The distinct sensation of being watched.
I spin around, scanning the crowds of pedestrians on Fifth Avenue, yellow cabs zooming by, horns blaring. Everything looks normal, yet unease claws its talons deeper into my chest. My jittery fingers find the emerald pendant at my throat and graze the random grooves on the back, imperfections in the handcrafted piece.
Growing up, we were taught awareness and self-defense. Being from one of the wealthiest families in the country makes you a target.
As I head for the entrance, I text Emerson Clarke, my private investigator. I’ve asked him to dig into my suspicions.
Lana
Any updates, Emerson? Same feeling again. Something’s off.
I wait a minute. No reply.
The doorman opens the door. I plaster on a fake smile, my hands still clammy.
Before I step inside, instinct makes me look back. My feet come to a stuttering halt.
A black SUV idles at the curb. A man in sunglasses, cap pulled low, smirks.
Tires screech as the car speeds off, leaving my pulse thundering as the first raindrops descend.
Chapter 3: K?LL TO BURN
The asshole from theAlbanian café blanches when I approach him.
“E-Elias Kent. What are you doing here?” he sputters on the sidewalk outside the building as his friends scatter.
Sniveling idiots.
Not answering him, I twirl the lighter around my fingers, feeling its heavy, familiar weight, and step inside.
“Where’s your father?” I ask. He’s my target, the man I’ve been searching for.
All activity grinds to a halt.
Old men arguing in Albanian over backgammon stare at us. Dice clatter. Chairs scrape against cracked tiles as folks toss bills onto their tables and promptly exit.
“B-Back room. Why are you—we don’t owe you any favors.”
I snort. “You aren’t worthy to lick my shoes clean.”
“Atë!” he shouts, his feet tripping over themselves as he scurries to the back.
Yes, go run to your daddy.
My pristine Italian leather oxfords barely make a sound as I cross the room tohertable and survey the scraps she left behind. This is just curiosity—keeping tabs on the enemy. Not part of my twenty-eight minutes.
The white ceramic cup is mostly empty. Deep-red lipstick marks the rim, beckoning me like a beacon in a storm.
I lift the cup, placing my lips over the red imprint, and take a sip. In a past life, this would’ve been a kiss between two lovers.
Useless dreams. There’s no time for sentimentality.
I focus on the taste instead.
Earthy. Bitter. Strong. A good cup of Balkan coffee with lingering chocolate aroma.
Of course. She loves chocolate.
