My fingers are on Sonny’s neck, and I breathe a little sigh of relief when I feel a pulse. It’s faint, but it’s there. His chest is slowly rising and falling, too.
His body starts to convulse and I don’t think we have time to wait for a fucking ambulance to get here.
I look around for… something. I’m honestly not sure. Crystal is behind the bar, her eyes are wide, and she’s still clinging to the bottle of tequila she must have been using to make a drink.
“What happened?!” I bark, though I’m not angry at her.
“I don’t know. He was talking and then he took a sip of water,” she tells me. By the tears collecting in her eyes and the way her face has gone colorless, it’s easy enough to tell she’s shaken.
My eyes lock onto the spilled bottle three feet away.
I lean over and smell the wet carpet. A sticky-sweet scent hits me first, followed by something acidic.
There was something in the water. Poison.
“Charcoal,” I tell Torrin, and he runs off. Time is ticking. It might already be too late.
Torrin comes back with a bag of black powder. I jump up and snatch the bottle of tequila out of Crystal’s hand. I pull the pour spout out, dropping to the ground as Torrin attempts to dump the charcoal powder into the bottle. Half of it goes doesn’tmake it into the small hole, and now my hand is covered with it. I don’t know if this is going to work, but I seal it with my thumb and shake it frantically. I don’t bother with another spout tip. Torrin holds Sonny’s mouth open as I pour the liquid straight into his throat. His body is still functioning enough to swallow it down, thank fuck.
A couple of paramedics rush in.
My gaze goes to the table I’d been sitting at.
It’s now completely empty.
Greely Aubert is gone.
I can’t help but think he had something to do with this, but I can’t prove it. Then again, he’s a slimy fucker, so I wouldn’t put it past him to simply use the distraction to slip away after he made his point. Which means I might have another enemy out there. One stupid enough to come after my people, but also smart enough to get within striking distance.
What a fucking disaster this night has turned out to be.
ONE
Donovan
I snatch the mask off the corner of my bed and move back to the standing mirror on the far side of my bedroom. The reflection of the curtains dances behind me as I study myself.
My teeth grind as I’m reminded why I’m wearing this fucking tuxedo and have this damn mask in my hands. My gaze drops to the matte black mask. I absently trace the intricate swirls of glossy back and red lines with my thumb. The pattern is elegant, though it doesn’t make any sense. The mask doesn’t need those lines, yet they are there. Hell, I would have been happy with a solid black mask. This is what I get for passing the task off to Torrin.
At least I look damn good.
I tuck my knife away before holstering my gun at my side. The two accessories I always have on me.
I head toward the bedroom door, mask in hand.
Torrin moves to stand in front of me the moment I step into the hall like he’s been waiting for me to emerge.
His gaze roams over me, the same as mine does to him. He’s wearing a solid black tux with a black shirt and a red tie.
Red.
I smirk.
Our little rebellion since the colors for the night are strictly supposed to be black and gold.
Torrin not only knows how I think, he’s also right there backing me up with my asshole ideas. Some might say we’ve known each other too long, but I think that’s the very thing that makes him a perfect second. Of course, I’d never tell him such a thing. I wouldn’t want it to go to his head and have him thinking he could actually be me.
“Looks good, Boss,” he says with a smirk.
