“Do it,” he snaps. “Fucking throw it!”
My arm winds back. The flickering flames gleam and dance in the windshield of the car.
No one’s in it. It’s just a shitty old truck.
Also, I don’t want to die.
With a deep breath, I wind up and hurl the flaming bottle at the vehicle. The glass shatters on impact. Instantly, liquid flames engulf the hood, the windshield, and the passenger side door. The fire roars like an angry dragon, licking over the roof, down the side, and then dripping to the ground around the wheels. One of the tires pops with a bang, making me scream and sending Grisha and his friends into convulsions of laughter.
The windshield and one of the rear windows burst. Metal begins to whine and shriek. The heat of the pyre scorches my face as I stare in horror at what I’ve done. Slowly, I pull my eyes away, turning and walking back to Grisha.
“Okay, I did it,” I mumble, shaking as I hug myself. “Can I please go—”
The explosion is deafening. The force of it knocks the wind right out of me and hurls me to the ground alongside the three Russians. The pavement bites into my palms and my chin, making me wince in pain. Grisha and his buddies hoot with glee as something roars like a hurricane behind me.
Sucking in air, I roll over. My eyes go wide, my mouth falling open as I stare at the mangled twist of metal billowing with flames where the car used to be.
What the fuck have I done?
An hour later I’m home, at my apartment.
I can’t. Stop. Shaking.
I have a million missed calls from Alicia and a hundred panicky, apologetic texts. I ignore them all as I crawl into the hottest bath I can stand and start to scrub the grime and gasoline-scented soot from my skin. I wince when I clean the cuts on my hands and my chin, then get out and quickly kneel next to the tub to try to wash the smoke from my hair.
Back in the kitchen, I reach over and mute my phone, since it just keeps blowing up with Alicia’s texts. I pour myself a huge glass of red wine, downing half of it in one go.
I still can’t stop shaking.
Suddenly, I frown, thinking. I lurch from the stool in my kitchen and bolt to the front door of the apartment.
No.
It’s not hanging by the door.
Oh fuck.
It’s not in my dance bag, either. Or on the couch, or anywhere in my room. As I turn my apartment upside down, I start to realize that my purse isn’t here at all.
And I know I had it when I left the theater.
The pounding of fists on my front door almost stops my heart. My throat strangles the scream as I whirl, white-faced, and stare at it with horror.
“BIANCA!”
The air leaves my lungs in a whoosh.
It’s Dante.
When I open the door, I gasp as he storms in, his face grim. He glances around, and it’s only then that I realize he’s holding a fucking gun.
“Dante—”
“Why the fuck weren’t you answering your phone!?” he barks, concern in his voice and all over his face.
I swallow. “I—I was in the bath? What the hell is—”
“Shit’s going down, that’s what. A war might’ve just started, and I wanted to make sure you were home and safe.”
Something cold settles in the pit of my stomach.
“A…a war?” I croak.
He nods, marching over to my windows and checking that they’re all locked, even though we’re ten floors up.
“Someone raided one of Nero De Luca’s warehouses in Brooklyn.”
I exhale.
Thank God.
“And… You think that means war?”
“On it’s own, it could just be a regular gangland bullshit,” he growls, turning back to me and holstering the gun. “But barely an hour later, someone torched Kratos Drakos’ car in the Bronx.”
The cold knot rips through my stomach again with a vengeance. My throat tightens, a whining sound ringing in my ears.