Page 8 of Freedom’s Inferno

“No. Wait. Wait!”

Costa’s expression remained neutral. Almost bored.

“I’ll get the money!” I said, unable to hide the urgency from my voice. “That’s why I was in the office. That’s why I have the file. I’m working on it.”

Damian’s gaze held mine for a long, suffocating beat. A feverish heat flushed my face.

“You’ll get it from her,” he said, voice deceptively mild. “All of it. Or you’ll find yourself reunited with your partner a lot sooner than you planned.” He gave a single, decisive nod.

Before my brain could register that I was still breathing, I was hauled to my feet.

The bearded man shifted; I didn’t have a chance to react before his fist collided with my stomach, the air rushing out of me as I doubled over. I clutched my gut, lights popping in my vision as I fought to suck in air.

“That’s for allowing a woman to outsmart you,” Damian said, his voice thick with disgust. “This is your first and only warning. Tick tock, Mr. Sterling.”

The armed guard peeled away from the door and gripped my arm.

Costa’s smile, cold and satisfied, followed me as I was dragged outside. It was the kind of smile that didn’t care whether I lived or died so long as the balance was settled.

The ride back was silent and oppressive. My mind churned the entire time. If I didn’t deliver, if I couldn’t beat Lana Blackwell at her own game, my head sat on the chopping block.

They dumped me onto the curb back at the office, the folder thrust back into my arms, my legs stiff and my palms damp and shaking. The black SUV pulled away, disappearing into the night. I stood there under the dim glow of the streetlight, breathing hard.

“Fuck you, Dickie, for marrying that cunt and leaving me tethered to her.” The words scraped out of me, a curse for the dead.

It’s not fair.

Richard had the freedom I’d always craved. Even six feet under, he pulled my strings. And he’d left me to dance with his widow.

“I wish you had better taste in women…” I muttered.

Get a hold of yourself, Chuck. You’re talking to no one.

I trudged back to my bike, making myself a silent vow.

I will not allow a woman to take anything else away from me. Never again.

Chapter 4

Lana

Hours after the funeral, I was soaking my aching feet. The floral scent of lavender and rose oil wafted from the bubbles as I sank beneath the surface, resting my head back against the porcelain, eyelids fluttering closed.

Finally, a fucking moment to myself.

No more forced tears, or small talk with people who hardly knew me. I was alone with the peace offered by blessed silence.

“Knock knock.”

I gasped, my eyes shooting open.

Leaning over the threshold, hands gripping either side of the frame, stood a man whose face was concealed beneath a matte-black motorcycle helmet. His t-shirt clung to his muscled torso, and the veins in his forearms were prominent.

I recognized his voice, even muffled through his helmet, but the mottled purple scar marring his left wrist gave him away.

Charles Sterling. What the fuck?

“Charlie!” I shrieked, arms crossing over my bare breasts. I couldn’t see his face, but a giddy energy radiated off him.