My heart leaps into my throat.
Their cuffs are removed.
Shit. I hadn’t realised they wouldn’t be cuffed during visits. I’d felt safe during our last meeting, knowing Valdemar was shackled to the table, but this feels different.
Nervousness ripples through me.
Is this the reason he asked me to return, so he could have his hands free? Does he know I’ve pictured him dead a thousand times over, and now with his release imminent, he thinks I’m going to be seeking my revenge? Does he want to get to me before I get to him?
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Panic floods my bloodstream.
There are three prison guards in the room, and I suspect another on the other side of the door. Valdemar won’t have a weapon. What could he do to me in the confines of this small space?
Well, for starters, he’ll have the full use of his hands, which would be enough.
Breathe.Calm.Stop this nonsense.
He has six weeks before he’s released. Surely he wouldn’t jeopardise that for a pre-emptive strike at a scrawny journalist?
The inmates rub their wrists, a crew of motley men all weathering the telltale signs of incarceration: pale skin, dull hair, and hopeless eyes.
Valdemar is the last to enter the room. I’m disappointed that the ghost of my brother doesn’t follow him. Instead, alarm taps at my subconscious, and I’m convinced there’s a hint of a smile as his cuffs are removed and he’s brought over to the table.
He’d been sitting when I last visited, so now I see him at his full height, all six feet of him. His tattoos appear animated as he walks, the ravens looking ready to take flight, the white T-shirthe’s wearing rubbing against his skin, his sweatpants hugging his hips.
The air feels thick, danger surrounding him like lethal smog.
“You came.” His voice is deep, rich, and flavoursome, as if he’s been saving it for me.
“You asked me to,” I reply, my words feeling like they’re caught in the back of my throat.
I’ve spent the past ten years researching this man. I’ve read all manner of things about him, like how, fifteen years ago at the age of twenty-five, he became the youngest man ever to lead the Raven Hands, which on the outside appears to be a men’s club, their signature raven tattoos on their left hands a marker of their allegiance, yet underneath, it operates as a suspected prolific criminal gang, dishing out violence, threats, and God knows what else to those who they deem deserve it. The Raven Hands once ruled Amontillado with iron fists and brutal force, and it’s no secret that during their reign, the crime rate in the city was at its lowest.
Most reports speak of how calm Valdemar Montresor is, how controlled, and how all of it’s a façade concealing the ruthless killer underneath it all. But here and now, as he towers over me in the flesh with no restraints, I realise just how dangerous this man is. The charisma, the piercing eyes, the lull of his intoxicating words. He doesn’t need to hold a gun to your head to make you do his bidding; he simply needs to look at you.
As he lowers himself into the chair opposite, I exhale slowly through my nose.
“You look tense, angel.” Valdemar settles his elbows on the table and steeples his fingers as he stares at me until I’m forced to look away. “Is something the matter?”
Caught out by his perception, I scramble for an answer other than the fact that I’m shit scared of him, and then I remember Jacinta.
“Just a little confusion on the way in.” Irritation pricks my skin as I recall her harsh words and the way she’d looked me up and down.
“Confusion?” His eyes haven’t left my face, and I almost feel as if he’s reading me like a book, searching for something that isn’t written in words.
“Jacinta was here,” I say, trying not to squirm under his gaze.
“I’ve had a lucky escape, then.” His top lip curls.
“She wasn’t very pleased to see me,” I tell him.
“I bet she wasn’t.” This feels like it should be accompanied by a smirk or a smile, something to show he’s joking or finds this funny, but his face remains stoic, the serious air that surrounds him never seeming to lift.
“Who is she?” I ask, but do I want to know? If she’s going to jump me on the way out, I do. “Your girlfriend?”
