When those three guys walked in, looking like they'd stepped out of a B-grade gangster movie, I remember thinking it was strange. No one comes to the office on Sundays, especially not without an appointment.
My stomach turns as I remember they had pretended to be here on behalf of my funders.
“Miss Jones?” the one with a nasty scar running down his jawline had asked. “We're here on behalf of your benefactor. We need to see your financial records. Client lists, billing information, all of it.”
That’s when my guard went up. Z Ventures had been hands-off since the initial investment. It didn't make sense for them to suddenly take an interest in my business out of nowhere. And billing information? Come on. I wasn’t born yesterday.
“If Z Ventures has concerns, they can contact me directly through the proper channels,” I said, pointing to the door.
Scarface had smiled then, a smile that sent shivers down my spine. “Let's not play games, Miss Jones. The man who funds your little start-up is powerful, and to keep staying here, you need to hand us a list of all your clients and billings.”
The pieces had started to click—they weren't from Z Ventures at all. This was some kind of scam.
“Listen, please,” I'd tried to reason with them. “My company has to maintain client privacy. If the funder has concerns, he can talk to me directly instead of sending—”
“The funder doesn't waste time with little girls like you,” another one had said.
Damn, my temper flared. No one spoke to me like that!
“I need you to know I'm not a fool,” I fired back haughtily. “Why would the funder even want those financials? What business is it of his? And if he did, ask him to drop me an email explaining his reasoning. I've entertained you enough, and I'm done.”
And when they still didn’t take no for an answer, I threatened to call the police. In no scenario did I think that would be met with a goddamn gun pointed in my face.
And that's when everything exploded. The door burst open, gunshots rang out, and I watched in horror as Scarface dropped to the floor. When I looked to see who might have come to my rescue, thinking one of the building guards might have caught on and called the cops, my stomach gave out.
It wasValentinshooting those guys down, and from the way they spoke, they recognized one another.
This whole day feels like a nightmare, one I might wake up from any second now.
I look back at Valentin, still following, and see the blood splatters on his shirt. My legs and hands begin to shake. Even now, just thinking about how he killed those men who looked petrified of him makes me nearly leap in fright. That same old panic comes barreling back with a vengeance at the realization that the man I’ve been daydreaming about turned out to be someone else entirely.
My foot slips on the slippery metal step, and my heart jumps into my throat as I nearly tumble face-first down the stairwell. Valentin grabs my upper arm and steadies me with a solid grip.
“You okay?” he asks gently, like we’re back in the coffee shop and he’s asking if he can join me.
I nod, and he motions at me to carry on. Just then, we hear something grate above us, like someone’s testing windows and doors.
“Move,” Valentin says urgently and practically drags me down the fire exit stairs. Behind us, shouts echo from a window, and my brain can’t process what’s happening fast enough.
We’ve been seen. There are three dead men in my office. And the man who put them there is pulling me along like I'm a rag doll.
“Valentin—” I want to ask who those guys were, but he cuts me off with a sharp look that makes the words die in my throat.
“Not now. Just run.”
My legs are jelly beneath me as we keep moving down in a spiral. My brain keeps replaying the memories from my office. I’d never seen a gun being shot before. Ever.
Let alone blood on a man.
“Faster.” He grabs my wrist and rushes me along as we round another landing. “They're probably following.”
We burst through the exit door at the bottom of the stairs, right into the parking lot. The parking lot is empty except for a few cars, which is expected on a Sunday.
But it unnerves me. It means if shit hits the fan, there are no witnesses around. The door slams behind us, and the loud sound makes me jump.
“My car is over there,” Valentin says, pulling me toward a sleek black sedan.
I dig my heels in the road and try to pull my wrist free. “Wait, what? I'm not going anywhere with you. I’m just going to get myself a cab, thanks.”
