“I am a Barbieri.” Lightning fast, he snaps his hand out and clamps it around my throat. The move catches me off guard, has me panicking for the first time. My gun is gone, then, knocked to the ground, skittering away across the blacktop. The guy’s hand tightens around the column of my neck, threatening to squeeze even harder. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Feeling a little lightheaded?”
I break his hold over me, smashing my fist into his solar plexus, winding him for the second time. He’s good, though. We’re both on our feet in a heartbeat. Again, he’s already swinging his arm toward me, his fist clenched. I duck, but he leans back and kicks out, his shin striking me in the stomach, hard. He’s breathing hard now. So am I. I lash out—a backhander that hits him on the temple, sending him reeling. My knee comes up automatically. Not to kick him in the balls, but to push him back as I bring my elbow down on his shoulder as hard as I can. I follow up with a back kick, strong enough to force him to retreat a few paces.
He counters, coming at me with … with what looks like a length of black material. His tie? It was around his neck a minute ago and now it’s in his hands, one end wrapped around his fist. He surges forward, on the attack, his clenched fist rounding on me, landing on my jaw. The force of the blow sends me to the ground. Hurts like a fucking bitch. I could jump up, but I don’t. I wait for him, until he’s standing right in front of me, breathing hard, before I thrust both feet up, kicking him in the stomach. He comes down on top of me, hands scrambling to get hold of my arms, but I don’t stop moving. He can’t catch hold of me if I keep my body fluid. I wrap an arm around his neck from behind, determination sweeping through me. I have to end this. I have to—
He shifts quickly, lifting his arms, flicking something over my head. He loops his hands one more time and I realize what he’s done. He’s looped the goddamn tie around my neck. I move fast, working to get a handful of the material before he can tighten it, but it’s too late. He pulls, the narrow strip of silk constricting my airways, making it impossible to draw oxygen into my lungs.
I dig my knuckles into his groin—a seriously painful pressure point if you’re a dude—but he doesn’t let me go. He grunts, grinding his teeth, staring down at me as he keeps on pulling.
My head’s beginning to swim. I try jabbing my fists into his side, but still he doesn’t let go.
“Go to sleep, sweetheart. Thaaaat’s right. Ha! Holy fuck! Crazy bitch.” I can see the amusement in his eyes as my vision begins to fade. He knows he’s won, and yet he seems surprised. I can barely believe it, myself. The last sound I hear before I fall unconscious is the staccato blat blat blat of gunfire ringing out across the George Washington Bridge. That, and the terrified screaming of the people standing around us.
******
THEO
I take her back to the restaurant, even though it’s the worst fucking idea I’ve ever had. My knuckles are bleeding everywhere. They’re stinging like a motherfucker as I lead the girl through the back into Cucina Diavolo. It’d be suicide taking her in through the front door. My father would take one look at the girl I’m dragging behind me and realize that his sons had fucked up again. The girl would get a bullet between the eyes and then so would I. If I was lucky. If was unlucky, I’d be getting my throat cut and enjoying a ride out to the pig farm my father keeps in Ulster County to fatten up his pork.
That sounds fucked up, and it is. Pigs are an excellent way of clearing up a mess, though. They’ll eat anything. Accountants. Pimps. Prostitutes. Your progeny, if they crash a car on the George Washington Bridge and allow the teenaged daughter of your sworn enemy to escape.
Fuck.
The kitchen’s busy. Luca, the head chef of the Barbieri family restaurant, doesn’t look up as I drag my noncompliant friend through his workspace. His sous chef and the prep guys know the drill, too. I don’t need to worry about any of them. They know better than to acknowledge anything dangerous. Anything that could end up in them witnessing something that could get them killed.
“Hey. Hey! One of you assholes better call the fucking cops. Hey, you. You with the knife. Look at me, damn it! Hey!” The boys don’t listen as I pull the bodyguard through the exit and up the stairs that lead to the office and a number of storage rooms. I’ll be able to hide my mistake for a couple of hours until I can figure out what to do next. I need to call my brother. Did he manage to find that stuck-up Irish bitch? Fuck knows. He better have, is all I can say.
Shoving the bodyguard into the room at the far end of the building, she swears under her breath, staggering as I let her go. I follow her inside and slam the door behind me. No one ever comes in here. It’s the secondary dry store—full of flour and spices and shit Luca would only need if the first dry store ran low. The girl glares at me, rubbing at her neck.
“The hell you gonna do with me now?” she asks. “Kill me?”
“Sure,” I tell her. She rolls her eyes, which is kind of sexy. She’s lethal with those fists of hers, but her expressions are designed to kill, too.