Page 49

The lead vehicle turned sharply towards the diner and braked so close to the entrance that, for one terrifying second, I thought it would come through the glass. The remaining cars spread out behind it, sealing off the quickest routes back to the motorway.

My fork slipped from my fingers, striking the plate with a clatter.

Demitri didn’t move. He watched the vehicles through the window, his face unreadable.

“Demitri.”

The rear door of the lead car opened before the vehicle had completely stopped. A man stepped out while the wheels were still moving. He planted one polished shoe on the wet pavement and straightened with a single, smooth motion.

My stomach dropped as men started spilling from the other vehicles. They spread across the car park without speaking, moving with the cold coordination of men who expected violence.

The first man came towards the diner, his steps unhurried. He wore a three-piece beige suit beneath a dark overcoat. A burgundy tie rested perfectly against his white shirt. Even from behind the glass, I could see his precision. The tailored clothes. The controlled stride. The dark hair arranged without a strand out of place. He looked too beautiful to be dangerous. Too polished to be a monster. And he didn’t belong in a roadside diner.

I remembered the men who had killed my father. Violence had no face. It borrowed whatever it was in the mood for.

The man reached the entrance. The automatic doors opened. Cold air shifted through the diner. He stepped inside. Conversation faded. The waitress moved out of his path without being asked. His gaze swept across the room slowly. He examined every face, every table. His eyes passed over the lorry drivers, the family by the windows, the woman behind the counter. Then they found us and paused. My blood turned cold. I reached across the table and grabbed Demitri’s sleeve.

“Demitri.”

He sat rigid and unresponsive. He kept both palms flat against the tabletop, fingers spread wide, making certain the approaching man could see that his hands were empty. For the first time, I wished they were not. I would have felt safer if he had reached for his gun.

“Demitri?”

His focus remained fixed on the stranger. The man came closer. The diner seemed to narrow around him.

I tightened my grip on Demitri’s sleeve, even though he didn’t look at me. I had seen him under gunfire. I had watched him return bullets with terrifying calm. I had seen him make decisions while glass exploded around us and people screamed. But there was no movement in him now. Only attention. Total and absolute.

The stranger stopped several steps from our booth.

Up close, he looked like he was perhaps close to Demitri’s age. His features were too refined for the violence that surrounded him, but his eyes destroyed the illusion. They were dark. Intelligent. Merciless.

He looked at Demitri’s clothes and the duffel bag at his feet. Then his gaze moved to me. It rested on the bruising around my face and the bandages at my wrists.

I fought the urge to shrink beneath the table.

The stranger’s attention returned to Demitri. A faint smirk lifted one corner of his mouth. It held no warmth. No surprise. Only the satisfaction of a man watching an old prophecy fulfil itself.

“DeMarco,” he singsonged. “I should have known fate would have a sense of humour this ugly.”

Demitri finally stood, and immediately I could see they were about the same height.

“Zeno.”

The air between them changed. It was like watching two blades recognize the same hand that had once sharpened them.

The man named Zeno stepped forward, two more steps. His gaze moved over Demitri with open assessment.

“You look terrible, brother,” Zeno said.

“And you’re still overdressed.”

For one impossible second, I saw something old move beneath the words. History. Friendship. Familiarity. Anger. A shape left behind by trust.

Zeno’s smile thinned before his eyes shifted to me.

Demitri moved half a step before I could fully register it. It was a subtle repositioning of his body, one that put him between me and Zeno’s direct line of sight.

Demitri looked at him. “Are we done?”