Vendetta (25 page)

“No, Leighton,” I say, placing a kiss to her forehead. “You'll be fine. I came for you.”

Her eyes fill with tears, making my heart hurt. “I didn't mean to—” she sobs. “—I killed you. I fucking killed you.”

“Leighton, I'm here. The bullet barely grazed me.” I repeat Amber's lie. It wouldn't hurt like a bitch if it just grazed me. Then again, I've never been shot before, so maybe it can be much worse than this.

She just cries harder. Whatever they gave her isn't anywhere near wearing off. I wipe away her tears, kissing her salty lips. It hurts like hell to leave her when she's like this, but I need to take care of Stevie first.

I peek from the room, and see Stevie is trying to crawl away, sliding across the floor toward the other storage room. I walk after him. He turns on his back and shoots, barely missing. I raise my gun and shoot his arm. His gun clatters to the floor, echoing in the hallway. He scrambles for it, so I shoot again, this time aiming at his stomach. He falls down to the floor, unmoving, as a red patch soaks his shirt.

I walk up to him, my gun still at aim, and kick his gun with my foot out of his reach, although there's no point. Blood gurgles audibly up his throat and out of his mouth, sliding down his cheek and dripping onto the floor. He's trying to say something, still conscious. I like it like that. I aim the gun at his groin, smiling, and shoot again. And again. And again, until there are no more bullets left.

I stand there for at least ten minutes, watching him die. It's a glorious feeling. I was fooling myself, thinking I'm above this. I wanted this revenge so bad. Amber was right; this is exactly who I am.

I walk back to the room where I left Leighton, only to find her still crying, mumbling to herself. “I just want to die,” I hear her say.

“Come on,” I say, lifting her up and supporting her on my good shoulder. The other one is starting to throb already.

She puts her arms around my waist, squeezing, still mumbling. We're slowly making our way up the stairs, when we hear another gunshot.

“Fuck,” I say, at the same time as Leighton squeals. I take out the spare gun from my waistband, and continue climbing up the stairs, hoping Leighton doesn't make another sound. We're so fucking close to being out of this place, and I am
not
letting anything stop me now.

I sit her down at the top of the stairs, then lift the hatch and look out. The lights are on this time, and I recognize the person sitting against the wall as Dom, clutching a gun in his hand. I'd say I'm relieved he's alive, but that would be a lie. I've only seen him a handful of times, and I couldn't care less.

But I decide to be a good Samaritan, and lift the hatch all the way up, looking around to see if there's anyone else out there. “Don't shoot,” I shout. “It's Devon Andre, Leighton's with me.”

His eyes widen when he finds me on the other side of the office as I step out, and then lift Leighton up, as well.

“She's okay?” he asks, a tremble in his voice.

“Yeah, I think she's drugged. I have no idea what they gave her.”

He stands up, and I realize he's been shot in the leg. He sees me eyeing it. “He ran.” He points somewhere outside. “I got him, too. They held me separate.”

I consider going after whoever is out there, but decide against it. We better get out of here fast.

“We need to get away from this place. I have a car waiting,” I say, motioning for him to follow me as I lift up Leighton over my good shoulder. Now that the rush is wearing off, I can definitely feel my bad shoulder throbbing. Whatever drug I was given is wearing off. But if there are more of them out there, we need to get out of here fast. When Dom doesn't follow me, I turn around. “Can you walk?”

He nods, and then slowly gets up. I can see it hurts him to walk as he catches up to me, but he bravely soldiers on, and I lead the way outside to the car, my gun at my side, though it's no use in my hurt arm. I unlock the car and put Leighton in the back, placing a kiss on her temple when she moans. I take off my jacket and cover her with it. Dom gets in on the passenger side, slumping in the car seat and leaning his head back. The grimace on his face is just about how I feel right now.

I get in too, starting the car and getting the hell away from that place.

“God, this hurts like a bitch.” He leans down to inspect the wound on his thigh.

“Yeah. How did you get away?” I ask him after a while, turning on the radio at low volume.

“We heard a gunshot, and he didn't want to leave me to go see what it was all about, so he took me with him. We fumbled for the gun, and it fired before I took it from him. And then I shot him too, but he ran away.”

“Good,” I say. “You did good.”

“Yeah,” he answers.

LEIGHTON

I hear voices through the fog in my head, thinking there's no way I'm hearing it right. It's Dom's voice, but it's Devon's I know for sure I'm hallucinating.

He's dead. And I killed him.

“We thought you were dead,” I hear Dom say to Devon.

“Yeah, safer that way,” Devon says.

Even my imagination wouldn't make these two have a friendly conversation, no way, no how. Not after what I found out.

“You think she'll be out much longer?” Dom asks.

A familiar, heavy sigh from Devon. “No,” he replies shortly.

I try to move, but it's no use. My head, my arms, everything feels heavy and hurts. I try again, the sticky leather squeaking under me. Dom turns around sharply. I close my eyes quickly, hoping he didn't see.

I risk opening my eyes again after a couple of minutes. He's looking straight ahead.

That's when I register that I just heard Devon's voice. I can barely contain myself from jumping up and throwing my arms around him, even if I know I can’t move. He's alive. The bastards fucking lied to me. And he came here for me, after what I did.

I make an effort to move my arm, careful not to squeak against the leather seats again. Something heavy rests on my hip, and when I bring my hand to touch it, I could squeal from happiness. It's a gun.

I guess it serves him right, after he left me to those bastards to do whatever they wanted with me. I'm about to grab for it, when a hand flies at me, squeezing my wrist. I look up, and Dom looks at me meaningfully, his eyes darting toward Devon.

A warning.

“What are you doing?” Devon asks, glancing back.

It happens in slow motion. One minute he's looking at me, the next Dom grabs for the gun and points it at him. I can see the moment Devon decides to just go for it. He wrestles with Dom for the gun, swerves off the road, and makes my head hit the door. As the car flips over and hits the ground front-first, the airbags pop out from the dashboard, fat and white and violent, hitting them both, hard, and then there's a gunshot. I hold my breath, waiting to see what happens next.

Neither moves.

I reach out with my arm, which still feels heavy. “Devon,” I whisper, shaking him, trying to see if he's breathing.

Dom grabs my wrist, twisting my arm. There’s another gunshot from under his neck, his head blown to pieces right in front of me, spraying blood all over the car.

Devon lifts up his head, looking me over. For a minute we don't say anything, just looking at each other, the only sounds in the car radio static and our heavy breathing.

“Are you okay?” he asks me, bringing his hand to my face and wiping the wetness from it with his light touch. I wince in pain when he touches my cheek.

I can't help it; I start crying. I'm not sure if they're happy tears, or sad tears, or what they are, but I can't keep it in anymore. Everywhere I look there's blood, and Devon looks pale and tired, and like he's about to drop dead, and I feel like there's a truck flat on my chest—I place my hand over his, stopping the wiping motion he makes, and pressing it into my cheek. I close my eyes, but the sobs don't stop.

He's really here.

His hand disappears and I hear the car door open, the seat dipping next to me, and then he cups my face and leans his forehead against mine. “It's okay,” he says, kissing my lips softly, grazing his thumb down my jaw. “We're okay.”

I clamp his shirt into my fist, banging it against his chest. “You're alive.” Another sob escapes me. “They told me I fucking killed you.”

“It's okay,” he says, his voice strained. He puts his hand over my fist and flattens it, bringing it down to his heart, where I can feel it thud-thud-thudding under my palm.

I open my eyes, looking into pools of his green ones, and then I back away, looking further down, making sure he's okay. There's an angry bruise on his neck, probably from the force of the airbag, and aside from the stain on his . . . pajama top, he doesn't look harmed. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Devon.”

“Can you see if he has a phone on him? I—I lost mine.”

I get up and bend over the seat, trying not to look at Dom's blown-up head. My own flesh and blood, turning on me. I rummage through his jacket, his lifeless hand draped over his stomach. I pick it up and move it, bile rising up past my stomach. I fish out the phone from his pant pocket, and turn back to hand it to Devon. He's leaning against the seat, his eyes closed and a frown between his brows.

“Devon.”

He opens his eyes halfway, and then closes them again.

“Devon.” I shake him. “Devon?”

He's not responding. That's when I see it; an angry red stain spreading all over his lower stomach. I press it with my hands, trying to stop the blood, but I don't think it's helping. I take off my shirt and press it there with one hand, my other hand fumbling with the phone. It's fucking turned off. I wipe my bloody hand on my jeans, and turn the phone on, hoping to God it has battery. My shaky fingers scroll down, looking for my dad's number, until I finally just punch it in myself.

His frantic voice comes on the other side. “Dom? Where are you, son?”

It fucking hurts hearing my father call him son, after everything.

“Dad,” I say. “You need to send someone.” I look around, searching for any clue as to where we are, but all I see are trees and a road a couple of feet up.

“Leighton?”

“Yeah, Dad, can you find us by the GPS on Dom's phone? I have no idea where we are, and Devon's—I think he's losing too much blood.”

“Stay on the line,” he says. I drop the phone and press with both of my hands into the shirt.

“Please, please, please,” I chant over and over. He looks pale, lifeless, but every now and again his chest rises, giving me hope.

I don't know how much time passes; seconds, minutes, hours, I hold my hands pressed there, feeling them cramping but holding, not taking my eyes off his face. Eventually, someone moves me away from him, and I start thrashing around, fighting them.

I need to keep him alive.

My dad's face fills my vision and he engulfs me in his warm embrace, covering me with a soft blanket. I watch helplessly as two men are directed to move Devon onto a stretcher, taking him away from me. I look around, searching for the ambulance, but I don't see it. They should have called an ambulance.

I rip myself out of my father's embrace and run after Devon, but I'm stopped by his uncle halfway to him.

“I want to go with him,” I say through tears, my eyes on the van where they’ve put Devon.

He glances briefly at my dad, nodding. “Let them do their job now.”

My dad comes over and puts his arm around my shoulders, squeezing me lightly and taking me toward the car. I squint trying to see through the tinted window, sparing one last look at the disappearing van.

My dad’s driver starts the engine and we go in the opposite direction.

They don’t let me near him again.

They don’t even let me say goodbye to Devon Andre.

epilogue

LEIGHTON

Six months later

I wake up that morning with a mission.

I wear a flowery short-sleeved shirt and jeans, and put on a pair of yellow flats. The warm May morning kisses my skin as I walk to the car. Everything is finally coming to life, the cold, harsh winter long forgotten.

I'm going to see him today.

That faithful night, the Andre warehouse—where they kept me—was raided by the feds, but they found nothing. Just four bodies, which they said was a deal gone wrong between George and Stevie.

No mention of Devon’s
or
my family.

I tried to skim over the things Dom did when I explained what happened to my dad. I could see it hurt him just as much as it hurt me remembering it. He was one of our own, and he betrayed us.

I never found out what happened to his body, but I can imagine it was dealt with.

The Andres and Moores are no longer at war, though it seems to me they never really were. Why they thought it was a smart idea to keep us in the dark is beyond me, but I guess they had their reasons. I’m trying so damn hard to get over that.

Frank Andre is still controlling the warehouses. My dad never mentions them anymore. I guess it’s compensation for everything that happened to both our families. A real truce, finally.

I fought so hard to see Devon after they took him away. I knew with everything I was that he would have wanted me there. Dad sat me down and told me everything—my family had nothing to do with deaths all those years ago. Devon hated me for no reason. I can’t imagine what that had done to him—when he found out.

And then. . . it didn’t matter anymore.

I needed time to deal with everything I found out, with everything that happened. A couple of days after it all went down, I packed my bags and left to stay with relatives in Ireland.

All I kept thinking was how we’ve lost so much time, been through so much pain. Devon’s hate for me was pointless. All that resisting, when we could have been together—pointless. I betrayed him, and still he put his life on the line for me, and it could have been avoided. Lives were ruined, and for what?

Days turned to weeks, turned to months. In the end, I dreaded facing everything that was waiting for me here. Or everything that wouldn’t be waiting for me.