Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
I find a parking spot and lie low. I’m taking up a resident’s space, but that’s all the better. Minutes slip past and I think about Brianne waiting for me back home, and all I want to do is go meet her as fast as possible.
She’s everything now. For a while, I was doing this for myself—for my future and for everything I’ve worked to build—but now it’s also for her. I want to give my wife the world, and I’ll be damned if I let my fucking asshole grandfather try to take that away from me.
Not after I bled to build this kingdom.
At seven thirty, I start paying closer attention. The Biancos are gone, as far as I can tell. Five minutes pass and nobody shows up. I get out of the car, grab my gear bag from the trunk, and creep around the edge of the parking garage until I reach the single camera watching the underground elevator entrance. I fish a can of black spray paint from my pack and spray over the lens, completely covering it over.
As I’m putting the can away again, the elevator dings.
Someone’s coming down. That’s good enough. I draw my gun and wait as the doors slide open. An older man steps out. He’s wearing khakis, a polo shirt, and has the look of a CEO heading out to a casual business meeting. I approach fast, gun out, and shove it against the back of his neck as I grab his arm and kick him hard in the knee.
He goes down with a gasp of pain.
I hit him hard in the side of the head with the butt of the gun. His body goes limp as he collapses to the ground. I couldn’t leave him conscious—he’d call the cops before I could get up and take care of business—and this is better than killing him. Assuming he’s not already dead. I check for a pulse, make sure he’s breathing, then drag him over to the shadows before rifling through his pockets.
His key card is right in his wallet.
I leave the poor bastard on the cold concrete as I head to the elevator doors. One swipe and they open with a friendly ding. I check my watch and whistle to myself, keeping my head down and away from the camera that’s definitely watching right now. Fifteen minutes until the next shift arrives.
Plenty of time.
Simon Bianco said the penthouse apartment. I hit the button and lean back as the car slides up with barely a jolt. Once it arrives, I step onto a quiet hallway with two doors: an A and a B.
Well, fuck.
Nobody mentioned two different apartments. I don’t know which one Pascal’s staying in, and knocking on the wrong door could tip him off. I stare at them, wasting time, before I decide to just commit myself and knock on A.
An old lady answers. She’s got short, white hair, a white blouse, white jeans, and a glass of wine in her hand. She squints at me, frowning. “Can I help you?”
“Sorry, ma’am, I believe I have the wrong apartment.”
“Are you looking for that new gentleman? The French man? Please, would you tell him that he’s very rude?”
I try not to smile. “He’s my grandfather.”
She makes a face as though something were rotting. “Then you can talk to him. I’ve never met such an unpleasant person in all my life. I say hello, he ignores me. I try to strike up conversation, he tells me in no uncertain terms that he isn’t interested in speaking. Honestly, young man, your grandfather needs manners.”
“Yes, ma’am, I agree. I’ll speak with him.” I turn to apartment B, but the old lady’s still watching.
“Really, young man, just because you’re French doesn’t mean you can treat the rest of us as though we’re not as good as you. Tell him I said that. He’s very uncouth, I’ll say, very uncouth, and I really can’t believe—”
“Please shut the fuck up and go back inside.”
The old lady gasps. Her hand flies to her mouth. She jerks back inside and slams the door shut. I hear her jabbering away on the other side, clearly very upset, but I don’t have time for this. I listen at the door to apartment B, but there’s no sound inside. I knock once, twice, and wait. No answer.
Fucking hell. I lean my shoulder against it and try the knob. It’s definitely locked.
No other way around this.
I aim my gun at the lock and shoot until it’s a mess of wood splinters. Then I kick the door hard twice until it cracks open, catching itself on the chain. That takes another kick before it’s ripped from the wall.
“Pascal,” I say, storming into the apartment with my gun drawn. “Time to go home.”
The place is silent. It looks like it came staged: modern, clean furniture, not a speck out of place. There’s a single glass in the sink, the only proof someone’s been living here, and the TV’s on. I check the living room, the dining room, and head into the bedrooms.