Chapter 1 - Splint And Ledger
The pressure of his hands against my arm was firm, methodical, and entirely devoid of cruelty, which somehow made the situation more terrifying. The heavy silver ring on his finger caught the amber glow of the candlelight as he pulled the gray duct tape tight, anchoring the two wooden spoons he had broken from the kitchen set to my swollen forearm. My breath hitched, a sharp intake of air that caught painfully in my ribs.
"Who set this?" he asked. His voice was low, vibrating in the quiet intimacy of the wood-paneled room.
The bruised skin around my right eye throbbed, a dull ache that pulsed in time with my racing heart. I looked up at him, my vision slightly blurred by tears I refused to let fall. I clutched the thick gray cardigan tighter across my chest, drawing the white collared shirt beneath it up to my throat as if it could serve as armor.
"I did," I whispered.
Behind him, standing near the heavy mahogany sideboard in the dim light, the bodyguard in the sharp black suit and tie shifted slightly. He held a glowing tablet out toward us, the screen casting a pale, cold blue light over his knuckles.
"Boss, we found her name," the bodyguard said.
The tattooed man—his forearms and neck a dense canvas of dark ink—slowly straightened up from where he had been kneeling beside my chair. He turned his head toward the bodyguard, then back to me. His expression tightened, every muscle in his jaw locked as he studied my bruised face, searching for whatever truth I had spent the last twenty-four hours trying to bury.
"My mother? They weren't there by accident, were they?" he asked.
The silence in the dining room grew heavy, suffocating. The air smelled of aged wood, melted wax, and the metallic tang of dried blood on my lip. My chest heaved beneath the wool of my cardigan. I looked from the harsh lines of his tattooed neck down to the dark watch ticking steadily on his wrist, then back up into his dark, unyielding eyes.
"No. You were the target," I said.
May you like
The words hung in the space between us, refusing to dissipate. The tattooed man stared intently at me across the mahogany table, his gaze unblinking. I looked back at him in sheer disbelief and panic, the reality of what I had admitted settling over my shoulders like lead. The bodyguard stood vigil behind them, a silent pillar in his black suit, watching every micro-expression as the room seemed to shrink around us.
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