Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 120(@200wpm)___ 96(@250wpm)___ 80(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 120(@200wpm)___ 96(@250wpm)___ 80(@300wpm)
"As what?"
"None of your business."
Silence stretched between them. A silence filled with unspoken judgment that Sylvain had not expected to find discomfiting.
"Comprendo." A shift to Italian, Calixte's way of signaling a change in his approach. "I'll have something for you by morning. But Sylvain..."
Sylvain had a feeling he would not like his friend's next words.
"Are you sure this is about her, and not about Annie?"
And he was right.
"Can I count on you with those tests, dauphin?"
Another pause.
"It will be as you will," Calixte said finally. "And I hope, for both of your sakes, it will work the way you expect."
THE DEVIL HAD COME to torture him, and Sylvain was in agony, his mind replaying his phone call with the Prince of Killers even as he saw his wife start to sway in slow motion.
The gas filled Sylvain's lungs as he lunged toward Liana, but her body had already started to crumple. His movements felt sluggish, as if he were swimming through tar, each step requiring more effort than the last.
Something was wrong.
This was not supposed to happen.
His heart seized as he watched her fall, her dark hair fanning out around her like a halo of night. The look in her eyes as consciousness slipped away, confusion, shock, fear. But also...trust.
She trusted him.
Even when he didn't deserve it.
Je suis désolé. I'm sorry.
His vision began to dim at the edges, the persistent hiss of gas barely audible over the pounding of blood in his ears.
Three more steps. Just three more, and he could reach her.
But his legs were no longer his to command, his knee folding...before hitting the concrete with bruising force.
No, no, no.
Through the haze, Sylvain saw a figure emerge from the shadows.
Giancarlo Marchetti.
The Prince of Thieves. And the prince among thieves. A man whom people from both sides of the law respected. And under normal circumstances, Sylvain would not have thought it bad to see him.
But not now.
Not when Marchetti had once been Viktor Biancardi's best friend...until Liana's half-brother tried to murder him.
This...this was not right.
Had Calixte betrayed him? Or had Marchetti betrayed Calixte? Could Marchetti have intercepted either or both of them without him and the Prince of Killers knowing? It was unlikely...but possible. The Marchettis were not only New England's most powerful famiglia. They had connections built on decades of blood sacrifices. Connections that no amount of money could buy or betray.
Sylvain fought off unconsciousness as Marchetti knelt gracefully beside his wife's unconscious form. The man was dressed like he had simply stepped out of a ball to take care of business, his perfectly tailored suit without a crease, and the faint gleam of silver at his temples lending him a distinguished air.
One hand brushed Liana's hair from her face with impersonal care, but it still triggered something primal and violent in Sylvain's chest.
No. No. NO.
The Marchettis were supposed to be honorable, not vengeful. They had even supposedly sworn off violence, having found redemption in God. Truthfully, Sylvain had no bloody idea what that meant. And he had never cared to find out.
Until now.
Until he realized...it was possible that he had misjudged the Marchettis, the way he had misjudged the girl he once loved, an entire lifetime ago.
Sylvain tried to speak, to demand, to threaten. But his tongue felt like lead in his mouth, and he could not remember feeling this terrified, this impotent, as he watched the other man lift Liana in his arms as if she weighed nothing.
Ma faute. Mea culpa. All of this...my fault.
Marchetti started to walk away, and the pain that tore through his chest had nothing to do with the gas burning down his lungs and destroying his consciousness.
I'm sorry, Liana. I'm so bloody sorry.
Marchetti suddenly turned to face him, his gaze meeting Sylvain's across the warehouse floor. There was no cruelty there, no triumph. Only a quiet, professional assessment. The look of a man completing a task with the utmost efficiency—exactly the way Sylvain himself would have looked, once upon a time.
Chapter Nine
ANOTHER WAREHOUSE, really?
It's my first thought when the disorientation passes, even though my head still throbs with the remnants of whatever gas they used.
I really need to have a word with these mob bosses soon. It's time they be made aware that warehouses are the definition of passé.
But for now...
Comment s'échapper? How to escape?
The air in this place feels different. Heavier. And more humid. Also, the walls are of weathered brick, with stone faces peering down at me from every corner, wings arched up as if prepared to swoop down and claw me into death at a moment's notice.
Gargouilles. Gargoyles.
How strange and unexpected. But something about it also nags at me, and something I may have to figure out. Later. Until then...
I sit up slowly, checking myself mentally for injuries. Does anything feel broken? No. Do I hurt anywhere? No. It's good enough for me, and the fact that I'm still wearing the same clothes? I'll take it as proof that no one's raped me.