skin both knees bloody and had laughed so hard she’d stumbled off the curb. Kara hadn’t commented, but did walk over and assist the child to his feet, brushed him off and sent him on his way. She wasn’t surprised, by either the child’s misfortune or Krystal’s cruelty. The prostitute with a heart of gold was a movie myth. The very nature of their work bred savagery and indifference. Their lives were so hard, who cared about anyone else’s? Kara didn’t like it, but she could understand it.
“I appreciate you showing me the place,” she replied absently. The warehouse was close to the train depot and she imagined it had once been used to store incoming shipments. Krystal told her Carlotti used it to house stolen goods and black market movies…here a customer could get a tape of a movie before it even hit the theaters. “But it’s beginning to occur to me that I’ve been something of an idiot.”
“Huh?” Krystal replied, her ratty gaze darting all over the empty first floor. “What are you talking about?”
It had taken Kara hours to seek out Krystal and talk the woman into giving her directions to the warehouse. Krystal’s insistence on accompanying her should have been the first tip-off. Now it was past lunchtime and Kara remembered that, as usual, no one knew where she was, or when she was expected back. She’d been led to an abandoned warehouse by an untrustworthy woman who laughed at a child’s pain. And she only had Krystal’s word that Carlotti wouldn’t be here for another six hours.
The oldest trick in the book , Kara thought, shaking her head as she heard the bolt from the front door shoot home, locking them both inside. And I fell for it. Because I wanted to rush and get this over with so I could run away from Jared. Stupid, stupid girl. Now pay the price for your cowardice.
A few boxes tumbled to the floor across the room and then Anthony Carlotti was walking toward her, flanked, as always, by several musclemen. And one musclewoman , she reminded herself, seeing Krystal’s malevolent grin. The woman had not been nervous about betraying Carlotti. She’d been nervous that Kara would smell a trap and vamoose.
“Looka this,” Carlotti said, pushing more boxes out of the way, “we got us a thief in the house.”
Krystal cackled dutifully, watching avidly while Carlotti slipped black leather gloves over his huge fists.
Kara knew he wore them when he planned to beat someone to death. It was a special murder saved for special occasions: rivals, traitors. Hated enemies. Beating someone to death hurt his hands, broke bones, so he didn’t do it often.
“Gosh,” she said mildly, relishing his annoyance at how she wasn’t cowering, “lucky me.” She knew her expression was mellow, her tone unworried, but inwardly she was seething at her foolishness; she had stopped making such mistakes by her eleventh birthday. Jared had shaken her in more ways than one, but she couldn’t blame him for this. No, she was definitely in a mess of her own making.
And what a mess it was. She could have taken two of the bad guys, maybe three, not counting Carlotti.
But there were five total and, judging by the bulges in a few jackets, three of them were armed.
She came to the unsurprising realization that she was going to die, that it was going to take a long time, that they would probably strip her of her valued control before it was over. She didn’t mind dying so much—or wouldn’t have, before loving Jared—but above all she wanted to die well. And she was pretty sure that wasn’t going to be possible.
Worst of all, she had left Jared unprotected. Once she was bleeding her life out on the filthy warehouse floor, Carlotti could pick Jared off at his leisure. All it would take was one phone call—come quick, Dr.
Dean, your lady friend is in trouble. And Jared, blessed do-gooder, would come on the run. Dying was awful enough. Dying with the knowledge that she had killed Jared with cowardice
“I appreciate you showing me the place,” she replied absently. The warehouse was close to the train depot and she imagined it had once been used to store incoming shipments. Krystal told her Carlotti used it to house stolen goods and black market movies…here a customer could get a tape of a movie before it even hit the theaters. “But it’s beginning to occur to me that I’ve been something of an idiot.”
“Huh?” Krystal replied, her ratty gaze darting all over the empty first floor. “What are you talking about?”
It had taken Kara hours to seek out Krystal and talk the woman into giving her directions to the warehouse. Krystal’s insistence on accompanying her should have been the first tip-off. Now it was past lunchtime and Kara remembered that, as usual, no one knew where she was, or when she was expected back. She’d been led to an abandoned warehouse by an untrustworthy woman who laughed at a child’s pain. And she only had Krystal’s word that Carlotti wouldn’t be here for another six hours.
The oldest trick in the book , Kara thought, shaking her head as she heard the bolt from the front door shoot home, locking them both inside. And I fell for it. Because I wanted to rush and get this over with so I could run away from Jared. Stupid, stupid girl. Now pay the price for your cowardice.
A few boxes tumbled to the floor across the room and then Anthony Carlotti was walking toward her, flanked, as always, by several musclemen. And one musclewoman , she reminded herself, seeing Krystal’s malevolent grin. The woman had not been nervous about betraying Carlotti. She’d been nervous that Kara would smell a trap and vamoose.
“Looka this,” Carlotti said, pushing more boxes out of the way, “we got us a thief in the house.”
Krystal cackled dutifully, watching avidly while Carlotti slipped black leather gloves over his huge fists.
Kara knew he wore them when he planned to beat someone to death. It was a special murder saved for special occasions: rivals, traitors. Hated enemies. Beating someone to death hurt his hands, broke bones, so he didn’t do it often.
“Gosh,” she said mildly, relishing his annoyance at how she wasn’t cowering, “lucky me.” She knew her expression was mellow, her tone unworried, but inwardly she was seething at her foolishness; she had stopped making such mistakes by her eleventh birthday. Jared had shaken her in more ways than one, but she couldn’t blame him for this. No, she was definitely in a mess of her own making.
And what a mess it was. She could have taken two of the bad guys, maybe three, not counting Carlotti.
But there were five total and, judging by the bulges in a few jackets, three of them were armed.
She came to the unsurprising realization that she was going to die, that it was going to take a long time, that they would probably strip her of her valued control before it was over. She didn’t mind dying so much—or wouldn’t have, before loving Jared—but above all she wanted to die well. And she was pretty sure that wasn’t going to be possible.
Worst of all, she had left Jared unprotected. Once she was bleeding her life out on the filthy warehouse floor, Carlotti could pick Jared off at his leisure. All it would take was one phone call—come quick, Dr.
Dean, your lady friend is in trouble. And Jared, blessed do-gooder, would come on the run. Dying was awful enough. Dying with the knowledge that she had killed Jared with cowardice
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