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I consider him for a minute. “I don’t know.”
“You can’t send her back. If she’s loyal to Popov, she might give him an advantage. We both know this shite is far from over.”
“I’m not convinced she is loyal to him.”
“Then Popov will kill her, probably after torturing her just because he’s a sick fuck.”
Changing the subject, I hand him the tablet she’d used to shop on, which is now in a plastic bag. “Have O’Malley run her prints.”
Laughing, he says, “Didn’t tell you her name, did she?”
“Shut up.”
“Maybe try dessert next time, might get a name out of her.” He walks out of my office laughing, far too proud of himself.
CHAPTER20
Rocky
I’m escorted unceremoniously back to my room. Sean opens my door and waves his arm inside as if he’s a real estate agent ushering me into a new listing. While it grates against every part of my nature, I step into the room as instructed. After all, I have literally nothing else to do.
“Good night, Miss Granger.” Shaking his head, he steps back into the hall and closes my door.
And locks it.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I mutter, trying the door anyway. It’s well and truly locked. Turning back to the room, I slowly start sinking to the floor until I’m resting with my legs out in front of me and my head against the door.
The room is huge, probably the same square footage as my entire apartment. Possibly more. The carpet is thick and soft and a light cream color that suggest either that my new landlord spends a fortune in cleaning services, or the room is seldom used. The bed is enormous and piled high with pillows that neatly coordinate with the snow-white duvet cover. Opposite the door are floor-to-ceiling windows dressed with gauzy drapes.
When I look out, the New York skyline greets me. The brief relief from the comforting view of the familiar city is somewhat dampened when I realize how incredibly high up I am. My talents do not extend to flight or scaling skyscrapers.
The chest of drawers is empty, save for some dust collecting in one of the top drawers. The closet is a walk-in, and easily usable as a spare bedroom. The bins on the top shelf of the closet are filled with spare towels and blankets. Aside from the empty hamper and a collection of swanky padded clothes hangers, the closet is empty.
I wander back into the bathroom and take my time looking in every drawer and cranny. Other than the toiletries from earlier, I find a manicure kit that got shoved into the back of the bottom drawer, a stash of cleaning products and spare toilet paper rolls, and a hair dryer.Perfect. Now all I need is the bathtub. I snort. I’m not the suicidal type. Twisted, broken, severely messed in the head, and wrapped in a delicate layer of sarcasm, yes. But not suicidal.
Flopping onto the sinfully comfortable bed, I let my mind drift over the last few hours of my life, which unfortunately is currently a giant pile ofI don’t knowmeetsfuck my life.
Starting with who is Sean O’Connell? And why am I here? I think back to my conversation with Pierre about the mafia families of New York. I feel like it’s a reasonable assumption that I’m currently with the Irish mob. Fuck. Why didn’t I ask more questions about the other families? Sean says that Popov started a war. Do I trust that? I sure as hell don’t trust Popov. I remember Pierre saying that when the families of New York went to war, Popov would be the cause of it.
Jesus, Rocky, did you bite off more than you can chew.
Between the distant sounds of traffic, my overall exhaustion, and thereallycomfortable bed, I’ve started dozing off, with only paranoia and residual adrenaline warding off the allure of sleep.
It occurs to me I haven’t heard a sound coming from inside the house in hours, at least by my clock-less estimation. I peek out at the cars buzzing around below my windows. New York may be the city that never sleeps, but it has traffic patterns like every other metropolis. If I had to guess, it’s well after midnight.
Crossing the room, I stand by the door and listen.Silence.
As I stare at the handle, it occurs to me that the lock might be more decorative than anything else. After all, this doesn’t exactly look like a holding cell. More like a guest room.
Briefly, my cautious mind tells me that I’m about to do something incredibly stupid. Clearly in contrast to all thestellarlife choices I’ve made so far. I take my manicure kit and one of the hangers and begin chopping away with the ridiculously tiny cuticle nippers at the satin and padding wrapping the hanger.
Bingo.I start to unravel the twisted wires that make up the flexible core of the hanger, until I’ve got a piece about a foot long, and bend it into a deep curve.
Bare feet aren’t ideal for this little stroll, but broken heels are worse—loudanduncomfortable. Considering the rest of my clothes, my current borrowed and far too large clothing is as good of a jail break outfit as I could hope for.
I slide my wire between the door and the jamb, the curve causing it to wrap around the latch and return to my side. Slowly, I pull the wire forward while pushing the handle. Each and every pop, creak, and scrape sounds like it might as well be an explosion to my anxiety-riddled brain. With a final ominous click, the latch depresses and the door swings open.
Holy shit. That hasn’t worked since I used to steal snacks from the teachers’ lounge in middle school.
