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"What the fuck, man!” Deon reaches for a gun from the back of his jeans. "Step the fuck away from—”
Instead of heeding the warning, the Russian strikes like a cobra. His hand zips over the glass partition, and I’m stumbling back a second too late. Throat clutched; he hauls me over. My knees scrape over the edge of the counter. The Russian yanks me to his chest like a human shield.
With my esophagus crushed, I’m totally at the Russian’s mercy.
He runs his abrasive jaw against my cheek. "I'll squeeze her head from her neck in one quick pop! Like a grape."
“Put her down, motherfucker!”
I’m tugged backward, around the counter again, toward the back door. I reach behind me, fingers clawed and sinking wherever they land.
“Lux, I can’t shoot. Stop moving!” Perseverance twists Deon’s face.
I tell myself to stop then I’m bathed in sunlight as the sociopath pulls me into the alley.
Don’t fight.
How do I stop fighting? After this hellish year of losing Momma and myself, then finding myself through Victor, how can I?
How do I let go?
But as I wrestle the Russian and my internal deliberations, the fear to breathe wins. Lack of oxygen hurls me toward a hazy light, toward Momma.
26
VICTOR
Rubbing my face, I come to a sitting position in bed. The Egyptian cotton linen slides down my bare abs. Shite, overslept. Now Burt’s in my ear, telling me this was only going to end one way—with the Whitsons’ deaths.
Dr. Whitson because of the new assassin assigned to his case, and Luxury is collateral damage for fucking with me.
“Day in and out, we’ve surveilled the Whitsons. I’ve not a wink of sleep in almost a week!”
“Come off it, Burt. You watched Jonah sparingly over the weekend while Luxury was here.”
“Yesterday, I slept for two hours. Victor, one-hundred and twentyminutesif you need an exact number. I took the nightshift, followed Whitson to Greco at the bloody cockcrow. Praise the Lord he sits in his lab—safely—all day. I then returned precisely before Luxury was to leave for her shop this morning as planned. Where wasmybloody relief, Victor?”
“I overslept.” I hold up an apologetic hand.
“Now, you must heed what I’m telling you.” He continues to argue as I slip into a pair of jeans.
“Hire someone to watch Luxury around the clock. We’ve an important event. Think of your country!” Burt rubs his sunken eye sockets. I’m in the same shoddy state since we’ve alternated, watching Luxury and her father around the clock.
“I only trust meand you,”I retort, situating a 9mm into the back of my trousers.
“Duke of Arlington! I am knackered for the first time infortybloody years of service. Why are we assuming the role of mereguards?Tell me?”
I snatch up a shirt, buttoning it hastily. “Tell you? Who works for whom? Burt, your orders are to watch Luxury until you could berelievedof duty. You don’t appear relieved to me.”
“She’s at Urban Gardens. Simply too early for customers. Victor Wesley Tudor, when you accept a mission, you go in for the kill. An abnormal form of therapy. I’ve watched you gain great pleasure while strategizing the death of someone you know not nor care for. There’s no connection involved. You care for—”
“I’m human, Burt!”
My statement leaves the bloody blabbermouth baffled. “I wasn’t inferring . . .”
“That I was no longer capable. Are you sure? You pussyfooted around the conversation, saying when I wastwenty-three.” I spit the words. Running a heavy hand over the back of my neck, I pause. Bollocks, who lacks the balls in this scenario?
My past is off-limits.
