“If she’s still alive.”
I end the call having told Atkins to back off and let them leave, and then look at my own team here, wondering what the hell we’re going to do to find her. Trawl the streets? Check every fucking motel from here to New York? There’s only one thing I can do to help her at the moment, and that involves a little visit with Franco Greene. One thing he doesn’t have is as much money as I do.
Maybe that could work.
Chapter 4
Ally
It’s just been me and him looking at each other. Pretty sure he’s hoping his stare will drive me to look at the floor. Act accordingly, maybe. Be fearful in a Greenes presence. I won’t.
“Leave us,” Temple says.
The other men in the room move in my periphery, eventually leaving only us and our continued stare. Part of me wants to ask questions now, wants to understand exactly when Franco is arriving so I can get on with finishing this, but I don’t. I’m not here to talk. I’m here to act before I’m killed. Nothing more than that. If I can get away with my life intact, I will, but I’m not sure that bothers me much anymore.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, standing. I track his movements as he moves across the room, unsure what that question has to do with anything. “Come through, Alice.”
Screw that.
I keep standing where I am, refusing to do anything he asks.
He comes back a few minutes later with two glasses of wine in his hands. “A drink then.” I frown and back up as he walks past me towards the skyline outside, watching as he opens the large, sliding doors to head out onto the terrace area. “You could use a bath,” he says. I’m fucking confused now. Why is he being so conversational? “Come out here.” I stand firm again. “Now. Don’t try what little patience I have with you.”
My neck rolls, another sneer running over my features, as he gazes out over the city. Maybe he’s attempting gallantry or some shit that I don’t recognize in him or any Greene family member. Or maybe he’s trying to pretend he’s not the monster I know he is. I felt his hands on me on that plane, felt the weight of them throwing me around. Those clothes might be cut well on him, and he might even be seen as something that he isn’t to the masses, but he’s probably a murderer, just like Franco is. And either way, no amount of smooth words are getting rid of my memories anytime soon. This family slaughtered hundreds, raped too many, both ordering the hits and using their own hands to inflict the damage. My father was one of the latter.
“I like your grit, Alice,” he says, holding one of the wine glasses out to me.
I find myself edging out onto the same floor as him at that, bare, dirty feet climbing the few steps that lead to the view he’s looking at. I stare at him, though, wary of what might change any second and trying to find the menace in his features that I remember from the plane.
The wine he’s offering me gets put down on the wall for me. “Take the wine, Alice. Drink. I’m sure you could use it.” He shifts his head to look at me, as I pick up the glass, sharp eyes scanning my face some more. “You’re refreshing. Women are usually bland.” He licks his lips slowly, smiling slightly. “You shouldn’t have cut your hair.” He chuckles and looks back out to the view. “Shame. I like longer hair.” What the fuck?
Creepy ass freak.
A shiver rides over me, and I back away a few feet, clutching the wine. “What are we going to do with you now? Franco won’t be back for a few days. I’m to keep you occupied. Any ideas?” He turns sideways, leans on the rail, and stares until the menace I saw on the plane slowly creeps onto his features again. “Four men. One woman. Which one of us would you like first?”
The glass drops from my hand, smashes to the floor beneath me. “No. Fuck off.”
That’s not fucking happening. Never.
I’ll throw myself off this terrace before any of them lay one hand on me.
He chuckles darkly and moves closer to me, close enough that I could scratch his eyes out.
“I don’t play games, Alice. Not like Malachi Jones does. And you did cut me. I should retaliate for that.”
I skitter backwards away from him, rolling the chair into him to create a barrier between us. He shoves it sideways, toppling it over until he’s too close again. “I hope you’re not waiting for his help. He won’t come. Not now you’ve killed his wife.” What?
I must look confused because he laughs again, sending more shivers over my skin at the malice in the sound.
“You must remember. You stabbed her in the heart.” I didn’t do that. I’d remember if I’d killed someone. “You don’t, do you?” Another laugh comes out of him. “I watched you do it. You ran after it. You laughed and ran like a mad woman. Like I said. Grit. But maybe it was just the drugs.” Everything in my brain tries searching for the memories, as I back up to a wall. There aren’t any. Arguing, yes. That’s there. Just. But not with her. I don’t think so anyway.
I can’t speak. Can’t speak, can’t think, and can’t find any sense in anything.
Killed her? No.
Not me.
“I think it’s time now. I’ll watch them take you first,” he says, calmly.
