Torched Spades: A Dark Mafia Romance (Marchesi Empire Book 1) by Cora Kenborn

Author:Cora Kenborn [Kenborn, Cora]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-04-13T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

JOHNNY

“Damn it!” Letting out a string of blunt curses, I jerk the wheel to the right as the car skids into another “hope and pray” hairpin turn.

Then again, I believe in neither, so I let vengeance steer this one. A man should take charge of his own fate, not leave it in the hands of lady luck or some mythical man in the sky.

I let these Irish bastards walk away once. I won’t make the same mistake twice, even if that means driving us both into the Narragansett Bay.

Sixty.

Seventy.

Eighty.

Like my blood pressure, the speedometer keeps climbing, but it’s not enough. I already have the gas pedal pressed as far as it will go. Any more force and I’ll be Fred Flintstone-ing this motherfucker down Westminster Street.

The distance between their rear bumper and my front one keeps lengthening and tightening like a goddamn accordion. One moment I’m almost close enough to spin them into one of Providence’s historical brick walls, and the next, I’m being shoved twenty feet back by pedestrians and minivans.

Another sharp right, then a hard left, and I’m making bargains for a soul I’ve already cashed out. “I swear to fuck, I’ll swim in a river of fire for eternity if I have to—just let me get my hands on these assholes.”

I’m not praying to Satan. I’m negotiating. There’s a difference.

Cars are coming out of nowhere, nearly skewering me on either side. Horns blare as they swerve to opposite sides, one slamming into a telephone pole while the other takes out an antique store. Still, I don’t look back. Guilt is a useless emotion, and I don’t have time to fuck with it.

Right now, rage and jealousy are the only two emotions in control, and ever since walking out of Imperial Diner, they’ve taken turns riding shotgun.

The mind can be a body’s sharpest tool or its deadliest poison. Either it’s on, or it’s off. Either it’s working with you, or it’s working against you. There’s no middle ground. It’s how serial killers get away with murder for years, only to end up getting caught in a traffic violation with their neighbors on the news talking about how “he seemed like such a nice guy.”

Sharp tool and deadly poison—two extremes separated by a razor-thin line. For a serial killer, that line is normalcy. For me, it’s Becca Brennan.

Eighty-five.

Ninety.

Ninety-five.

These two-lane Providence roads weren’t intended to sustain high-speed chases. There’s probably more tread on the asphalt than my tires, but after seeing those two stronzos, Mac and Dice, sitting in a sedan outside the diner—behind her fucking car—I’m done worrying about consequences and risks.

They made this personal.

My focus darts from the road to the glove box, and it’s all I can do not to take one hand off the wheel and jerk it open. Five seconds. That’s all the time it would take to have the 9mm in my hand, aim, fire a bullet into each back tire, and send them spinning into oblivion.

But those gunshots wouldn’t be “alleged.” They’d be admissible evidence Ledger and Reese would happily use to lock me up.

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