He stretched out a bloodstained hand to her. “Reese—”
“Mendez.” A sinewy hand caught his arm in an iron grip. “Think about this.”
“Let the fuck go of—Zeke?” He wasn’t sure which was higher on the “does not compute” front, seeing the pawnbroker smack in the middle of Cobra business, or the fact that Zeke was packing a nine mil that was accented with pink mother of pearl. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Watching your back.” Zeke’s eyes flicked to the shadows; a shift of his gun hand sent two of the hungrier street rats scurrying back. But not for long. “Maybe I’m not out of things as far as I make it look. And maybe I’ve been seeing the direction you’ve been heading, and want in on it.”
“There’s nothing to be in on,” Dez said, aiming the words at Reese even as another part of him said, Yes. This is what was meant to be.
“You two want to fix up the neighborhood, right? This is your chance. You’ve got the balls and the connections. Take the chain, step up as the new rey, and you’ll have the resources you need. We’ll back you.” He indicated three other guys, armed, holding back the shadows. One was Afternoon Bob from the pawnshop. Dez didn’t know the other two.
Take the chain. The words whispered in his heart. His eyes dropped to the pendant hung around Hood’s neck: a silver cobra curled around a ruby the size of his thumb, its color that of blood.
“Dez.” Someone touched his arm. He flinched back and almost swung, but pulled the punch at the sound of Reese’s voice. He hadn’t sensed her approach, hadn’t heard the others gathering nearby, but when he looked up he saw that they weren’t shadows anymore. They were people—some street rats like him, others neighborhood kids. They stared avidly, some at him, some at Hood’s body. A few at Reese.
“Don’t you fucking look at her.” He bristled, grabbed the pendant, and made a move toward the nearest, growling low in his throat. Then he turned back to Reese. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before the cops . . .” He trailed off, hearing himself.
Eyes wide and wet, poker face shaky, Reese glanced from his face to the knife, down to the four bodies, and then to the blood-smeared pendant that hung from his fingers. “We need to stay and tell Fallon what happened,” she said softly as the sirens got louder. “It’ll be okay. It was self-defense.” But the dull horror in her eyes said she had seen him attack Hood from behind, slaughter him like the animal he was.
Deep inside Dez, anger bloomed. “Of course it was self-defense. He was going to kill me, use you up, and then kill you.” He closed the distance between them, lowering his voice to rasp, “Trust me. This was the only way.”
“Okay.” She swallowed hard. “Okay. We can deal with this. We’ll tell them—”
“Nothing,” he interrupted before he even realized he was going to. He looked at the pendant clutched in his hand, at the faces that said silently, Will you lead us? Will you make us better? At least that was what ran through his head, humming through his veins like a song. That, and the sudden conviction that this was what he had been leading up to for so many years. Maybe even what Keban had been babbling about all along. His heart raced as the possibilities opened up in front of him.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “I’m begging you—please don’t do this.”
Energy flared. Conviction. “It’s all for you.” Why didn’t she get that? “As cobra de rey, I can keep you safe. I can give you everything that you need.”
Her whiskey-amber eyes went stark in her face. “All I need is you to go back to the way you used to be.”
“I like myself better this way.” He looked around, saw the ring box, fished it out of a pool of blood.
Her eyes welled at the sight and she pressed the back of one hand to her mouth, and for a crazy second it was happening exactly as he used to dream it would when they finally got to this point: shock, tears, disbelief. But then instead of the blinding, blazing joy he had pictured, her face crumpled. “Jesus, Dez, what’s happening to you?”
He bared his teeth, aware that the cops were closing in, that Zeke, Bob, and the others were getting restless. “This is who I am, Reese. I’m not your cowboy and I’m not your backup. It’s my turn.” He looped the chain over his neck, felt it settle against his skin, warm from a dead man’s body.
“Dez, please.” Tears swam in her eyes.
His head spun with power, with the mad perfection of it all, as he held out the ring box. “Come with me.” He flipped the top, revealing the serpent. “I’ll make you a queen.” Then, seeing that he needed something more, he added, “I love you.”
A year ago, when he had finally admitted to himself that he loved her as more than a sister, the concept had been huge and all consuming. Now it was just three words he used to get what he wanted.
She closed her eyes, tears spilling free. When she opened them again, he saw deep, tearing grief. “I love you, too. But I love the old you, not this one.”
He went cold inside. “There’s only one me. This is who I am.”
“No.” Her lips shaped the word without sound.
“Yes.” He picked the ring out of its nest, held it out. “Come with me. You said you wanted me, that you’d do anything to get me. Well, prove it. Take the ring.” The cops were almost there. Another minute at most, then some dicking around at the perimeter. Three minutes, tops. His heart picked up a beat and adrenaline stirred, making him feel powerful, invincible. But not powerful enough to make his woman do what he wanted. Because she was backing away, shaking her head and mouthing “no” over and over again. “Reese,” he grated, and took a step toward her. Zeke shadowed him, as did several others, closing on her, cutting off her escape.
“No!” Eyes going wild, she broke. She spun and bolted, her boots pounding on the floor, weapons slapping against her back as she raced up a short ladder to a platform, where a slider led into the tunnels, and from there to dozens of bolt-holes and back doors. There, she turned back and looked across the warehouse at him, tears streaming down her face. “Dez,” she whispered, so softly that he wasn’t even sure he heard it for real. He may just have imagined it.
“Mendez,” Zeke said. “We need to go.”
He glanced over and nodded. When he looked back, Reese had disappeared into the tunnels. Into safety. Anonymity. I’m so fucking sick of being anonymous, he thought, nursing the burn of anger when the rest of him went hollow.
The enforcer glanced at him. “You want her back?”
“No,” he rasped, though that was a lie. “None of you touches her,” he grated. “And you kill anyone who tries.”
He would show her. He would make the Cobras into something good, something worthy. He grabbed the ring and stuck it on his pinkie, tossed the box. He would keep it for her, saving it for the day she saw that he was right, that this was the way it was meant to be. But as the cops burst in and the shadows melted away, and he went with them into the darkness, something deep inside him, something that sounded very different from the other voice, whispered brokenly: Mine.
Only she wasn’t his anymore. She was gone. And he was alone in the crowd.
Dez shuddered in the throes of the memory, living it on one level while knowing it was a dream vision on another. Then the nightmare sped up to a flicker-flash of images, impressions showing how very wrong he had been, how quickly he had grown into the skin of the cobra de rey, justifying each slip and slide down into darkness. We need more cash to clean up our act, need more men, more power. We can’t go legit right now or the VWs will level the neighborhood. Can’t do it now when the Smaldone wannabes are making their big move. Then, before he knew it, he had found himself at the head of his own syndicate, part gang, part mob. All his.
More, the nightmare threw his words back at him—I’m doing this to keep Reese safe . . . to prove to her that I’m not what she thinks . . . for the neighborhood . . . for street rats like me. But really it hadn’t ever been about anyone but him. He had done exactly what Keban had taught him to do: take over, lead, control, command. And not give a shit what anybody else thought or said about it.
Another flicker. Another vision.
He woke sharp and alert—always did, always had, no matter what he’d been into the night before. His mind cataloged the morning inputs: decent bed, too-flowery perfume over the funk of stale sex, a woman’s arm over his waist. Nothing to trip his inner alarms. Opening his eyes gave him a look at a decent apartment, a woman’s hand
