Chapter 52: Chapter 52

C H A P T E R - T W E N T Y - O N E

When Brett, Falcone's son, pulled into my driveway, I noticed that my house's windows were boarded up, something Falcone or perhaps Dad had most likely planned.

Brett and I had previously met. He had been a commando who had set up my security system. He had the looks of the boy next door, assuming the boy next door had more weight and workout gear than Falcone since he was blonde and had blue eyes. In other words, Brett was muscular and ripped.

Brett, however, was not Fang. Bret spoke. Since Brett had three years of experience working for Falcone, I was aware of this. Brett was formerly a member of the Army. Additionally, Betsy, Brett's girlfriend, was expecting a child.

Because Betsy didn't want to seem overweight in her wedding photographs, they planned to be married after the kid was born. I admitted to Brett that I could see that and that I, too, wouldn't want to look overweight in my wedding photographs.

I allowed us inside, and Brett entered the security code at the security panel. I was relieved because I had forgotten about it.

I then looked around my living room.

"Boy, bullets do a lot of damage," I said as I surveyed the carnage before turning to face Brett and concluding.

Then, for some reason—possibly because I was present when the disaster occurred and it might have happened to me and brought everything back to mind, or because my living room was suddenly much less livable and my furniture was blown up—my face crumpled, and I started crying.

Unexpectedly, Brett wrapped his strong arms around me, and because this was such a kind gesture, I seized the opportunity to move closer to him by encircling his waist with mine.

He muttered to the top of my hair, "This is all fixable, Gia," and I nodded into his enormous chest without responding, so he continued. "And none of this matters. The only item that might not have been able to be fixed but is nonetheless significant escaped unharmed." Then his arms around me and squeezed.

Because this large person holding me was making the unknowing Betsy lucky and was also being really kind to me, I squeezed him back because I thought Betsy was quite lucky.

Fortunately, I had just enough time before the insurance agent showed there to gather my composure and wipe my face. He experienced the same shock I did.

It was obvious that he wasn't frequently called upon to provide estimates following drive-bys. Flood, indeed. Fire, most likely. Not a drive-by. He didn't spend any time giving me a tour, taking notes, explaining the process, and handing me some documents before leaving. I wasn't angry with him. Even if lightning might not hit the same area twice, a drive-by was always a gamble.

While I went upstairs to look through my closet for my nighttime attire, Brett stayed below. Additionally, I found the large canvas bag I used to carry my dirty laundry to the laundromat when I didn't have a washer or dryer at home.

In the little paneled area beneath the bed frame, Falcone had a washing and dryer (this room also held a super deep bowled, huge sink that had a super-powered hose like spray attached and it was where I fancied he cleaned the blood off his weapons). My caftan needed to be cleaned so I could put it on and gauge Falcone's reaction. In addition, I scheduled a trip to the mall for just after the Isabelle squabble was resolved.

Although I felt my underwear was slightly seductive, it was mostly purchased for comfort, not fashion. It wasn't overtly sexual, and neither was my underwear. I intended to purchase satin and lace and research the answer.

I put my clothes in a tiny bag along with some jewelry and other nice-to-have items. When I heard it, I was about to zip up the top and ponder digging into my freezer for my stockpile of Twix and throwing them in my bag.

Firearms firing in the living room.

I paused for a split second as the alert-alive sensation suddenly overwhelmed my body, sending my skin tingling and my heart racing. As soon as I heard someone storming up my stairs, I hurried to the phone in the hopes that it was Brett. I sincerely hoped that Brett was there.

Even though I had the phone out of the receiver, I was unable to contact 911.

My back was wrenched backward by an arm that was clamped around my waist. The phone clattered as a palm brushed over it. I craned my neck in an attempt to identify Brett, but I was unsuccessful.

Not at all.

Then I began to kick, scream, buckle, elbow, and scratch the man holding me, making it difficult for him to hold onto me.

Then another person entered the space, I heard a strange cracking and crackling sound, something was pressed to my neck, and I left.