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Or had he been trying to kill me?
I blinked, trying to remember the details of when I’d seen his face before.
Had that been the night Sebastian saved me at all?
Or was that an older memory, long lost?
Because I was sure that the man who had almost run me down last week had been wearing a mask.
Wasn’t I?
I’d never exactly had the most reliable memory.
Clutching at the tendrils of memory, I tried to weave them into something coherent. But the harder I reached, the more elusive the details became, like trying to catch handfuls of mist.
I took a deep breath, focusing on the here and now. The pins and needles from being tied up were fading, but they left me clumsy. Gritting my teeth, I massaged my wrists, coaxing feeling back into my fingers. I worked down to my feet, wincing as each touch sparked trails of painful tingling sensation. It was agonyand relief intertwined, an unwelcome reminder of how long I’d been held captive. How far had they driven me from the arena? It would be useful information, except that I was pretty sure every minute bound on that floor might’ve felt like ten.
Once I felt like I’d recovered, I pushed myself up from the chair. By now, Greyson must have gone looking for me, and he would know I was gone. The guys would be on the ice. Would he tell them? I pictured them charging off the ice in the middle of the game and bit my lip, knowing that would cost them professionally.
I’d made their lives so much harder since I came back into it. Maybe they were better off when they could pretend I was nothing to them.
I had to keep myself busy. I had to figure out what Sunny wanted, why I was here, and how I could help my men when they came.
And I kept imagining Greyson, Jack, Sebastian, and Carter, and what they were doing now…because every thought of them brought me so much comfort.
I almost didn’t feel alone, knowing they were out there somewhere.
Greyson
Tires screeched as I ran down the alleyway and emerged just in time to see my men on the street with guns leveled. The car they faced skidded to a halt, inches from my unflinching men with their rifles on their shoulders.
Was this the car that had almost run down my girl?
I lunged forward, shoving past my own crew with a snarl. They parted, knowing better than to get in my way. One of themyanked the driver’s side door open for me, and another waited with his rifle raised, ready to pull off a shot if the driver made the wrong move.
I didn’t wait for pleasantries. My fingers wrapped around the collar of a jacket, and I hauled the driver out onto the pavement. He landed with a thud, his eyes wide with fear as he recognized me.
“Take it easy!” he begged. “I’m working for you?”
“Is that so?” I narrowed my eyes at him, taking in the scruffy beard and the panicked look of someone who knew exactly whose bad side he'd just found himself on. “Who are you?”
I knew everyone who worked for me. Having a good head for names and faces was a skill I’d developed purposefully, given my occupation.
“Ricky,” he stammered, not even trying to get up from the concrete when I had put him there. “I work for you, Mr. Greyson, sir.”
“Work for me? I think I would’ve noticed. You’re not one of my Jackals.”
“Boss,” one of my men said quietly, urgently. “We’re going to start attracting attention.”
It wasn’t every day a roadblock was set up like our city had turned into a warzone.
“Tell me something,” I asked Ricky quietly. If this low-level thug thought he worked for me, then we had bigger problems than just a case of mistaken identity. “Who hired you?”
“I asked for a job years ago, a chance to prove myself,” he said. “Then, I started getting texts a while back.”
“You started working for a criminal organization based on text messages.” My voice was deadly cold. “I suppose a Nigerian prince hired you.”
“Sir?” Ricky looked confused.
