Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 57067 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57067 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
But then I spot him.
The same man, with the same loose leather jacket, is now wearing a wool cap to cover his bald head. He leans against the wall next to the small ice rink. When he sees me looking, he raises his paper cup as though in a toast.
Jackie taps my hand to get my attention.
“Huh? Sorry?”
She smiles. “You need to get more sleep, Celine. Your head is in the clouds.”
“Sleep? In our profession? When would we have time to do anything if we ever slept?”
“Don’t get caught in that trap,” she says gently. “Life has to come first.”
“You’re right.” I try not to look at him.
Without a body…
When I demanded to know what Rico meant by that, Julian pretended to be confused. It was like he thought I didn’t know him… like he’d forgotten I’m his sister and can read his cues, even if I’ve spent years pretending I can’t.
Jackie checks her phone. “I should get going.”
I should go with her. But something hot is gathering inside me, like a ball of energy waiting to be released.
Why should I be afraid of this man? What’s he going to do in front of all these people? Why does he think he has the right to intimidate me?
“Celine,” Jackie says. “Are you coming?”
“I’m going to hang around for a little while,” I say, knowing it’s probably a mistake. But screw it. I won’t let this asshole scare me.
We say goodbye. When Jackie leaves, the man pushes away from the wall and wanders over. He looks different from yesterday, his eyes glassy. When he sits and slams his cup down, I smell the whiskey emanating from it.
“Well, ain’t this a nice surprise,” he says.
“I’m not scared of you, you sad little man.” Somehow, my voice doesn’t waver, and that makes me proud. “If you’ve got a problem, it’s not with me.”
“Oh, I’ve got a problem.” He licks his lips, his cloudy eyes flitting up and down my body. “I need to get some more whiskey before we make sweet, sweet love, Celine Moreau.”
I try not to show my disgust and fear on my face. But it’s difficult. He smirks as if he’s seen deep inside of me and can read every little nuance. Every little tremor of terror.
“Don’t like the sound of that, hm?” he says.
I fold my arms and sit up straighter. I’m not going to let this asshole beat me. I’m not going to let this new life, this upside-down world where I finally know the half-truth about my brother, break me.
“Go fuck yourself,” I snap.
His smirk falters. His hand is shaking as he reaches for his paper cup of whiskey. When he takes a sip, his eyes don’t leave me. A line of brown liquid slides down his chin.
“That isn’t a very intelligent thing to say. I want you to look under the table.”
He snakes one hand out of sight.
“Why?” I snap.
“Look under the table, or you’ll bleed right here. Right now.”
Something in his tone makes me do it. He doesn’t sound as though he’s lying. He sounds serious.
I lean down. A gasp punches out of my throat.
He’s holding a gun, aiming it at me, out of sight so that no one else can see it.
When I sit up, his smirk is back – in fact, it’s evolved, become a full-on grin. I’m good in high-stress situations. I wouldn’t be able to do my job if I crumpled every time things got tough, but this is a new breed of panic.
“We’re going to take a walk,” he growls. “You and me. Somewhere private. Somewhere… special. Or I can pull the trigger. Your choice.”
I look around the busy Christmas market. “You won’t,” I whisper.
“Are you sure of that, Celine Moreau? Are you certain?”
I’m certain that if I go with him, something terrible is going to happen.
What choice do I have? My legs are Jell-O when I stand. His eyes never leave me. The gun’s no longer in sight, but he’s got his hand in his pocket, and I can see the shape through the leather. He wouldn’t even have to take it out, just angle it, aim, and pull the trigger.
Job done.
“Where are we going?” I ask, wondering if I should just run, but then it’s too late.
He walks around the table and grips my elbow, squeezes, making my bones ache. “Wherever the fuck I want,” he snarls.
Before I know it, he’s marching me across the market and out the door, the Christmas music receding. He shoves me into the first alleyway we pass by, taking out the gun again, looking at the mouth of the alley with that sickening lick-lipping habit.
“You’re not much,” he says. “But I’ll make do—”
“Game’s up, motherfucker,” someone growls.
We both turn.
Damian walks toward us, emerging from the shadows, the pale winter light reflecting off the scar on his face, his eyes fixed on Rico with laser focus. He’s got a gun in his hand, pointed straight at Rico.