Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
He brings his arm down in one fluent swoop, drawing a line across the throat of the man in his grip. In the grim light, the line runs black, the color spilling like a fountain of ink down the man’s neck and into his collar.
I stand frozen in horror, unable to process the sight even as my brain catalogues the briefcase and the hat that lie on the ground. My mind takes stock of the familiar features of my employer as Mr. Lewis utters a gurgling sound. The man with the knife holds him up when his knees buckle. In a warped way, it looks like a gentle act, almost as if the killer is giving him comfort as my boss’s gargling goes quiet and his body slumps.
I register everything about the man with the knife all at once—the well-tailored suit and the lean, broad body that fills it so well, the hard lines of the handsome square face, the modern cut of the midnight-black hair, and the chilling blue of his eyes. It’s a face I saw only once but would recognize anywhere. A face like that is too beautiful to forget. They’re the men who paid Mr. Lewis a surprise visit at the office. They make a formidable, terrifying pair. The tall man’s partner is bulkier, but he leaves less of an impression. The energy emanating from him isn’t as dark and deviant.
A clang echoes through the alley. My heart jolts in my chest. My phone. It lies at my feet. The screen is dark. Cracked.
Aghast, I look from the cause of the noise to the men in the alley. The man loosened his hold on Mr. Lewis. My boss lies on his side next to his briefcase, staring at me with wide, glassy eyes.
“Fuck,” the bulky man says, snarling as he trains his gaze on me.
Heatwaves of shock run through my body, propelling me back into action even as I lock eyes with the killer. Something passes between us—the knowledge that I’m done for. The way in which he tilts his head holds a strange kind of apology.
I don’t think. If I do, I’m dead. I spin on my heel and run.
The stocky man’s words follow me like a demon’s promise down the dark street.
“Get her and finish her.”
CHAPTER
TWO
Saverio
Iclean both sides of the blade with two quick swipes on Lewis’s coat sleeve and straighten in the same movement. Unlike Giorgio, I’m agile and light on my feet. I’m a faster runner. That’s why he lets me go after the woman. That motherfucker, Lewis, had a panic button in his hand. In less than five minutes, the cops will be like ants over the place. Getting rid of the body is no longer an option. Giorgio understands this. He gathers Lewis’s briefcase, gives me a nod, and hurries to the end of the alley to make himself scarce while I sprint to the top.
I snatch up the phone the woman with the long copper-colored curls dropped and slip it in my pocket before going after her. She hasn’t gotten far. She’s pumping her elbows as she heads toward the only bar that’s open at this hour. Her sling bag slips from her arm and falls on the sidewalk, but she doesn’t stop to retrieve it. She dares a glance over her shoulder, and when she sees I’m fast gaining ground, her expression transforms with terror.
She doubles her effort, nearly tripping in the process and only righting herself at the last minute. I grab her bag without breaking my stride, winding the strap around my fist. Automatically, I tighten my hold on the knife in my other hand. She tries, but at little over five feet and not much heavier than a hundred pounds, she’s no match for me. My longer legs easily eat up the distance between us. Before she’s made it four hundred yards, I’m breathing down her neck. One more step, and she’s within reach.
Grabbing her upper arm, I break her run. The momentum flings her sideways, slamming her back against the wall. A soft puff escapes her lips as the air is knocked from her lungs. The strap of the bag is caught between my palm and her bicep, the buckle pressing into my flesh. I’m on her in a blink, pinning her frame against the bricks while swinging the strap of her bag over my shoulder to free my hand. My weight alone is enough to keep her in place, but the fingers I wrap around her throat and the tip of the knife I push against her belly are automatic reflexes that come from years of street fighting.
Like earlier, she freezes, her chin tipped up and the back of her head resting against the wall as she stares at me with wide, whisky-colored eyes. The streetlight washes over her, illuminating her features. From up close, I can make out the freckles on her nose and cheeks. That waterfall of fiery curls frames a small oval face. She’s a delicate, exotic creature, more beautiful than a fragile little winged fairy.