“Don’t you fucking move one inch!” Carlo yelled.
“It will be fine,” Kirsten snapped back, feeling on edge herself. “You can watch me the whole time.” She was now perched on the edge of the sofa and exchanged a glance with Grant. Kirsten quietly got to her feet, taking tiny steps toward the table.
A realization hit Grant: Carlo was going to shoot Kirsten. He’d already shot Sophie! Why the hell was Grant allowing the love of his life to bleed out on the sofa? What the hell was he doing on his knees, succumbing to his cousin—capitulating to Lo’s murderer?Logan was not here to protect Grant from a menacing Barberi man like he always had. Grant had to step up and be the protector now. Carlo had taken his father and brother from him. He simply was not going to allow him to steal Sophie too.
“Goddamn it!” Carlo yanked the gun off Grant and pointed it toward Kirsten. “I told you not to move!”
With one graceful move, Grant leapt to his feet and lunged for Carlo, taking him by surprise. His left hand fumbled for the gun in Carlo’s grasp, and his right hand groped for the skin above Carlo’s left elbow, where Grant knew there was scar tissue from the gunshot wound his cousin had sustained twenty-two years ago. Carlo yelped in pain, giving Grant a sliver of satisfaction, before twisting his right wrist away in an attempt to regain control of the handgun.
Fiercely digging his fingers into the scar tissue again, Grant felt Carlo give way—leaning to his left to shy away from the painful grip—and suddenly they were on the floor, fighting and clawing for control of the gun.
“Son of a bitch!” Carlo hissed breathlessly as they tussled on the floor.
Sophie’s face drained of color as her throbbing wound continued to bleed, and Kirsten could only stand by, frozen, watching the battle play out in front of her.
Grant had both hands on the gun now as he attempted to wrestle it away from Carlo, and he could feel the shorter man weakening under him. The wrath of avenging his brother’s death and Sophie’s injury had infused Grant with strength. He might not have the ruthlessness or cunning of his cousin, but he certainly had the determination.
Now crouched above Carlo’s prone body, Grant sensed he had the upper hand. He forced the gun down between their chests, away from Sophie, and his long fingers wormed their way to the trigger. Watching panic creep into his cousin’s eyes, Grant felt Carlo’s hand wriggle and grope for the gun. Suddenly the weapon discharged, sending a second deafening roar through the apartment.
His ears ringing and his body thrumming, Grant’s eyes widened as he slowly peeled himself off of Carlo and saw a red stain on the white shirt beneath his White Sox jacket. Was he hit? Then his eyes found the deep crimson stain on Carlo’s chest, from which leached thick blood, spreading quickly.
Oh my God, Grant silently repeated, sitting back on his heels. I shot him. I killed a man. He shoved the gun, sending it sliding across the carpet.
Carlo gasped for air, each breath like a knife twisting in his lungs. Was this how Logan had felt after he’d stabbed him? He clutched the carpet, feeling searing pain rip through his chest, though his lower body was already numb. Black spots crowded his vision, and he called out shakily, “Grant?”
Grant crawled forward, and Carlo saw a pair of frightened eyes peer down at him. “Tell my father—tell him I loved him,” Carlo wheezed. “Even though he didn’t …” Carlo’s eyes glazed over, and all he could see was blackness. Determined to finish his sentence, he panted, “Even though he didn’t love me. He only loved Logan.”Carlo’s last word came out in a sneer.
Grant winced, hearing his cousin’s dying words. “Why, Carlo? Why’d you have to kill Lo?”
Carlo stared back with unseeing eyes. His body shuddered and somehow he found the energy to draw his mouth into his characteristic smirk. “It was you. Logan died trying to protect you.”
Stunned, Grant pulled back and sat up. Hearing Kirsten’s voice, he looked up to see her on the phone and gathered she was talking to emergency services. He then looked across the coffee table to his love, whose pale skin and pained expression brought a stab of guilt.
Carlo’s moan drew Grant’s attention back to him. Grant hovered over his cousin, flooded by conflicting emotions—the most palpable being relief that Carlo could no longer hurt Sophie. He thought about putting pressure on his horrific chest wound, but Grant knew there was no hope for his cousin.
“I’m sorry,” Carlo whispered. Seconds later, Grant watched the light fade from his black eyes, and he realized he was gone. Another Barberi man had died.
I shot him. I killed a man. Grant knew he would return to prison now. His short-lived parole was a thing of the past.
Drawing a trembling hand toward his cousin’s face, Grant brushed his fingertips over the eyelids, closing the lifeless black eyes. “I’m sorry my father ruined your life,” he whispered back, feeling the sudden urge to cry.
Sophie. He longed to wrap her in his arms and keep her safe until the paramedics arrived. But she’d rejected him after learning about his family, and now she was possibly dying from a wound inflicted by that very family. How could he even look her in the eye?
She felt his longing look and said softly, “Grant? Please bring me my purse.”
He was up like a shot and returned to the sofa instantly, handing her the bag as he sat on the low armrest. “Thank you,” she whispered. Her eyelids drooped, and she just wanted to fall asleep, but she forced herself to rummage through her bag until she located her cell phone. Gingerly holding her left arm motionless, she searched in her purse once again.
“Can I help you with that, Sophie?” Grant asked, feeling useless. Gazing worriedly at her bleeding arm, he could no longer prevent himself from taking action. He reached down and unbuckled his belt.
“This is something I need to do,” she said. She had to make this phone call. Finally locating the business card, Sophie flipped open the cell phone and painstakingly dialed the emergency number listed on the card.
“Yes, hello?” She spoke weakly. “I need to get an emergency message to Officer Jerry Stone.”
Sliding the belt out of his pant loops, Grant listened to her end of the conversation.
“This is Sophie Taylor. Please tell him Grant Madsen had to shoot a man in self-defense tonight. We need his help.”
“Sophie—” Grant objected, but she shushed him and resumed her conversation.
“Yes, thank you.”
Ending the call, she looked at him with glassy eyes and a small smile. “I can’t have my McSailor return to prison now, can I?”
“It’s where I belong, Soph—”
“Please,” she interrupted. “Please hold me, Grant. I’m so cold.”