"My keys."

"Yes."

"You're stealing my car, too, Carmela? I thought you were smarter than that. You know new cars are equipped with GPS. You won't get far."

"You're lying again," she says. "If anyone would have a car that couldn't be traced, it would be you. You'd never let anyone track your movements."

Smart.

I'm almost impressed.

"Besides, I don't want your car," she says. "I just have to be sure you can't follow me right away."

She's smart, all right.

Slowly, I start to take the Mercedes key off the ring when she shakes her head, taking another step toward me. "Give me all of them. You're not going to outwit me."

Too smart.

But she underestimates me.

I keep a spare key in my car.

I begrudgingly toss the keys, glaring at her as she picks them up. As she starts to back away, panic runs through me. I have to find a way to stop her, to stall her. I can't just let her leave.

I take a step forward, her name on my lips. "Car—"

The backdoor to the club opens and loud voices carry through into the lot. Their presence sets Carmela off, the lighting of the fuse. I can see it on her face, but it's too late for me to react, too late to diffuse this.

The explosion goes off unexpectedly, a gunshot lighting up the lot between us a fraction of a second before pain rips through me. A curse leaves my lips in a sharp exhale as my chest suddenly feels like it's engulfed in flames, the burning coating my left side, pinprick numbness radiating from it.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

I can't breathe.

I grasp my side, wincing, and inhale sharply as a second gunshot cuts through the night, clinking as it slams into my car door, ricocheting and hitting the glass of the driver's side window. My knees buckle as I hit the ground beside the car, trying to shield myself as she unloads the gun, bullet after bullet striking metal around me. I can feel them as they tear past me, crashing into the car.

She pulls the trigger, over and over.

Click.

Click.

Click.

I raise my head, blood seeping through my shirt when I hear the distinct clicking sound. She's out of bullets. I'm breathing heavily, adrenaline spiking my system. The pain runs deep, like someone stabbed me with a hot iron poker. I'm hoping it's just a flesh wound, but it hurts like a son of a bitch.

Carmela frantically takes a few steps back. The gunshots scared away whoever had come outside, but there will be others soon, and she knows it. She knows they're coming, and she's defenseless, and I'm not dead. Either I'm a lucky son of a bitch, or she's a terrible shot. Our eyes meet for only a few seconds, a few seconds where I drink in her sheer terror.

And then she's gone.

In a blink, the time it takes to reopen my eyes after closing them, she's running, disappearing into the darkness. I force myself up, clenching my jaw from the pain, struggling to get my breathing under control. I'm steady on my feet for the moment, but I'm losing blood.

I can feel it.

I can't stay here.

The police are never far off, and there were way too many gunshots for nobody to report it. I hear people rush out the door of the club, yelling, but I don't stop to see who it is. Climbing in my car, I open the glove box, fishing out the spare key. It's hard, using only my right arm, my left hand clutching the wound, but I manage to get the car started before anyone reaches me.

Everything's a blur as I speed away.

My vision is skewed, my head fucking throbbing.

I'm not sure how the hell I get home.

But by the time I pull up in my driveway and throw the car in park, I feel like I'm already hanging by a thread. I don't bother cutting the engine, forcing myself toward the house, needing to get inside. I should go to the hospital, I know, but I can't.

They ask questions.

I don't have any answers.

The door's unlocked when I make it there. I usually get mad when Karissa leaves it I latched, but I'm thanking God for it at the moment. I push against it as I shove it open, the blood coating my hand as I struggle. I slam the door closed behind me and lean back against it, wincing.

I hear footsteps coming down from upstairs as I push away and stagger through the foyer.

Karissa.

"Naz?" she says, her voice borderline panicked as she appears in front me, eyes wide with terror. Yanking her earbuds out, she rushes at me, grasping at my shirt. "Oh God, you're bleeding, Naz! You're fucking bleeding!"

I stare at her, mesmerized by the fright in her voice—not because of me, but for me. She scared for me?

"What happened to you?" she asks. "Jesus, there's blood everywhere!"

"Shot," I grind out. "Just once, I think."

"Shot? Somebody shot you?"

Her hands frantically paw at me, and I grimace, gritting my teeth to not cry out but a curse slips from my lips.

"Oh God, I'm sorry!" She pulls away quickly. Blood stains her palms, her hands shaking as she scrambles for her phone. She drops the damn thing once… twice… before she's steadied enough to even press a button on the cracked screen.

Her and that fucking phone…

"Just… hold on," she says. "Hold on, okay? I'll get you some help."

She starts dialing 9-1-1, but I stop her before she can press the last number, shaking my head as I reach for her phone. "No! No police."