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My limp is more pronounced. My sore knees are like lead. I can feel them throbbing as they take offence to the heat and my choice of footwear.
One metre.
I can almost smell the fresh air as I’m reaching for the handle.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
O’Sullivan’s voice is like a lasso of barbed wire. Roisin turns sharply, her panicked eyes meeting mine before she’s rearranging her face and her fear at warp speed. “To place a bet on your horse, darling. She’s racing in fifteen minutes.”
Every gaze in the room turns as Kirill halves the distance between us in two giant strides. Snarling something harsh and unpleasant at Adrik, he drags me back to the table by my wrist.
“Sit,” he says, throwing me into an empty chair.
“Get my fucking wife out of here,” I hear O’Sullivan say. Seconds later, Roisin is being pushed into the hallway and the door is being slammed shut on her terrified expression.
At least one of us made it.
But it’s a hollow victory. He’ll make her pay for trying to sneak out after he’s done with me.
O’Sullivan considers me dispassionately for a moment, gaze roving, tilting his head to one side as if I’m a piece of rotting meat and he’s choosing which part has the least maggots. His eyes tell a different story, though, and the way they linger on my breasts has me shivering with hate.“You demanded to know what our bait was, Mario,” he says, slowly rising to his feet. “Let me introduce you to her personally.”
Bait?
I go very still as he makes his way towards me, collecting a whiskey from one of the waiter’s trays as he passes before telling him and the rest of the waiting staff to, “get the hell out.”
They don’t need to be told twice.
Guido stands to leave too, fastening the front button of his suit jacket as he moves towards the door. Leaving me to the wolves of fate without any qualms, just as he did to me and Frankie all those years ago.
“Am I boring you?” O’Sullivan drawls.
“Just placing my bets, Cian,” he replies smoothly, drifting out to the hallway. “The same way you are placing yours in here.” His gaze glides over me like water, drowning me with indifference, and then he’s gone.
And I’m screwed.
No one speaks as O’Sullivan approaches my chair. No one moves, or even coughs. He’s so close I can smell that revoltingly familiar mix of sweat and musk. It’s all coming back to me now.The stronger the odour, the closer he is to the kill.
“Maybe you can cut through the bullshit for us, Ada. Just tell us who your lover’s new business partner is, hmmm?” As he says it, he leans over to balance his cut-glass tumbler on top of my head.
My heart explodes with terror. I’ve seen him do this trick before, and every single time it's ended with a mutilated dead body.
“Stop shaking,” he snaps. “If you spill a single drop of this single malt, your husband will be destroying more than just your legs this time.”
“Please.”
“Don’t beg, Ada. It’s so boring when you beg.” Stepping back, O’Sullivan leans against the edge of the table and considers me again. “I imagine you’re wondering why I’ve allowed you to have that dance studio for so long. I’ll let you into a secret. I much prefer a fluttering bird in a cage, beating her broken wings against her bars. It’s so much prettier to look at than a listless prey who knows her life is already over. But enough about my wife. Let’s get back to your lover.” He smiles down at me coldly.
“I don’t have a lover,” I whisper, trying not to move my jaw. I can feel the cool, dead weight of the glass pressing down into my skull as he reaches into his jacket and pulls out his gun.
“Have you seen him?” he says idly, inspecting the weapon.
“No. Like I told Kirill earlier this week.” I suck in a shaky breath. No sudden movements.No regrets.“You were the one who told me he was dead. I believed you. It’s been fourteen years—”
“O’Sullivan,” interrupts a silky-dark voice. “I do not see how Semenov’s wife has anything to do with this…situation.”
“Then listen up, Mario,” he sneers, staring straight at me. “Lastra will be returning for Ada, one way or another, and when he does, we’ll be ready. You see, she and him like to think they’re the twenty-first century version of Romeo and Juliet, and I’m here to ensure that it all ends in fucking tragedy again.”
“What if the rumours are true?” the Italian muses. “What if Lastraisworking with someone else?”
