Chapter 11 · The Viper on the Line

Enzo kicked the door open so hard the brass latch rattled against the frame.

I had the curved needle jammed halfway through Dominic's side. Seven black stitches in. Three to go. My knuckles were slick with his blood.

"Victor's on the secure line." Enzo held the heavy black radio out like it was about to detonate. "He's asking for Miss Kessler. By name."

Nobody breathed.

The green desk lamp hummed. Wind battered the storm shutters, rattling the glass. Dominic sat propped against the mahogany edge, shirt gone, a jagged eight-inch slash weeping fresh red down his ribs. He stared at that radio like a copperhead coiled on his bed.

"Tie it off," he ordered.

"I'm not finished."

"Tie it off, Mara."

I knotted the nylon thread, pulled tight, and snipped it with the shears. My fingers shook. I hated the shake. I hated even more that his cold gray eyes caught it.

"Speaker," Dominic told Enzo.

Static hissed through the tiny grille. Then a voice slid into the room—smooth, low, like an old man ordering bourbon in an empty lounge.

"Miss Kessler. Forgive the late call."

My mouth turned to chalk.