Right now, I have a date with Cal Sokolov, who should be just about finished with his tennis match for the morning.
With that, I leave her alone for most likely the last time, because I haven’t lied to her.
My patience is gone.
THIRTY-FIVE
Alana
I’m six years old again, rocking back and forth on soft carpet. It’s raining outside and I can hear the thunder. The smell of vanilla wafts around me, and then my mother falls to the floor, looking at me, fear sizzling in her eyes.
“Run,” she whispers. I don’t remember this part. I look up, not sure what to do. Those hard hands grab her again and lift her. I look up and I see the window, and then she’s flying through it. The outline of a man comes into blurry focus. A car crashes and metal crunches. I smell blood.
Thunder bellows outside and jerks me awake. Glancing at the clock, I see it’s around noon. My heart racing, I force myself from the bed to shower and dress in jeans and a light gray sweater and expertly cover my bruises before emoting a couple posts about the event tonight. I hint that I plan on dancing with at least one very eligible bachelor, but I’m careful not to mention Thorn’s name.
I’ve learned my lesson on that one.
Ten bouquets of red roses arrive and I scatter them around my apartment, bemused. One white rose in one thin silver vase arrives a few minutes later. There’s no card this time, but I know who they’re from.
When Thorn makes a statement, he does it well.
But how can I think about a life with him? We feel connected, but our first meeting, those precious beginning seconds, are stained with blood. That poor waiter. I still haven’t found his name and contacted his family.
I’m a coward.
I have to get out of the building so the security details do the same, leaving Ella a chance for a little freedom. We’re meeting at Nico’s place to see what he’s learned about Greg’s death.
Glancing at my watch, I hustle out of my apartment and down into the drilling rain and a waiting car, sliding inside and shutting the door before looking across the seat.
“Hello,” Mrs. Pendrake says.
I jerk away from her and then look up at the driver. “I thought this was my car,” I say lamely.
She shrugs, today wearing a pastel yellow sweatshirt and torn jeans. With her numerous piercings and the scars down the side of her face, she looks dangerous. “Your car might’ve been, um, removed.”
I’m irritated. Oddly so. “He sent you to kidnap me?” How insulting. Yeah, that doesn’t make a lot of sense, but if he wants me kidnapped, he can damn well do it himself.
“Of course not.” She looks at me like I’ve lost most of my brain cells. “Drive.”
The man in front starts to drive.
I stiffen in case I need to jump from the car.
“I won’t hurt you, and your security detail is following, completely unaware that you’re with me.” She waves a hand in the air before tugging a laptop out of a bag near her feet. “Where do you want to go?”
Watching her, I give her Nico’s address.
The driver turns in that direction.
She nods. “There’s something you need to see.” Flipping it open, she types rapidly, her blunt fingers surprisingly smooth on the keyboard. “My husband worked for Thorn, and when he was murdered, burned to death, Thorn took me in. Paid all of my medical bills and then gave me a job. Gave me a life.”
That’s nice. “Isn’t that what the mafia does? Takes care of its own?” I ask.
“Yes.” She taps one more key and slides the laptop my way. “The night of the attack in the bar.”
I look to see the interior of Martini Money’s and me with my friends.
She reaches over and clicks another button.
The exterior comes up—a side alley. As I watch, the sweet waiter who’d tried to help me approaches the building, no doubt heading to work. My stomach rolls over. “He looks so young.” He seems to be whistling as he walks. My eyes sting, but I don’t give in to the tears. “Why are you showing me this?”
“Keep watching,” she says.
Two men move out of the shadows, pulling along another man who appears unconscious. He’s young and wearing a waiter’s uniform.
My young friend takes off the guy’s shirt and jacket with smooth movements. Then he casually takes a gun from his back pocket and shoots the unconscious man in the head. Three times.
I gag.
As if he didn’t just commit cold-blooded murder, he then dons the waiter’s clothing. “He wasn’t a waiter,” I say numbly.
For answer, Mrs. Pendrake types again, bringing up the interior of the bar. “Watch his hands.”
He’s at the bar, slipping a small vial of liquid into a martini, which he then brings to me.
I gulp. “That’s why I fell asleep in the car after Thorn kidnapped me. I was drugged.” It didn’t make sense that I would’ve relaxed so easily with him. “But how did Thorn know the waiter was dangerous?”
Mrs. Pendrake widens the screen. “Tattoo on his neck. It’s a gang tattoo—the one who tried to take you.”
