ella
atching painfully in my throat. The amber light from the burning guest wing
two people. He looked like a god of death who
on of the kills-single shots, dead center between the eyes-screamed of a professional. Then, the flashing firesymbol of T
errupted the boogeyman of the Chicago underworld during a sanctioned execution. Damien 'The Ghost' Gu
a low, smooth baritone that barely carried over the howling wind and the
I was the one who had just turned t
ng for help would only bring Alistair's men, who would kill me just as quickly once they realized wha
my neck. I needed a lever, something Th
show. I met his dead, obsidian eyes. "Killing me i
ed under his immaculate burgundy suit jacket, but his posture shifted, becoming infi
roat. "I know where Alistair keeps his secret ledger. It details eve
ity. The air between us seemed to drop ten degrees. I had hit the exact nerve
d even blink,
d against the rockery, knocking the wind out of my lungs. The rough stone bit into
e heat of his breath against my cheek. The scent of winter mint and fresh blood was intoxicatingly
lew up, gripping his thick wrist, but it was like trying to move a ste
leather glove and fought
desperate, raspy whisper. "It doesn't just
e grenade. The Romanos were the Sicilian suppliers, the
e, feeling the sheer terror and absolute certainty coursing through my veins. Slowly, the crushing pressure ar
ulating coldness. The immediate threat of death receded,
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