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“You’re justnothing,” I growl, driving my knee into his back. “You’re definitely not on the guest list. Now, why don’t you tell me your actual name, and a few good reasons why I should take you out quickly instead of slowly.”
While I talk, I pat him down with my free hand. I find a vial of something in his back pocket, but no obvious weapons. He might still have a knife or gun strapped to his leg, but I can’t check without risking my hold on him.
“Harry! Harry Springs. That’s my name. I’m just a part-timer, man, please—”
I doubt that’s his real name. His blubbering and crying are beyond fake, and I don’t know who he thinks he’s fooling.
“Well, Harry, I just have a few questions for you. For example, where’s your friend Al?”
Harry tenses underneath me, but soon he’s shaking his head. “I have no idea who you’re talking about. I don’t know anybody here.”
Rolling my eyes, I pull my knife out and hold it in front of Harry’s eyes. That’s got him freezing up. Maybe the blood drops I’d failed to clean off helped.
“Harry, I know you’re fucking lying. You either start talking, or I cut one of your eyes out. If you keep lying, I’ll go for the second one.” I inch the blade close to his face so it’s the only thing filling his vision.
Credit where credit is due, Harry isn’t like my usual marks who piss themselves when scared. That’s more proof that he’s in league with Ricci.
And how many of the other wait staff were also tangled up with him? I may have just inadvertently fucked myself over by letting them go. I should’ve had them stay so I could keep an eye on them.
Saint’s doing everything he can to secure the place. It might get messy, but we’re not going to come out on the bottom of this particular power struggle.
I force myself to stop thinking of the maybes, to stop calculating the risks, but I make sure I don’t ignore the doors leading into and out of the kitchen. My hand itches to go to my gun, but we’re not at that point yet.
I still need thisHarryalive and able to answer questions, even if he is in excruciating pain.
“What’s the vial for?” I try instead, the knife moving even closer to his eye.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.
Christ, does everything have to be a production? For once, why can’t they just answer the fucking questions?
“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t just take your eye out right now,” I growl. “You don’t need your eyes to answer questions. Then I’d even have something handy if you decided you wanted a snack.”
Harry hisses sharply.
That’s probably the first thing I’ve said to really freak him out, and I’m happy to lean into it. “It’s probably nice and gooey. Like a poached egg, or maybe a gummy bear?”
“F-fuck, shut up! I don’t know anything!”
Fine, if he’s going to play that way. I push the tip of the blade against his eyebrow. One little slice downward and he’ll be out an eye. “Last chance before I serve you an hors d’oeuvre d’oeil.”
He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, which is all the answer I need. I part the skin of his eyebrow with the blade—
The light suddenly cuts out.
Somebody screams.
I startle and look in the direction of the grand hall, which is such a fucking rookie mistake. Harry suddenly surges up and unbalances me. I lose my grip on his wrists, and it’s only reflexes that keep me from dropping the knife. While I’m trying to steady myself, Harry punches me in the solar plexus, driving the air out of me.
Fuck. I’d gotten complacent, thinking I’d properly subdued him. But of course one of Ricci’s men would be better trained than that. I blindly punch in his direction, but he must have dodged out of the way.
It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust, but even then, it’s impossible to see much. There’s no moon out tonight, so even the glass-paned patio doors don’t help. But I’ve got the advantage over Harry. I know the layout of the mansion like the back of my hand, and he’ll have to stumble around in the dark.
I can hear his footsteps on the hard tile, and I crouch down and slowly make my way behind the kitchen island. I’m expecting Harry to come in my direction, but the footsteps grow quieter, not louder. I hear the door swing open.
Fuck. I’m not the target. Of course I’m not the target.
I have to trust that Saint’s doing everything he can to get the power back on, which means I can focus solely on my mission: making sure Victor’s safe. There’s a sliver of doubt; they might be there to assassinate someone else so Victor’s credibility is damaged, but paired with Freddie’s appearance, I have no reason to believe that this is anything other than a hit.
