We say goodbye. When Jackie leaves, the man pushes away from the wall and wanders over. He looks different from yesterday, his eyes glassy. When he sits and slams his cup down, I smell the whiskey emanating from it.
“Well, ain’t this a nice surprise,” he says.
“I’m not scared of you, you sad little man.” Somehow, my voice doesn’t waver, and that makes me proud. “If you’ve got a problem, it’s not with me.”
“Oh, I’ve got a problem.” He licks his lips, his cloudy eyes flitting up and down my body. “I need to get some more whiskey before we make sweet, sweet love, Celine Moreau.”
I try not to show my disgust and fear on my face. But it’s difficult. He smirks as if he’s seen deep inside of me and can read every little nuance. Every little tremor of terror.
“Don’t like the sound of that, hm?” he says.
I fold my arms and sit up straighter. I’m not going to let this asshole beat me. I’m not going to let this new life, this upside-down world where I finally know the half-truth about my brother, break me.
“Go fuck yourself,” I snap.
His smirk falters. His hand is shaking as he reaches for his paper cup of whiskey. When he takes a sip, his eyes don’t leave me. A line of brown liquid slides down his chin.
“That isn’t a very intelligent thing to say. I want you to look under the table.”
He snakes one hand out of sight.
“Why?” I snap.
“Look under the table, or you’ll bleed right here. Right now.”
Something in his tone makes me do it. He doesn’t sound as though he’s lying. He sounds serious.
I lean down. A gasp punches out of my throat.
He’s holding a gun, aiming it at me, out of sight so that no one else can see it.
When I sit up, his smirk is back – in fact, it’s evolved, become a full-on grin. I’m good in high-stress situations. I wouldn’t be able to do my job if I crumpled every time things got tough, but this is a new breed of panic.
“We’re going to take a walk,” he growls. “You and me. Somewhere private. Somewhere… special. Or I can pull the trigger. Your choice.”
I look around the busy Christmas market. “You won’t,” I whisper.
“Are you sure of that, Celine Moreau? Are youcertain?”
I’m certain that if I go with him, something terrible is going to happen.
What choice do I have? My legs are Jell-O when I stand. His eyes never leave me. The gun’s no longer in sight, but he’s got his hand in his pocket, and I can see the shape through the leather. He wouldn’t even have to take it out, just angle it, aim, and pull the trigger.
Job done.
“Where are we going?” I ask, wondering if I should just run, but then it’s too late.
He walks around the table and grips my elbow, squeezes, making my bones ache. “Wherever the fuck I want,” he snarls.
Before I know it, he’s marching me across the market and out the door, the Christmas music receding. He shoves me into the first alleyway we pass by, taking out the gun again, looking at the mouth of the alley with that sickening lick-lipping habit.
“You’re not much,” he says. “But I’ll make do?—”
“Game’s up, motherfucker,” someone growls.
We both turn.
Damian walks toward us, emerging from the shadows, the pale winter light reflecting off the scar on his face, his eyes fixed on Rico with laser focus. He’s got a gun in his hand, pointed straight at Rico.
