I’m chuckling as I plonk down in my chair, hauling my mail in front of me as I pop my AirPods in and crank up “Sad Song” by We the Kings. I’ll sort my mail first and then attack the mountainous pile of files propped beside my desktop PC. I play “Sad Song” and “Without You” by The Kid LAROI on a loop, as they are feeding my mood today. I’m so engrossed in my work and immersed in the lyrics I forget all about my tea, only remembering it when it’s too cold to drink.
I’m singing away when the door to my room bursts open without warning. I swivel on my chair, and all the blood drains from my face as I lock eyes with the stranger standing in my doorway. The man is wearing faded black slacks, a black leather jacket, and a black turtleneck that barely fits around his wide neck, looking like an extra in a dodgy B-movie from the seventies. His cropped black hair is shorn tight to his head, and there’s an ugly scar running along one cheek, which gives me awful flashbacks of that night in the basement in Vegas with Scarface Salerno.
Behind him, Alesso is slumped on the floor in the hallway, and my pulse throbs wildly in my neck as fear races through my veins. I can’t tell if he’s passed out or dead. Panic jumps up and bites me as the man narrows beady eyes on me, cursing in a foreign tongue as he shuts the door and cracks his knuckles. His nostrils twitch, and his mouth pulls into a snarl as he rakes his gaze over me.
I’m momentarily frozen as we stare at one another, but the instant he moves a foot forward, I jump up, stumbling against my chair and almost losing my balance as I step away from him. Ripping out my AirPods, I discard them on the floor. “Stay back!” I shriek, raising my palms while my eyes flit to my purse at the far end of the desk. The gun Ben gave me is in there, and if I can get to it, I might be able to defend myself. Alesso and I have gone to the gun range a couple of times, and I know the basics.
“This would be much easier if you were sleeping,” he says, advancing with a menacing snarl. He has an accent. Clearly European, and I’m guessing he might be Russian. “Come with me now, and I won’t hurt anyone else,” he adds, as if I can believe a word that comes out of his mouth.
As if I would willingly go anywhere with him.
I lunge for my purse, and he jumps me from behind. Grabbing my wrist, he digs his nails into my sensitive flesh before twisting. His other hand comes to my mouth, stifling my scream of pain. My purse plummets to the floor, and potent terror whittles through me when he drops my aching wrist and his meaty hand grips my hip. His front is pressed against my back, and a deep shudder works its way through me. Bile travels up my throat, and I know I need to do something before all hope is lost.
I shove my elbow back, meeting soft flesh, but it doesn’t dislodge him, so I bite down hard on his hand, sinking my teeth into his callused flesh. A muffled roar is quickly followed by a slew of cursing as he yanks his hand back on instinct. Reaching around me, I grab his junk and squeeze it, hoping I don’t puke, while I simultaneously stomp down hard on his foot.
He staggers back with a loud roar, and I seize the opportunity, dropping to my knees and sliding under the desk to grab my purse. My fingers have just reached it when I’m yanked back by my hair. I scream as stinging pain rips across my scalp.
“Suka,” he hisses, dragging me out one-handed by my ponytail. Pain dances across my head as I thrash about, trying to pry his hand away. Lifting me by my hair, he throws me face-first against the wall. My face slams into the framed certificate, which takes a place of pride on the wall, and the sharp edge of the wooden frame pierces my cheekbone, drawing blood. A throbbing sensation radiates across my face, but I barely feel it over the adrenaline pumping through my body and the blood thrumming through my ears. I slump to the ground, automatically cradling my sore cheek, my fingertips coming away bloody.
He comes at me again, cupping his crotch with one hand. I kick his shin, and he stumbles. Leaning forward, I push him hard, and he takes a tumble. I crawl away, scrambling to my feet as I race to my desk for my gun, but he’s on his feet fast. His hands wrap around my neck from behind as he shoves me forward. The edge of my desk presses into my stomach as I claw at his arms, struggling to draw enough oxygen into my lungs.
I’m going to die.
That’s the only thought going through my mind as he grips my throat tighter. My hands wander haphazardly around my desk, looking for something I can use as a weapon, latching on to the silver letter opener under some papers. He hasn’t noticed. He’s too busy squeezing the life from my body, so he doesn’t see me lift it and drag the sharp point swiftly across his hand.
He yells, stumbling back, as blood pours from the wound.
I don’t hesitate.
I don’t stop to think.
It’s kill or be killed.
Adrenaline, instinct, and the will to survive drive me forward, and I do what needs to be done.
Launching myself at him, I bury the letter opener in the side of his neck, shoving it to the hilt. It goes in a lot easier than I imagined. Blood sprays from the wound, hitting me in the face, and I know I have hit an artery.
His eyes pop wide as he staggers back, his legs going out from under him. He collapses flat on his back on the carpeted floor, making a strange gurgling sound. Blood leaks from his neck and spills from his mouth as I stand frozen in place, my entire body trembling as I hold a shaky hand over my lips. I see the moment the light dies in his eyes, and his body stops twitching.
Oh my God. I killed him. I just killed a man.
It seems like barely any time has passed, but time has lost all meaning as I stand rooted to the spot, numb with shock. I stare at the dead man with my letter opener stuck in his neck, shaking uncontrollably until I push through the fog in my brain and spring into action.
Rowan!
What if they have gone after him too? I know this is no random attack. Ben was worried this week for a reason, and it’s obvious this is connected. The dead guy must be Russian, and whatever beef he had with them still exists. I curse myself for not demanding Ben tell me more, and I make a silent promise to get answers from him.
But it can wait. Right now, I need to make sure our son is safe.
Racing out to the hall, I drop to my knees beside Alesso. I’m panting heavily as I press a finger to the pulse in his neck, emitting a cry of relief when I feel the steady vibration under his skin. I look up, grateful Wednesdays are usually quiet at the center and that it’s the manager’s day off.
Dragging Alesso into my room by his feet, I lock the door, praying to every deity known to mankind that he wakes up soon. I need him. Flinging papers off my desk, I find my cell and dial Frank’s number with shaky hands. He answers immediately and I almost cry in relief. “Where’s Rowan?” I shout. “Is he safe? Do you have eyes on him right now?”
“He’s in class.” I hear the confusion and concern in his tone. “He’s safe. I’m looking at him right now. What’s going on, Sierra? Where’s Alessandro?”
“I don’t have time to explain. I just need you to take Rowan out of class right now and drive him to my parents’ house.” I’m not risking going home. If they know where I work, they know where I live. Dad has a security firm on speed dial, and the house is like Fort Knox. It’s the safest place I can think of. “I was attacked, but I’m okay. They drugged Alesso, but he has a pulse. I’m going to call Ben now, but I need you to keep our son safe. Please, Frank. Don’t let anything happen to him.”