Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
“Put her down, motherfucker!”
I’m tugged backward, around the counter again, toward the back door. I reach behind me, fingers clawed and sinking wherever they land.
“Lux, I can’t shoot. Stop moving!” Perseverance twists Deon’s face.
I tell myself to stop then I’m bathed in sunlight as the sociopath pulls me into the alley.
Don’t fight.
How do I stop fighting? After this hellish year of losing Momma and myself, then finding myself through Victor, how can I?
How do I let go?
But as I wrestle the Russian and my internal deliberations, the fear to breathe wins. Lack of oxygen hurls me toward a hazy light, toward Momma.
26
VICTOR
Rubbing my face, I come to a sitting position in bed. The Egyptian cotton linen slides down my bare abs. Shite, overslept. Now Burt’s in my ear, telling me this was only going to end one way—with the Whitsons’ deaths.
Dr. Whitson because of the new assassin assigned to his case, and Luxury is collateral damage for fucking with me.
“Day in and out, we’ve surveilled the Whitsons. I’ve not a wink of sleep in almost a week!”
“Come off it, Burt. You watched Jonah sparingly over the weekend while Luxury was here.”
“Yesterday, I slept for two hours. Victor, one-hundred and twenty minutes if you need an exact number. I took the nightshift, followed Whitson to Greco at the bloody cockcrow. Praise the Lord he sits in his lab—safely—all day. I then returned precisely before Luxury was to leave for her shop this morning as planned. Where was my bloody relief, Victor?”
“I overslept.” I hold up an apologetic hand.
“Now, you must heed what I’m telling you.” He continues to argue as I slip into a pair of jeans.
“Hire someone to watch Luxury around the clock. We’ve an important event. Think of your country!” Burt rubs his sunken eye sockets. I’m in the same shoddy state since we’ve alternated, watching Luxury and her father around the clock.
“I only trust me and you,” I retort, situating a 9mm into the back of my trousers.
“Duke of Arlington! I am knackered for the first time in forty bloody years of service. Why are we assuming the role of mere guards? Tell me?”
I snatch up a shirt, buttoning it hastily. “Tell you? Who works for whom? Burt, your orders are to watch Luxury until you could be relieved of duty. You don’t appear relieved to me.”
“She’s at Urban Gardens. Simply too early for customers. Victor Wesley Tudor, when you accept a mission, you go in for the kill. An abnormal form of therapy. I’ve watched you gain great pleasure while strategizing the death of someone you know not nor care for. There’s no connection involved. You care for—”
“I’m human, Burt!”
My statement leaves the bloody blabbermouth baffled. “I wasn’t inferring . . .”
“That I was no longer capable. Are you sure? You pussyfooted around the conversation, saying when I was twenty-three.” I spit the words. Running a heavy hand over the back of my neck, I pause. Bollocks, who lacks the balls in this scenario?
My past is off-limits.
“You’re knackered, so I’ll pardon your insolence, Burt the Butler. I must get to Luxury’s shop.” I look around for the keys.
Burt blocks the door, stance stiffened. “Then if you honestly care for her, hire a detail. Monica, Paul, and the team will continue to unearth the truth. We’ll find another filthy hobby. Case closed.”
“You want to know why this isn’t a closed case?” I ask, pulling into loafers.
“You claimed the mark’s daughter.”
“Have you forgotten yourself?” Burt’s acting out of character, more bloody paternal than usual.
“Yes! I’ve forgotten every tool, every edict, every duty-bound requirement!” He follows me to the living room where I grab a stack of files off the coffee table.
“This is why I’m . . . I’m not prepared to leave her.” I shove the papers in his hands. While Burt patrolled the Whitsons, I forwent sleep to pore over the files Monica sent last night. “This is why I overslept.”
Burt opens the manila envelope containing key detective notes from the NYPD database. He gasps, ruffling through pictures of a female’s mutilated body. “Ghastly! Who is this, and what has it got to do with us?”
“Gina Whitson. Luxury’s mother.”
Burt scours each angle, livid at the thought of someone accosting Luxury’s mother. As a royal butler, his sole duty is my well-being and livelihood. He’s been compliant for my entire thirty-four years of life, but the little minx pulls at Burt’s heartstrings too.
“Who’s responsible for such . . . such?” Burt balks, his voice holding a slight tremor.
“Dr. Charles Everhart.”
“Who is he?”
“I’d wager all the wealth acquired by House of Tudor that this wanker put a hit out on the good doctor’s life,” I reply, backing away. “The second I returned from watch, I meant to get some rest, mate. I had an epiphany. Monica looked into Gina Whitson’s murder, and this arsehole was the police’s primary suspect. There was no robbery at the home. Nothing unaccounted for.”