22
Giancarlo as a wolf lay on the floor in front of me, his brown eyes open to the ceiling. The last of the light leaked out of them, and blood oozed from a bullet wound in his chest. One thug lay dead by the open apartment door. His throat had been ripped out. Another one brandished a gun in my direction. He lay slumped against the wall, his other arm cradled in front of him at an odd angle.
“Silver bullets,” he said with a cough, and then he, too, died.
I ignored him and knelt by Giancarlo. “I’m sorry, old friend,” I said. “I didn’t know it was a trap.”
“They came for you when they thought you were unguarded and vulnerable. I stopped them.”
“Yes,” I said, tears choking me. “Yes, you did.” I smoothed the fur on his head.
“One more kiss, Bellissima?”
“Of course.” I kissed his cheek
