Burning hot lava scorches my veins as a jolt of pain shreds through my chest. I’m sent flying backwards, hitting the concrete sidewalk with an almighty thump. I try to get up, to fight through the pain, but my body won’t co-operate. My breathing is coming out in slow, uneven gasps, and a chill runs the length of my spine. The smell of copper mixed with sweat lingers in the air as my eyelids become heavy. A shadow hovers over me, blackened by the bright sun hanging in the sky. The sun bounces off the stranger’s golden hair, haloing him, like an angel has fallen fromheaven.
“My name is Brandon James. I'm an FBI Field Agent; my number is 443567. I need an ambulance sent to the corner of Tivot andWelsh.”
“Blondie?” My words are garbled as the air from my lungs bubbles into mychest.
I cough, splattering my lips with the tangy taste of blood. A garble of incomprehensible words rumble from my mouth when someone pushes down on the scorching pain burning through my chest and shoulder. Hot, sticky blood puddles around me as my eyelidsdroop.
When the blackness overtakes me, my first thoughts go toher.Ava.
Chapter Two
Ava
Washingmy hands in the sink, I catch my reflection in the vanity mirror and grimace. Thanks to getting caught in an afternoon shower, my hair is a frizzy mess. The mascara I coated my lashes with this morning is gone, and my eyes are plagued with dark, heavy bags that haven’t budged an inch in nearly five years.I'm wretched.After fluffing the wild mess of my hair, I grab my powder compact out of my purse and set to work on concealing years of restlesssleep.
“I guess that will have to do,” I say, staring at a slightly improved Ava reflecting backatme.
After a dab of lip gloss and spray of perfume, I rush out of the cramped bathroom of my office and scurry downthehall.
“I know, I know,” I apologize when I catch the pursed lips of Belinda, dear friend and officereceptionist.
She remains quiet while assisting me as I slip into my wool-linedtrenchcoat.
“You know what he is like, Ava,” she warns, wrapping a thick cashmere scarf around my neck as I slide my shaking hand into a pair of black leathergloves.
“Being late is a way of saying you believe your own time is more valuable thanthetime--”
“Of the person who is waiting for you,” I interrupt, quoting the saying I’ve heardmanytimes the past fouryears.
Belinda smiles while handing me a cashmerebeanie.
“But isn’t it better to be late than arrive ugly?” I quip, my tone as unconvincing as the concern hampering my vocalcords.
Her dainty chuckle warms myheart.
“Please come with me,” I beg, my words barely awhimper.
The corners of her mouth curve down, and the twinkle in her green eyes dampens. “I would if I could,” she replies, the truthfulness relayed in herwholesomeeyes.
She squeezes my forearm before guiding me to theofficedoor.
“Be careful, the grounds are slippery,” she warns, leaning in to press a kiss on mycheek.
“Iwill.”
After wrapping my arms around her waist and giving her a tight squeeze, I glide out of the reception area of my office. A rush of cold air pelts through me when I emerge from the foyer of my office building to the concrete sidewalk. The chill of winter has arrived early. An invigorating buzz of excitement dashes through me as I briskly pace through the large gathering of people eager for the start of the weekend. I’ve always loved the anticipation of waking up on a Friday morning and knowing I only have to make it through another eight hours before I have two days of freedom to do whatever my heart contends. Slow, lazy weekends doing as much or as little as I please, those are some of mygreatestjoys.
When the noise of my cell phone buzzing in my clutch purse sounds through my ears, I increase my already brisk pace. I don’t need to look at the screen to know who is calling; my five minute tardiness is all that’srequired.
“I’m so sorry, my last patient’s crown took longer than expected,” I say, pressing my cell phone to my ear. “I'marrivingnow.”
I hurry through the security turnstiles of the Belvedere Hotel, smiling a greeting to the elderly doorman welcoming me into the affluent foyer with a dip ofhishat.
“We are in the west wing,” my caller replies, his toneclipped.
The beating of my heart kicks up a gear when he abruptly disconnects the call, not allowing me the chance to reply. Generally, his mood can be quite curt, but his agitation at my tardiness would have increased his annoyance. Removing my coat, scarf, and gloves, I hand them to the grinning coat clerk and gather my ticket. My quick dash to the west wing wanes when the flash of a breaking news banner catches my eye. I slow my fast stride and amble towards a small color TV sitting on the reception counter of the BelvedereHotel.
“Col Petretti, notorious businessman and suspected Mob Boss has been killed in an FBI targeted sting,” I read off thescreen.
