Chapter 20

• Blake's POV
• Being shot hurt like a bitch, but her eerie words were more chilling. I've always had this niggling doubt that she knew who I was, and those little fits I managed to achieve were all on her terms. She had been messing with me all along, playing me like her own personal puppet on a string. She wasn't even surprised when I pulled the trigger. It had been the most difficult decision I ever had to make, but my duty came first. I knew it was all hopeless, a cop and a Mafia could never be together. It just didn't work that way, and I couldn't throw away my years of toilings, working to the top, until I became the best agent, bringing criminals to justice no matter the cost, yet I hesitated when it came to the worst of them all. Those grey eyes, flashing with hatred, passion, and vulnerability tugged at something in my chest, I wanted to hold her, hug and shield her from her demons, destroy those who dared to lay hands on her, but I don't. I saw the flash of hurt in her eyes once I applied pressure to the trigger, I squeezed, my heart clenching along with it. Everywhere quieted. Everything seemed to move in slow motion, but she stood before me, eyes burning with hurt until her emotionless mask came up. Her smile stretched, but she was not happy. I found the whole situation odd. It was almost as if she had wanted me to fire at her. Like she was playing a game, and every action I took had consequences. It didn't matter now, I don't care that she found out who I was, it made her let her guard down. I had video recordings of her admitting to her crimes-sizeable small button shape cameras are a thing now, once that goes into the evidence box, she'd have a hard time, digging out of her grave. I alerted April through a text message. I couldn't decide between going to get treated, or going back to the apartment. The apartment seemed to be a no-go area. I could handle a hitman's attack but not when a high-powered rifle was shot at me from afar. I'd have to go to the safe house, treat myself, and transfer the evidence to April. I forgot to take my fucking laptop. The pain in my leg doesn't register. It was not that deep. She was probably a maniac who went around shooting at people just for the thrill of it or was I reading her all wrong. Do I need to reevaluate the situation, and see if I missed anything?
• I went through the parking lot, heading for my private car. It had been drilled over and over again into my head, always have a getaway In case of an emergency. I applied pressure on the wound, tearing a piece of my shirt, and tying it around the gaping wound. I got in behind the wheels, putting the evidence away. I turned the car ignition, bringing it to life. This madness was finally over.