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Sliding into the driver’s seat, I breathe in the smell of leather. Starting up, the car purrs to life, and I pull out of the garage and onto the streets of London.
The city is a blur of lights and noise as I navigate the streets, heading towards the M25. The traffic is mercifully light, and I make good time. I’m soon on the open road, the city skyline disappearing in the rearview mirror.
The journey is a long one, but I don’t mind. I enjoy the solitude, the hum of the engine and the open road. Driving for hours, watching the landscape change from city to countryside.
The Lake District is a beautiful place, a stark contrast to the bustling metropolis I’ve left behind. Rolling hills, glittering lakes, and quaint villages pass by my window. It’s peaceful, serene, a world away from the cutthroat world of Solitaire, the assassination gig and my own company, which has become somewhat of a bore for me lately. Once my obsession with the Don is satisfied, I have some thinking to do about the future, and I’m not sure running my own company will be on the shortlist.
It’s late at night when I arrive in the small town called Hemsway. It’s covered in snow and is eerily quiet. I check into the hotel and collapse onto it, exhaustion pulling me under. It’s been too long since I slept properly, but the long drive has tired me out to the point where I might grab a few hours. I’ll start my search for DeVare in the morning. For now, I need to rest.
23
DANTE
Ordering a coffee and a bacon and sausage sandwich, I figure this is the perfect time to indulge in a breakfast with more calories than my usual… well, nothing. I’m not a big morning eater, but today I have butterflies in my stomach, and it’s pissing me off. I don’t know why I’m so nervous, but I need to get it under control.
“So,” I say to the woman behind the bar of the small pub attached to the hotel. “Do you know what time that castle opens up for visitors?”
She gives me a blank stare. “Huh?”
“That castle on the hill.”
“Oooh,” she says, realisation dawning. “That’s a private residence.”
“Oh, damn. I wanted a tour. Who lives there?”
She hands me my black coffee from the machine behind her and leans on the bar, eager for some gossip time. “Well, we don’t really know. Some say that it’s a really old guy who can’t move much, so he stays inside all the time.”
“And others?” I ask with a raised eyebrow.
“Haunted,” she states bluntly.
“Oh?” I wasn’t expecting that, but there again, old castles in England… not really a leap to come to that conclusion with no other evidence.
She shrugs. “Everyone has their theories. But we definitely know someone lives up there. The delivery drivers are constantly dropping stuff off.”
“Like what?”
She shrugs again. “Who knows? They don’t talk.”
“Really?”
She nods conspiratorially. “They’re probably paid not to. Or threatened, maybe by the security guards.”
“There’s security guards?” Of course, there is.
“Tons of them,” she exclaims.
“Hmm.”
She moves away as another customer comes along and serves them, bringing my sandwich to me a few minutes later.
I tuck in, relishing the decadence, and when I finish up, I pay and leave, ready for my next stop—Greenburg’s Agency.
Walking through the small town, it doesn’t take me long to find the Agency. They’re just opening as I arrive.
“Hello,” I say, trying to be friendly and open. Two things that are hard for me usually.
“Morning,” the manager says with a big beam. “How can I help you today?”
