Avenge :Romanian Mob Chronicles(74)

The bag stood out like a beacon, a warning, almost blindingly bright in the drabness of Christoph’s makeshift hospital.

I stepped over to the bag, grabbed it, turned it over in my hands. The material was a stiff approximation of leather, one that belonged here just about as much as its owner, which was to say not at all. I unzipped the bag and rummaged through it.

Sunglasses, dental floss, an e-reader, two pieces of peppermint candy. A bright pink wallet the same color as the purse.

I dropped the bag and opened the wallet. Thirteen dollars and some change in cash. A debit card. A grocery store discount card. And finally, her license.

Lily Holan.

The name fit her, I thought.

And then I remembered that I shouldn’t care about her name at all. I took note of her address, gathered any other information that might be useful, but then an awareness, almost a real, tangible thing, started to tingle at the back of my neck. A split second later her hushed, honeyed tones filled the space.

“If you tell me what you’re looking for, perhaps I can help you find it,” she said.











Lily





My first thought when I saw him standing there, broad back to me, my silly pink wallet cradled in his huge hand, the contrast between it and him almost comical, was that I should run.

My second thought was he would catch me.

So I stayed, prayed that gall and a little bit of bravado would get me out of this. Or at least throw him off the trail long enough for me to do what I needed.

Which was why I had made that ridiculous statement, one that seemed even stupider when he turned his icy eyes on me, the flatness there, the lack of any reaction at all, enough to ignite a shiver strong enough to make my bones rattle if I gave in to it.

But I didn’t.

I swallowed that shiver, pushed down the ones that threatened to come after it, and kept my eyes on him. I couldn’t meet his gaze, not if I wanted to keep my wits, so I focused on his massively broad shoulders.

Their strength had been apparent earlier when he’d worn a jacket, but now, only in shirtsleeves, I could see the outline of those shoulders through the material, allowed myself to look down to see where the fabric pulled tight across his biceps and the wide expanse of his chest.

I managed to stop myself from looking farther, and instead lifted my eyes up to rest near his neck, but not before I had caught the glance of the dark shadows under the shirt.

I knew what he was. What they all were. The others, even Christoph, displayed their markings with pride. I wondered if he did, too, wondered what story his tattoos would tell.

Then I mentally shook myself, disgusted at how I had managed to lose sight of what was happening, of who had just been rummaging through my belongings.

He’d find nothing. I made sure of that. But that he’d even felt compelled to look…that meant trouble, something I couldn’t afford. My lungs squeezed a little tighter, anxiety threatening to overtake me.

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t be looking?” he asked, his voice deep, gravelly, unconcerned, placid enough to lull someone who wasn’t me into as much comfort as would be possible with him.

“Common decency. You’ve heard of it?” I replied.

That last bit had slipped out before I thought about it, and I waited for a heavy moment, breath frozen in anticipation of his response.

“Yes. I’ve heard of it. But I don’t believe in it.”

I’d bet he didn’t. Didn’t seem like the type. Straight to the point, which could bode good or ill for me.

I had no idea which, so I decided to play it straight, because I could somehow sense that any attempt at subterfuge would only rouse his suspicions further.

“So what does that mean?” I asked.

“It means,” he said, as he returned my license to its slot, stuck the wallet back in the purse, and returned the purse to its original home, “that decency, whatever you might think that is, won’t spare you. Not if I find out you’re doing anything other than precisely what you were brought here to do.”

He was suspicious, a trait that was essential in his line of work. But rather than pointing that out, I said, “All I’m doing is caring for my patient. Nothing more.”

He stepped toward me, covering the distance between us in two long strides, strides that only emphasized his power, the barely leashed strength that he didn’t need to display for me to know it was there.

When he stopped in front of me, I lifted my gaze to his, unable to do anything else. He stared back at me, eyes practically piercing my soul. Something told me that if I had blinked, backed away, that I would be over. So as hard as it was, as much as I wanted to wither under his scrutiny, I stayed put, waiting.

“Caring for your patient?”