Darkest Sins (Perfectly Imperfect #9)

“THE FUCKER HAS MY TIGER CUB!” I roar as I hit the steering wheel with all my might.

I’ve been following the dark navy sedan for over two hours. From the moment they didn’t make that turn leading to Nera’s after dropping off her friend, I knew something wasn’t right. When the vehicle started heading out of the city, it became clearthat my girl had been kidnapped. I don’t give a fuck by whom or why. Their death sentence has been signed.

The shit-for-brains driving the sedan takes the next exit off the highway and then proceeds down a county road. I follow, keeping my distance so as not to raise suspicion. When they make another turn and pull into a middle-of-nowhere church parking lot, I keep going. Once I’m far enough, I drive off the road and into a thicket. Branches scratch at the hood and the sides of my vehicle as I urge it deeper, out of sight. I don’t even shut the door when I launch out and run to the trunk to load up.

It takes me four minutes to reach the edge of the parking lot attached to the church. A line of black cars is parked on the side, and behind the wheel of the last one, a man is smoking. The navy sedan that brought my cub here is parked in front of the church entrance, but it appears empty now. Two men with automatic rifles are guarding the front doors, and another is making the rounds outside the building.

Inside the church, the lights are definitely on, but the stained glass windows make it impossible to get a read on of what’s happening within. I look up, assessing the upper level. There should be second-story access that leads to the choir loft.

Using the darkness as cover, I sneak up behind the last SUV in the line. The man inside is in the process of lighting another cigarette, and he blows smoke out through the open window. I pounce and bury my knife into the side of his neck, just below his ear. His body jerks, and a gurgling sound leaves his throat. Pressing my free hand over his mouth to muffle the noise, I rotate the blade. A rather quick death, unfortunately.

The guard doing the rounds is next. I take him out from behind, wrapping my arms around his neck and dropping him on his ass. His neck snaps like a twig in the process. Afterconfirming he’s dead, I creep along the outside of the church and throw a quick look around the corner. The two guards are still positioned at the front doors, just over ten feet away. This close, I could take them both out with my handgun, but it may draw whatever numbers are hidden inside the building. Since I don’t yet know what I’m dealing with, a silent kill is my best option.

I take two of my throwing knives, one for each hand, and step out of my cover. The guards spin toward me while I send both blades flying. One lodges in the first target’s eye, the other in the second’s forehead. I doubt they have any awareness of what’s happening to them when I cross the distance between us and, in one fluid movement, swipe my Bowie knife across both their throats.

Leaving their bodies slumped before the doors, I double back to grab my rifle from under the bush where I left it, then head to the rear of the church.

Fear claws at me, crawling over my skin as I stare at the man sitting before me. His arms are spread on the back of the front-row pew, while his eyes roam up and down my body as if assessing his new possession. I’ve never met the head of the Camorra Clan before, but I’ve seen a few images of him on social media. He’s lankier than in the photos, and his hollow cheeks and the grayish tint of his skin are even more pronounced in person.

“I knew your daddy wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but I never expected him to be so stupid as to back out of our deal.” He smiles, revealing two rows of nicotine-stained teeth. One of his eyes seems to be misaligned, turned inward, which makes his grimace more grotesque. “I expected you to be prettier.”

He rises and grabs my chin, his fingers bruising my skin as he tilts my head to the left and then right. His breath stinks of onions and cigarettes, making me want to puke. I swallow the bile and keep very still, enduring his inspection.

Along with Alvino and the driver who escorted me here, there are over two dozen men inside the church. Camorra soldiers, all armed, sitting in rows of pews on the right side of the aisle. And the priest in his ceremonial robes, standing at the altar. There is no way I’ll be able to escape.

“Pity. I may need to fuck you with my eyes closed,” Alvino sneers. “Let’s get this over with.”

He grabs my upper arm, dragging me toward the dais. My left heel gets caught on something, and I stumble, twisting my ankle. Pain shots up my leg, and I can’t help but cry out.

“Shut the fuck up.” Alvino slaps my face.

I barely manage to stifle another cry as I’m dragged in front of the priest. Keeping my weight off my left leg, I stare in horror at his elaborately decorated chasuble while nausea threatens to suffocate me. From the moment I stepped out of the car and realized we were at a church, I knew what was coming, but it still felt as if it was happening to someone else. With a municipal ceremony, Dad might have had some pull to get it annulled. It’s nearly impossible to do so with a church wedding.

The priest starts speaking, and I squeeze my eyes shut. I won’t cry. I won’t let the bastard standing next to me gloat at my misery. My mind leaps to my beautiful demon instead. I’ll likelynever see him again. Camorra is not like Cosa Nostra. They keep to their traditions. After the nuptials, it’s expected that the wife stays at home. If I’m ever allowed to leave Alvino’s house, it will always be under a heavy guard.

I draw in a shaky breath and make myself open my eyes, scanning my surroundings, hoping to find a means of escape, all the while knowing it’s futile. There are too many armed men, and my injured ankle can barely support my weight. There’s no way I’ll be able to run.

The priest continues to speak. Alvino turns toward me, that awful evil smile plastered on his face. He opens his mouth to say “I do” just as a single, sharp bang rings out. Alvino’s head jerks back. His legs fold beneath him, and he starts falling backward, pulling me along. I find myself sprawled over him on the floor—my face just inches from his wretched one, gaping at the big hole at the center of his forehead—when gunfire explodes.

Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or simply a pure self-preservation instinct, but I don’t look up, not even to see what’s happening around me. Staying as low as possible, I crawl toward the nearest wall. Once I reach relative safety behind a thick stone pillar, I chance a quick glance toward the middle of the church. The priest is dead, splayed on the floor a few steps from Alvino. Several other bodies are scattered nearby. I can only partially glimpse them through the gaps among the pews. But those who are facing my way, have identical red holes in their heads.

The Camorra members who are still alive have taken cover between the wooden seats. Their shouts fill the vast space as they point and shoot at random. I don’t see who they are shooting at. Considering the number of dead bodies, I figure Dad must have somehow found out what happened and sent our men to rescue me. But I don’t see anyone except Camorra soldiers.

The shooting dies down, and, for a moment, there are no sounds at all. Two Camorra goons who were hiding behind the first pew rise, holding their guns out.

Bang.Bang.

That sharp sound again. It’s a different pop than a regular gun makes. With the echoey acoustics, it’s hard to pinpoint where the shots are coming from. Both men drop dead. Another round of rapid firing erupts as Camorra soldiers shoot in all directions, then silence descends once more.

The faint tingling feeling creeps up my neck. I look toward the altar and notice a movement in the shadows behind it. A figure in black steps into the light, and my breath gets caught in my lungs. He lifts his guns, one in each hand, shooting at the remaining Camorra men while walking to me. Walking. As if on a stroll through a park on a sunny afternoon, birds chirping in the distance. As if there aren’t God-knows-how-many goons still out there trying to shoot him. He just rains bullets on them without pause. My angel of death. My salvation.

“Cub?” he says as he reaches me.

“I’m okay,” I choke out.

He nods and steps behind the column that’s served as my shelter. A barrage of bullets hits the wall on our side the moment he stops shooting.

“When I tell you, you’re going to run.” Two empty magazines clatter to the floor. “There’s a door at the back, behind the altar. The car you arrived in is parked just outside, keys are in the ignition.” He slots a new magazine into each gun. “I’ll cover you from here.”