Silent Lies - Page 90

I grip the edge of the vanity so hard my knuckles hurt. The echo of shots might be the same as at the shooting range, but it’s different knowing that many of the bullets will hit flesh, not cardboard targets. Wounding, maybe even killing Drago’s people. His family. But they don’t feel like just my husband’s family anymore. They feel like mine, too. Fighting off the men who are attacking their home. My home, now. And I’m hiding in a fucking bathroom.

I pick up the flashlight from the counter before dashing into the bedroom. The balcony door is ajar, and the noise outside is deafening. I’m still standing close to the bathroom threshold when a stray bullet hits the balcony railing, sending shards of stone flying in every direction. My eyes fall on my nightstand. The gun Drago gave me is tucked inside the drawer.

My mild-tempered, quiet sister killed the man who kidnapped and violated her. Asya, who never even raised her voice at anyone, pressed the gun to that bastard’s forehead and pulled the trigger. I don’t have the guts to do that. Would never be able to do anything like it no matter the circumstances, but going downstairs without a gun is stupid. I rush across the room and grab the Glock from the bedside table.

* * *

It’s worse than I thought. Much worse. I stop midway down the stairs and gape at the scene in the hall below.

Heading downstairs, for some reason, I imagined Drago’s men crouching next to the windows and only popping out to return fire from time to time. The entire action movie scene played out in my head. The good guys took quick glances at the enemy, sent a few bullets their way, then pulled back to a covered position. Safe behind thick walls. Unhurt.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

The floodlights are spilling through the broken windows and the wide-open front door, creating dark voids and threatening shadows. Just over the threshold, a body of a man I don’t recognize is sprawled on the floor, his vacant eyes staring at the ceiling. Blood pools on the tiles around him, spreading toward another body lying close by. A shaky breath leaves my lungs as I realize that I don’t know either of them. Must be the attackers.

Adam is hunching under the window to the left of the entrance, gun in his hand poised to shoot at any moment. Blood is oozing from the gash on his shoulder, saturating his torn, white T-shirt. He pays it no mind as he suddenly straightens, sending a hail of bullets through the broken pane. The instant he drops back down, a storm of gunfire erupts outside. Glass shards, wood splinters, and drywall fragments rain around him.

On the other side of the door, two of Drago’s men are returning fire. Another, Relja, is collapsed on the floor with his back against a wall. He’s pressing his hand on the wound in his thigh as blood seeps between his fingers. Through the open doors leading to the grand dining room, I notice several other men holding positions by the windows. Some are shooting while others are reloading their guns. Most are bleeding, whether from bullets or shattered glass, but they keep fighting.

I grip my gun harder, but I can’t make myself move. It’s as if my feet are glued to the wooden stair beneath me, and I’ve lost all control of my lower limbs. My chest is rising and falling in quick succession, the sound of my short breaths mixing with the erratic beating of my heart. The thunderous pounding seems somehow louder than all the noise around me. At least Drago isn’t here. He would have been out there, somewhere in the middle of this shitstorm, and I would have fucking lost my mind worrying about him.

Tara bursts through the kitchen door on the far side of the dining room and, keeping low to the ground, rushes into the foyer. She squats next to Relja and tucks her gun into the back of her pants. With quick and sure movements, she grabs him under his arms, heaving him away from the wall. Relja yells at her, but the gunfire is too loud for me to make out what he’s saying. Tara ignores his outburst and starts dragging him away, but barely manages to move him. He’s too heavy.

The sensation returns to my feet. I take one step forward, and then I’m running down the stairs. On my left, something shatters. The crash is loud, and there is a sharp sting as the shards hit my legs. Probably the remnants of one of the enormous floor vases Keva keeps along the walls. The porcelain fragments crunch under my soles as I hurry toward Tara, who is now gripping Relja’s forearm, trying to pull him across the floor.

“Sienna! What the fuck are you doing here?” she snaps when I reach them.

“Helping my family.” Imitating Tara, I stick the gun into the waistband of my turquoise leggings and grab Relja’s other arm. “To the kitchen?”

Tara blinks at me, then quickly nods.

By the time we get Relja to the kitchen, he’s lost consciousness and a lot of blood. The situation here doesn’t seem any better than in the dining room. Three men are by the windows that face the front yard, firing at the assailants. Across the room, Jovan is crouching by the open door to the backyard, gun in hand, and aiming at the absolute darkness on this side of the mansion. I don’t get a chance to contemplate what he’s doing because a low growling sound outside is followed by an earsplitting scream.

“Zeus got him,” Jovan says, then lifts a two-way radio to his mouth.

I miss what he says when I notice Keva kneeling between the kitchen island and the countertop cabinets, finishing wrapping a kitchen towel around a guy’s biceps. She sees us coming and crawls toward us.

“Get behind the island!” she orders. “Now! Both of you!”

“Hurry.” Tara pulls on Relja’s arm again. “The island is bulletproof.”

Someone actually makes armored kitchen cabinetry? I shake my head.

Keva presses her palm over the wound in Relja’s thigh while we drag him the last few feet to a safer spot. Another round of gunfire explodes, bullets hitting appliances and cupboards above us. Something on the counter wobbles and then crashes to the floor.

“If that’s my favorite coffee machine, I’m going to gut someone,” Keva mutters as she reaches for a drawer and takes out a tablecloth. She tears a long stripe and ties it tightly around Relja’s leg. “This one needs a hospital as soon as possible.”

“We can’t take him to a hospital with a gunshot wound!” Tara chokes out. “Drago is going to kill you.”

“Filip called fifteen minutes ago. Her don”—Keva nods toward me as she checks Relja’s pulse—“said we can take the wounded to Cosa Nostra’s clinic if needed.”

“Don Ajello?” I ask, dumbfounded, at the same time as Tara yelps, “How the fuck did he know?”

“Beats me.” Keva shakes her head. “That man knows everything.”

Things seem to be calming down, because now there’s only an occasional shot that disturbs the night. The sound of labored footsteps reaches me, and I peek around the kitchen island to see Beli carrying one of the guys over his shoulder.

“Upper chest,” he barks as he lowers the man next to Relja. “No exit wound. I’ll pull the van to the back door, and we’ll get them both in.”