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)
But sometimes...life happens, and that's when it gets tough.
The American entrepreneur catches my eye across the room, offering a genuine smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes.
"First time here?" he asks when I walk past his table. "If you'd like a tour of the place, I'd be honored to show you around. No strings attached—promise."
There are nights like this when there aren't enough evil men in the club I've chosen, and I'm forced to choose. This man is not evil. But he's far from broke either. Will it really be so bad to steal from him?
Oui, my conscience says sadly.
But since it's my mother's life on the line...
Désolé, Monsieur Gentil. I'm sorry, Mr. Nice Guy.
Needs must.
And yet...
Huh?
A waiter suddenly approaches him, saying something under his breath. And then just like that, Mr. Nice Guy leaves, without even a backward glance.
Not good.
Death is on to me, and a chill runs down my spine as I look around. Red flags are everywhere. The bartender keeps glancing up toward the VIP section. Security guards have shifted positions, creating a subtle perimeter around me. The industrialist I've been chatting with is now being engaged by a beautiful hostess who appeared from nowhere. Even the music seems to have changed tempo, becoming more hypnotic, more disorienting.
And the reddest and fairest flag of them all?
Him.
Dark hair. Broad shoulders encased in a tailored suit that probably costs more than my entire apartment. And a presence so ominous that he has me gulping even from where I'm standing.
The king of the catacombs, in the flesh.
And he's watching me.
THE NIGHT WEARS ON.
I feel like a puppet being made to perform, and I hate it.
But that's the thing about being poor.
Choice is a privilege of the rich. Other times, it's worse, and you realize that choice is nothing but an illusion. This world we live in is only for the rich and powerful.
And poor people like you and me simply exist for their consumption.
Like now.
I can feel his gaze following me wherever I go. But I'm past the point of caring. I have one last mark to hit, and then I'll go. If he wanted me killed, I'd have been dead an eternity ago. But since I'm still alive?
He's toying with me, obviously.
And that's fine.
Play to your heart's content, monsieur.
Ever since coming here, something inside of me seems to have changed. I'm less and less afraid of my mortality while death has become more and more...seductive.
Peu importe. Doesn't matter.
I wrap things up in twenty minutes, my purse nearly bulging with tonight's takings. When I finally emerge from the catacombs, the night air feels purifying, cool and clean against my feverish skin. I shiver, though not entirely from the cold. My heart races strangely when I think of him—of those dark eyes watching my every move from the shadows, assessing, calculating. Hunting.
The walk home takes thirty minutes. Another night, another score. Maman's treatment can continue.
I should be rejoicing, but my skin continues to prickle inexplicably.
My third-floor apartment welcomes me with familiar shabbiness. I've been doing my best to convince myself it's cozy, but this is one area in my life that mind conditioning has not worked to my advantage at all. It's ugly and cramped, period.
I slip out of my heels and am reaching for the deadbolts I installed myself when a massive hand covers my mouth from behind.
The arm around my waist feels like it could crack my ribs without effort. I thrash, but it's pointless. Years of street smarts, and I'm as helpless as a child.
A sweet scent fills my nose—chemical, medicinal. My chemistry knowledge identifies it just as consciousness begins to fade.
Diethyl ether.
My last coherent thought is that I didn't even hear them enter behind me.
I WAKE TO THE FAMILIAR ache of bound wrists.
The warehouse around me echoes with emptiness. Unlike the catacombs with their claustrophobic stone walls, this space sprawls endlessly into shadow. Industrial pipes snake across a ceiling lost in darkness. Rusted machinery squats in corners like mechanical sentinels. The air carries rust, old oil, and something else—the sharp tang of fear.
Mine.
A single spotlight illuminates the chair I'm bound to, making the darkness beyond even more impenetrable. Classic interrogation technique. Make the subject feel exposed, vulnerable, while the interrogator remains hidden.
But he isn't hidden.
A man sits across from me, just at the edge of the light.
It's him, of course.
Black suit tailored to perfection against broad shoulders. Black hair that makes me think of ravens' wings. And eyes that are just as blue as mine, surprisingly.
To describe him as beautiful would be an insult. Because there's so much more to this man than the chiseled perfection of his face or the virile muscularity of his build. There are just so many layers to this man. Power cloaked in mystery. Light and darkness in an endless battle. And in his startlingly blue eyes, I see...something I'm not quite ready to label.