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I frown at him.
“So why give yourself up?” I’m curious and really trying hard to catch up with him.
“You want to hide yours. Maybe it’s about time I showed mine.”
“You’re taking a huge risk.” I’m putting him in the firing line. I search his face with concerned eyes. “Callan, I can’t let you do that,” I murmur quietly.
“Zara, people like Santino and Ramis know who I am. I’m sure they have a dossier on me as I have them. In my world, it’s pragmatic to do so. All I will be doing is showing the London elite my face.” He is as lost to the shadows as I am. I think of all the women who will be desperate to meet Callan Scott, the mysterious club owner. My stomach sours.
“So, we have a photo, and it draws them out,” I say softly, sickened.
“Yes, seeing you with me will be like dangling a worm. They will either fear you have asked for my help, which you have, or worry I am going to bag you up myself.” His smile is dark, too dark. I shudder inwardly and repel any acceptance he is capable of such crimes.
The thought of Callan wrapping someone in a tarp and disposing of them sends a shiver through me. I refuse to believe he is a killer—for my own sanity.
“As if. That gun is just for show.” I aim to make light of the situation, but my laugh is brittle. Callan deadpans me, and I snap my mouth shut. I nod shakily and turn, walking away before stopping. “You’re not going to bag me up though?” I say. After witnessing my father get shot, death has always terrified me.
“Not properly, no, but if you want to disappear, you need to be dead to this world, Zara. You know that, don't you?” He moves, standing to full height. “You do know you can never speak to Oscar again, never return to the UK, and never show your face again—at least not that face?” He points to me, and I frown.
“Do you know what you’re asking?” he asks again, more forcefully. “Zara Reid has to die.”
I nod stiffly. “I know.”
“Good, let’s draw out the vermin,” he says, guiding me back down to the bar where Stalin greets us both with a nod. The bar has come to life with people sitting, drinking and laughing. I envy their freedom.
“Hey, Zara!” My name being called across the bar has me flinching. I twist, finding Cassandra Faraday smiling at me, her hand waving lightly. She’s not alone, and the tension in my body spikes up another notch. I snap into work mode and give her my most fashioned smile. I’m glad I touched up my makeup.
I step toward her, but Callan takes my wrist.
“We’re leaving,” he reminds me coolly.
Tugging free, I swing a look back at him and give him a taunting smile. I’m sick of his controlling temperament. Flashing me a warning look, he moves and grips my neck through my hair. I stare at him, conveying how testing he is becoming and that it's not appreciated on my part at all. He smirks softly, enjoying my defiance, and I shake with unbridled anger.
“The cameras will love this,” I spit, and his eyes widen. He lost control. He bares his teeth, growling. I break free, shaken up, and move around the bar to Cassandra and her friend. Both look dolled up and ready to party. Where Cassandra is beautifully blonde and tan, her friend is the opposite, creamy skin, and dark brunette hair.
“Cassandra, how are you?” I say brightly, conveying complete happiness and not soul-deep anger and confusion at Callan’s antics. These women have no idea that in a few minutes, I’m going to risk sealing my fate with a simple image.
“Great, thanks. How are you? Your last campaign did well.” Her question catches me off guard, but it’s highly welcome. I cling to it, desperate to not lose myself to the hysteria rising in me.
“Yes, better than I hoped.” She smiles, and I reciprocate before I cast a look back to find Callan now sitting at the bar looking the picture of calm and violence. How he manages such contradicting emotions without even trying is exasperating. I can never keep up with him. He is always three steps ahead. He turns to Stalin, saying something discreetly before he turns those damn dark eyes to me.
I won’t give in and let him win. He’ll no doubt tan my arse like he warned back in his office, but some tiny part of me welcomes it. I refrain from shivering under his unwavering gaze and instead, twist back to Cassandra, my smile fixed in place.
“This is my friend, Lily, Lily, this is Zara Reid.”
Shit, I know that name. I search my mind frantically. She has mentioned her friend before at a fundraiser. Damn it. By way of luck, I suddenly remember.
“Oh, your photography friend!” I beam and see her eyes flash with surprise.
“Yes, that's me.” She laughs, seeming a little embarrassed by my attention. Cassandra smiles proudly at her, and it reminds me of mine and Oscar’s relationship, only I’m betraying him in gigantic proportions and apparently, he is lying to me about an addiction.
“She’s amazing. She recently photographed for Bennett and Klein,” Cassandra states, looking from me to her friend.
“Oh, wow, they built this building,” I say, recalling the information I found whilst waiting for Callan to finish up business. Half an hour ago, I was unaware of who built this building, how many businesses are located here, or who owned the building. Now, I’m a pro. It’s so far from anything that interests me, but something about Callan makes me want to dig deeper, too. Lily frowns lightly but quickly covers herself. I don’t blame her. I’m not quite sure why I even shared the information, and now I have, I can’t seem to stop. “Callan owns Nexo,” I explain, looking back at the angry bear behind me. It’s almost comical that he is so angry with me.
“Oh really, small world. We tend to stick to the business district, glad we didn’t. This place is amazing,” Lily says.
“Yes, it has its charm,” I murmur, finding I can no longer fight the compulsion to look back at him. He’s getting impatient. A few other people have noticed me, and it takes only one to post a picture or share my location. He motions for me to come back to him. “Excuse me, ladies, it was nice to meet you, Lily,” I murmur as we say our goodbyes. I step away as he requests that the bartender deliver a complimentary bottle of champagne to both ladies.
