Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 88447 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88447 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
I couldn’t.
My wife had been trapped and then burned to death behind the locked and chained doors of our kennels, along with all of our dogs, including the puppies. I couldn’t look at a dog without being swamped with regret and shame that I hadn’t been there to save them, along with a healthy dose of heartache. I loved my dogs like family, so knowing how they’d suffered…it tore my soul to shreds.
If only I’d skipped the Detroit Tigers baseball game with my dad… If only I’d paid more attention to the world around me… If only I’d taken the threats against me seriously…
If only…
We sat in silence, and I waited for the air to get heavy, for it to press down on me the way it usually did when I thought about the past…but nothing happened.
My body simply couldn’t panic with the warm weight of the dog on my lap and the woman against my arm.
Her sigh seemed to fill the air as she spoke from right next to me. “So, what’s your name?”
My first instinct was to give her my usual alias, the fake one that I gave strangers.
I was Leo Brass’ second in command. His number one man. His fixer.
My enemies were legion, and nowhere was safe.
Not even inside a dark box in the heart of the Cordova territory.
With a stranger whose velvety voice sounded like sin and salvation.
And yet, even as my lips moved to form the shape of one of my aliases, I said, “My name’s Mark.”
“Well, nice to meet you, Mark.” I grunted as she jabbed my chest. “Sorry, I’m trying to shake your hand. Automatic response.”
I grasped her roving hand before she could move it away. Her skin was soft—so very, very soft—and I found myself taking my time as I slowly slid our fingers together, relishing the feminine feel of her small bones. No wedding ring, and her palm was slightly roughened by callouses. Despite her diminutive size, her handshake was firm and decisive. I caught the faint aroma of strawberries and vanilla. When I brought my hand back to my nose, eager for a better sniff, the scent intensified. It was a young, feminine smell and I wondered how old the woman was. She didn’t have the voice of a child, but there was still a hint of youthful sweetness to it.
Growing up, I was a huge fan of Sherlock Holmes. My dad and grandpa both loved his books, and I was fascinated by all that could be learned by simply paying attention to the world around you. Sherlock wasn’t a superhero; he didn’t use magic to solve crimes. He used logic and a careful attention to detail to see what others missed. As a child, I’d tried to emulate his technique, but as an adult, I’d somewhat perfected it.
Not saying I’m a genius like Holmes, but I am observant. I know how to read people.
But this woman…I was having a hard time getting a feel for her. There was something both bold and shy about her, strong yet fragile. A dichotomy that caught the attention of someone like me. She was different, and I was driven to understand her better. To know what mental box to put her in.
Glad she couldn’t see me smelling my hand in the dark like a creep, I said, “And what’s your name?”
“Layla.”
“Pretty name.”
“Thank you. I was named after the song.”
“I’m not familiar with it. How does it go?”
When she began to softly sing, every hair on my body stood at attention. Something akin to an electrical shock zipped through my nervous system, lighting me up inside. Her voice was phenomenal. I’ve been to both rock concerts and operas featuring the most exquisite singers in the world, yet this mystery woman’s voice ranked at the top. As she sang a song about a man completely in love with a woman named Layla, I held my breath.
She ended with a nervous giggle. “That song. You know it?”
It took me a moment to find my voice. “Yeah, I know it. Are you a professional singer? Your voice is amazing.”
“Uh, no.”
“Then you must slay it at karaoke night.”
“Yeah, I don’t go out to bars much. I’m not big on crowds.”
Layla shifted slightly away from me, and I let my leg lean more firmly against her, silently asking her to stay where she was.
“So…” Her voice came out forced and high pitched. “What do you do for a living?”
Kill people.
“I work for the Cordova Corporation.”
“Really? I just dropped off a sculpture for Mrs. Cordova.” She added in a softer voice, “Poor woman. She has to be suffering so badly right now after the loss of her grandson and daughter-in-law.”
Pain pierced me and tears burned behind my eyelids, along with anger. No one outside of a small circle of people knew how the boy had actually died. The public story was a tragic car accident. The truth was the money hungry mother had her son kidnapped for ransom—except the kidnappers fucked up and accidentally killed the boy.