[Giovanni]
Bianca tried to stomp my head, as if her bare heel could crush something already tempered by worse. She didn't know I'd had men twice her size break bottles over my skull, or women with sharper nails carve my skin.
Compared to that, her flailing was child's play.
Her feet kicked back and forth in a frantic rhythm, each strike grazing air, her desperation almost endearing. I sat up, laughter spilling out of me—ragged, manic, amused at the futility of her rebellion—while dragging her closer like she was nothing more than a fish snagged on a hook.
And then—crack.
Her foot connected with my jaw and for a second, my grip loosened. She tore free, diving toward the gun.
But she was sloppy. They always were.
I lunged faster, my hand smacking the weapon out of hers. It clattered
