Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 54522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
“Vincent, what brings you down so early? Bit early for a drink, isn’t it?” Gabriel says as he reaches for a glass to pour me whatever I want, regardless of the time of day.
He excels as a bartender but truly shines as a listener. Sometimes it’s easier to talk to him than my consigliere about sensitive things. Perhaps it’s his charm and charisma that make the words flow more freely.
“I’ll pass on the drink for now,” I say. “I’m actually looking for a verbal fix this morning.”
“You got it, boss,” he says with a chuckle. “But remember, I’m not an actual therapist. I only play one behind the bar. What’s on your mind?”
“The past,” I say with a heavy feeling. “I thought that maybe since you have such a pulse on the plight of the people in this city, you might offer some insight into how a man goes about keeping memories at bay.”
“Ah, that’s a tough one,” Gabriel says as he leans his elbow against the bar. “It’s been my experience that if certain things from the past keep popping up in your head, that means there’s a reason for it. Something unresolved usually, although I’ve never known you to leave any loose ends untied.”
“You’re right about that, I don’t.”
“Speaking of loose ends, there was someone in here asking around last night—a cop,” he says in a low voice, even though we’re alone. “He was trying to go incognito, yet I easily recognized him.”
Gabriel’s explanation about a potential undercover officer in my casino is unnecessary. I’m well aware that it has something to do with Isla’s disappearance.
“After I made him, he left his card,” Gabriel says as he reaches under the bar and pulls out a small square of paper with an emblem embossed on the front of it.
Detective Hale Monroe, not a name that I am unfamiliar with. He’s not just a cop, he’s a dirty cop, one that works both sides of the law and both sides of the criminal underground. He’s not exactly a friend of my family’s and I’ve had run-ins with him in the past. His aim is mostly likely to ruin me. Unfortunately for him, that will never happen.
“Thank you, Gabriel,” I say as I slide the business card into my pocket and stand up to leave.
For the rest of the day, I try to focus on business. I call a few meetings, check on a few deals, and send my underboss, Alonzo, to the dance studio to shake things up with Madame Dunant a bit before there’s trouble. But after finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate and calm my nerves, I decide to return to the penthouse and to Isla. She is the problem I need to solve so that I can move on with everything else. While I’m stewing over her, my enemies are making moves in the city to steal territory and undermine some of my own business channels. I have to organize my affairs and compose myself for clear thought. And the one thing that always works to soothe me, ironically, is the ballet.
I’ve always found the ballet a place of peaceful beauty. My mother instilled an appreciation for the art when we were children. While my father engaged in more violent and volatile matters, my mother would take my sister and me to the theatre to watch performances of Swan Lake and Giselle, in order to keep our young minds protected from the horrors that occurred off the stage. To this day, it’s still my refuge. And it just so happens that I have an extremely talented ballerina in my possession right now.
Before I make my way back to the penthouse, I stop at the theatre. Because the missing dancer hasn’t returned, they have stopped all performances, so the theatre is now empty. However, they typically leave the back door unlocked for deliveries and dancers to access the rehearsal space. When I first walk inside, I figure there’s a chance Isla’s dance shoes might still be here. They must have fallen out of her bag backstage when she witnessed The Devil in his true form. Almost as soon as I walk behind the stage, I see Isla’s ballet shoes sitting on top of a long, narrow table that has been made into a sort of altar, complete with flowers, caring notes, and a picture of the missing ballerina. I suppose this sort of thing might be sentimental to most. To me, it’s simply opportune.
I take the shoes from the table without a second thought and bring them back to the penthouse with me. When I get there, Zara is sitting at the table with her laptop in front of her and the door to Isla’s room remains closed.
“Any luck with her?” I ask.
“Nope. She’s an iron fortress of resistance,” Zara laughs. “She’s definitely not happy to be here.”