it so I can’t slip out, even with my small wrists. There’s no room to wiggle, but I may be able to slip out if my thumb were just a little bit…

Fuck.

I inhale deeply. Pain has been a constant part of me for so long now. I can take a little bit more.

I grab a pillow and shove it between my teeth.

My hands shake as I press against my thumb. I haven’t the slightest idea what I should be feeling for but I don’t have time to waste here. I concentrate on the joint at the bottom of my thumb and push, biting the pillow hard as pain takes hold of me.

My thumb pops, dislocating from the joint.

I shriek from the sharp pain burrowing through my hand and the pillow falls from my mouth. My hand collapses, shrinking my wrist to the perfect size to slide it free of the cuff.

“Oh, shit…”
I seethe, cradling my hand. I stuff the pillow back in my mouth and fight through the pain, knowing that I can’t leave it like this. Following my instincts, I slide the thumb back towards the joint and it locks back in, firing a bolt twice as painful up to my elbow. Tears stream down my face, dripping onto the pillow in my mouth as I scream in agony.

But, at least, I’m free.

I push off the bed, race down the stairs, and run out the front door. The sun is close the setting, barely sitting above the horizon, turning the sky a startling shade of blue; the same color as Dante’s perfect fucking eyes.

The bikes are gone, as I expected. We decided to take them with us, as a quick getaway may have been impossible in a car in Chicago traffic. I spin around to find the car, praying that Dante didn’t change any more of the original plan and take it with him.

I heave a sigh of relief as I catch sight of it in the driveway. Good. I can still salvage this mess.

I walk back inside and go up the stairs for my shoes. As I strap them to my feet, I come up with a new plan of my own.

My knee aches and my hand swells, turning redder by the second, but this pain will be worth it in the end.

Marty Zappia will feel much worse once I’m through with him.

***

I step inside the Zappia Casino and my thoughts instantly turn to my father.

The great Terrance Vaughn. Not a particularly intelligent man but he knew how to wow a crowd better than anybody. I remember watching him dance back when I could barely walk. Charismatic and wild. I wanted to be my father when I grew up. Of course, his true colors shined through eventually and that dream slipped through my fingers but I never once forgot how great it felt to be his daughter.

I loved my father. He was taken from me far too soon.

I scan the room and my eyes fall on Marty Zappia.

His face has healed, somewhat. There’s still a large scar drawn along his right cheek and I wince a little as I walk closer to the table. The bullet must have shredded the nerves on his face. His right eyelid droops to the side and his lips hang there as if they’re melting off. Half of his eyeball is stained red, too. The monster inside of him bleeds through. He can’t hide it behind his youthful face anymore.

I pause near the hexagonal poker table at the center of the room. Marty sits directly in front of the dealer, sliding his stiff fingers along a tall stack of chips while the remaining three players sweat. There’s only one chair available — just left of the dealer — and I lay my hand on it to claim it.

“Do you mind if I join the table?”

I stare down at Marty as his lazy eyes flick in my direction. There’s a spark of recognition followed by a burst of doubt, but it quickly sinks in. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs the uncontrollable drool gathering on his numb lip and I smile at him, feeling great pleasure in how unattractive he appears.

Finally, he nods.

I sit down in the chair and I offer my ante to the dealer before she deals out the cards. I keep my eyes low, fighting the urge to stare again at Marty’s mangled cheek, and concentrate on my cards. My skin tingles as I sense his eyes on me. I’d give anything read his thoughts right now. He believed I was dead. Oh, how disappointing it must be to see me sitting across from him right now.

Finally, I let my gaze trip over to him to have my suspicions confirmed.

Ghostly pale. Blood-shot eyes. His face trembles in anger.

I smile. “You’d think a man with your face would know that it’s rude to stare.”

The air shifts at the table. Two of the other players fold their cards without looking at them and stand up from their chairs.

I glance at my cards.

“Stop,”
Marty says.

The dealer pauses and puts her hands on the table to halt the game. Marty glares at the player in the chair between us and the man cowers away, quickly abandoning the table with the others.

I fold my hands in front of me. Poised to perfection. “Hello, Marty.”

“You died.”

“Not so much.”

His lip quivers. “How did you get out?”

I shrug. “A mutual friend.”

“Is he here now?”

“Last I knew, he was on his way here to kill you,” I answer. “But he’s not the one you should be scared of.”

Marty sits back in his chair, his eyes never leaving my face. “You walk into my father’s casino alone and
I’m
the one that’s scared?”

“You will be.”

He laughs and a bit of spit drips off his limp lip. He wipes it clean with his cloth and stuffs it back into his suit pocket. “You shouldn’t have come here,
Lucy Vaughn.
”

“But Marty…” I lean forward. “You promised me a game.”

“Your daddy’s dead, honey,” he gloats. “He won’t be stopping by here again — so I’d say you got your wish.”

“Obviously, there’s been a change in terms.”

His black eyes sparkle. “Oh?”

“You have something I want,” I say, “and I have something you want. It’s pretty simple.”

“What do you have that I want?” he asks, his nose curling.

“Dante Hart.”

Marty’s face contorts and I know he feels that bullet carving a hole in his face again — just as I felt the sting of a crowbar the second I laid eyes on him. “Where is he?”

“I can show you where you can find him… if you win.”

“And if you win?”

“You die.”

He laughs. “That hardly seems fair—”

“Fairness would be if I walked upstairs and shot your father in the head while I made you watch,” I interrupt. “
Fairness
would be if I slaughtered everyone here, broke your legs, and burned this place to the ground with you still inside.” He narrows his eyes. “No, Marty. I think your death is plenty
fair
.”

His face dips and his fingers flick over his chips. “You’ll lead me to Hart?”

“And his entire family. All yours.”

He smirks. “Trouble in paradise?”

I glance down at my throbbing, purple wrist. “Something like that.”

“And what happens to you?” he asks. “It would seem if you lose… you don’t really
lose
. Hart does.”

“I lose either way,” I point out. “If I win, the entire Zappia family comes for me. If I lose, the Hart family does. In either case, I don’t walk out of Chicago alive.”

“Then why bother?” he asks. “Why not stay dead?”

“Revenge.” I stare him down. “You took everything from me, Marty Zappia. I’d like to return the favor. Surely, you’re not a coward like your old man is.”

His face blurs, blending between hatred and malice. “Well… Lucy Vaughn…” He thumbs his chips again. “We have a deal.”

Chapter 23

Dante

Enzo leads us to a green warehouse on Montrose Beach, about a half a mile away from the casino itself. It’s completely abandoned and fell to the elements ages ago — or that’s what Antony Zappia wants people to think.

“You’re making a mistake, Hart,” Enzo mutters over his shoulder. He keeps glancing back and his eyes shift between the three guns trained on his back. “Killing Marty — it’s ain’t worth it.”

“I beg to differ.”

Enzo throws open a door to reveal a staircase falling down to the basement level. He navigates the stairs slowly as each step leads to more darkness. Elijah finds the light switch and flicks it on. The old fluorescents flicker a dusty yellow, just barely illuminating the old storage area.

Enzo stalls at the bottom. “Look, the kid’s a jerk — I’ll be the first to admit it — but he just did what he had to do for the family, all right?”

I grab his coat, flinging him hard against the shadowed wall. “For the
family
?” I repeat, digging my gun barrel into his neck. “Enzo, the last thing you want to do right now is associate yourself with what he did to the Vaughns.”

“I don’t get it…” he mutters, shaking his head. “Why do you even care?”

I release his coat and step back. “Keep walking.”

“No…” He digs his heels in. “I’m curious. Killing is your
job
, Hart. With us, with
Snake Eyes
, whatever. It’s what you do. Marty knocks off a few nobodies and you’re suddenly a vigilante for justice?” His tongue clicks. “There’s only one reason why men like you go off-book and that’s big a pair of tits and nice, tight pus—”