“Yes, do,” I murmur, running my fingers across the paper shell. There’s no name on the front, and the back is just as empty. “And don’t forget your water bottle.”
“I won’t, Miss Rivers.”
Slipping my thumb under the tape, I open the package. The first thing I see is a faded red blemish, then the creased spine, and then the five words of a book title I thought had finally abandoned me.
Oh my God.
I know what the stain is. It’s the blood of my old bodyguard, Seamus, who Frankie killed to set me free. It’s the book I meant to return to the librarian that day, but I’d been in such a hurry to meet with him that I’d rushed straight past her desk.
This book was our excuse to escape back then, so maybe…maybe…
“Candice!” I cry out, limping quickly towards the changing room.
Her pretty, round face appears in the doorway. “Yes, Miss Rivers?”
I wave the book at her. “The man who gave this to you. What did he look like?”
Her eyes widen at the urgency in my voice.
“He was really tall.”
“Dark hair?”
She nods, scrunching up her nose to remember, and then blushing slightly. “My mum went all weird when she was talking to him, like she does when she’s talking to my form tutor, Mr. Richards, sometimes.”
“You mean he was handsome?”
She nods again, her blush deepening. “Like movie star handsome, Miss Rivers,” she confides with a whisper. “He was wearing a really nice suit as well, and he smelled of expensive cologne like my dad’s. And there were tattoos all over his hands.”
Frankie.
Frankie was here.
I stumble backwards in shock.
Fuck you, Kirill, for cultivating those seeds of doubt. And shame on me for believing him.
“Miss Ri—”
“Thank you, Candice,” I say quickly, cutting her off.
Turning on my heel, I limp towards the studio’s window and stare down at a pleasant suburban high street that’s lined with bored rich housewives and bright green Plane trees. There are cars parked up on either side of the pavement, but I find what I’m looking for straight away. The black SUV has tinted windows, but I can still picture the unseen fingers drumming impatiently against the steering wheel.
Suddenly, I’m a little girl of seven again, gazing down at a world that exists without me, sensing his salvation though I can’t see his face.
I know he’s watching me too because I’m feeling sunshine on my skin for the first time in forever. My cheeks are wet, but I don’t know when I started crying. I can hear the girls filing into the studio behind me, but I can’t seem to tear my gaze away.
I press the palm of my hand to the glass, and, down there, I know he’s doing the same as me.
Still, the words unspoken in my head aren’t pleading for him to open that car door and climb the stairs to my dance studio like he’s scaling the walls of my prison cell…
They’re silently begging for his forgiveness.
CHAPTER 16
FRANKIE
The moment she turns away from the window, my palm clenches into a fist, and I’m grinding my knuckles into the glass. She knew I was there. She looked straight at me, and it was like a glimpse of dawn after the longest night.
God, she’s so fucking beautiful.
She’s mine to love, to heal, to fuck, so why am I still sitting in a car a hundred metres away from her? Patience is a virtue, but I was born a sinner.
I’ve waited too long.
Felt the bite marks of our separation for too long.
I’m reaching for the door handle when a message comes through to my phone. It’s lying on the passenger seat next to me. Out of habit, I glance sideways at it.
Don’t.
With a curse, I go to toss it over my shoulder when the goddamn thing starts ringing in my hand.
Viper.
“Fuck off,” I snarl, knowing what he’s about to say and not wanting to hear it.
“Watch your tone, mafia boy. You’re about to get your head kicked in before the race has even started. Don’t make me your voice of reason.”
Swinging the phone to the other side of my head, I open the door six inches. “I’m hanging up.”
“You just missed Semenov.”
Shit. I yank the door shut again. “How do you know?”
“Black magic.”
“Silas told me he hasn’t seen Ada in months. What the hell is he doing back here?”
Just because I couldn’t step foot in London, doesn’t mean I didn’t have eyes on her. Silas Hunter is an old contact of my father’s in the Metropolitan Police. He’s long since retired, and now he works surveillance exclusively for me.
“Taking up dance lessons. What do you think? He’s checking you haven’t been in touch after you adios-ed Zaccaria.”
“Well, he’s not here now, and her bodyguards are out front.”
“Yeah, but what about the five extra patsans who showed up as soon as Semenov left?”
I scan the quiet high street as I reach inside my jacket for my gun. “Where?”
“They went to grab some food while you were off sending brown packaged smoke signals to my sister. They’re in the Italian café opposite. Ironic, huh?” He barks out a rough laugh. “It’s the one with the blue awning and the blonde sitting outside it pretending to drink coffee when she just dumped half a bottle of vodka in it.”
Fucking suburbia.
Another quick scan confirms most of what he just told me. The vodka thing I’ll just have to take on trust. “How do you know all this? Are you following me?”
“You accusin’? Bambi hacked into the traffic and shop security feeds. Figured you’d be here when you didn’t show up for our meeting. It went well by the way, ‘though I had to shoot a couple of them in the head when they refused to sell us their casino. Messy business. Wave to the camera above Tesco Express to your left.”
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. “It’s not so much Big Brother as his irritating little sister. Are the dead men O’Sullivan’s?”
“Nah. I’m not that stupid. It’s not like I drove twenty miles to taunt him or anything.” Jibe taken. “I’ll tell you all about it when you get back. I kept one alive just for you.”
“Afternoon delights aren’t what they used to be.”
“You might be pleasantly satisfied.” His tone tails off into something flatter and more serious. “Don’t go defaulting on Santiago’s terms of agreement before the deal’s agreed, Lastra. No waves, remember? That’s what you told me. Not even a mafia skid mark within five miles of trouble. Spook O’Sullivan, and it’s not just you in the firing line anymore.”
I clench my hand into a fist again, knowing he means Bambi.
This is precisely why I didn’t want the pink-haired mini punk coming with us.
“It’s another fourteen days, not fourteen years,” he reasons. “Think about that the next time you get a hard-on for the past. I want to blow the backs of their heads off as much as the next man, but the Irish cunt is already bracing for something. Why else would he send his pet paedophile off to Surrey to check on Ada? He knows you’re out of jail, and he also knows you’re not back in Monaco with Aiden Knight. We need time to throw him off track. Now, start the engine and get your vengeful self back to London so I can give you a tour of our new casino.”