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“It’s all my fault,” she finally whispers.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” My sadness is forgotten when I see the guilt splashed all over her face.
“I should have known; I should have kept better tabs on Bartiste. That way, we could have had an escape plan formed and we would have been long gone. Safe.” More tears fall, her voice cracking.
Technically, that’s true. She takes it upon herself to keep tabs on everyone, and find out if they discover that the paintings we sold to them are fakes, but…
“We both know that if a man like Bartiste wants to find us, it happens sooner or later. Him discovering the real painting was a chance in a damn million. But whether you would have found this out or not doesn’t change the fact that the asshole would have still hunted us down.”
“We would have been better prepared…” she tries to argue.
“To run. From one hiding place to another, constantly looking over our shoulders. Now we have an entire mafia helping us.”
She takes a deep breath in, wiping her eyes as she exhales and gathers herself. Slowly, the normal Hanna falls back into place.
“You’re right,” she says, nodding. “But I still fear that nothing can protect us from Bartiste.”
I fear she may be right.
RONAN
I’m not entirely sure whatI expected when I looked at the footage our hacker team recorded of Bartiste. This wasn’t quite it, though.
Maybe I envisioned a suited businessman who made you stumble on your own feet whenever he showed up in your path, dripping with power and respect.
What I saw on that screen was nothing like that. He’s the definition of average—medium-short haircut with a receding hairline, oval head, not much of a defined jaw on him, crooked nose. His choice of clothes made him look like he was going to his job as a mid-level manager at some finance company, not on a manhunt for two women who cheated him out of millions.
The motherfucker would blend in anywhere.
And he’s currently blending here, in Queenscove. He arrived the evening after Annika and Hanna left for the island, and we couldn’t waste any time. We’re still trying to figure out how the fuck he knew to come here. But Carter’s been bumping into some invisible walls, more proof that Bartiste has some smart people on his team.
We’re trained to expect the worst, but we’ve been thriving on owning and juggling information, and this particular one has eluded us.
Carter’s little birds have been doing a good job of keeping track of him and his men throughout the city. We know where he’s staying, who he’s met so far, and most importantly, where he is right at this moment—Rosenberg. In the same goddamn private room we met Annika and Hanna in when we bought the painting.
Two cars with our men pull in behind us as we park at the back, where the private entrance to Rosenberg is. Eight men exit the cars, the drivers staying put, and two others stay outside in case anyone plans to sneak up on us.
“I think they’re announcing our arrival.” Finn jerks his head in the direction of one of the two men posted by the entrance. He’s looking right at us, tilting his head as he speaks, far too obvious that he’s talking in an earpiece.
“Good,” Vin says with a deep rumble.
The man thrives on pulling metaphorical teeth, harnessing secrets and confessions from his victims, sometimes without lifting a finger. But other times, you see it in the dark slits of his narrowing eyes, he wants to lift more than just a finger. He craves the violence that our life choices can deliver. A man like Bartiste can awaken a monster in everyone who has basic morals. But it’s even worse when the morals are ingrained in a world of possibilities, where death is never out of the question.
“This entrance is closed.” One of the men standing by the door raises his hand to stop us, while the other looks us up and down.
“Take a picture, sweetheart. It will last longer.” Madds steps up, looking down at him, dead in the eyes, with a challenge.
“This entrance is never closed for us. Step away.Please.” I feign politeness.
“It is today.”
“Move.”
My ears vibrate when Finn speaks, his voice rough with anger, fear, and anxiousness that seem to be rising every day he’s without Hanna. I, on the other hand, have spent every second of waiting time in the fighting ring under the speakeasy with Madds, my dark blue suit covering bruises that calm my unease toward this situation every time I touch them.
“I don’t have time for this.” Vin steps forward, getting right in the man’s face. “Your friend over there is going to open the door for us and bow as we walk past.”
“Step—”
