Page 10 of Where Angels Fall

I’m thrown backwards by Conrad, his hands in my hair instantly loosening as he shoves me away. My palms hit the ground with a thwack, glass embedding into the skin. My head feels like it split in half, the sound echoing in my ears.

What the?

The gunshot seems to echo, ringing in the small space as dust from the bricks flutters down.

“What the fuck!” Conrad stumbles back, tripping over a crate as the dust settles from the fresh bullet hole in the brick just inches above his head. His breath comes out in frantic, choppy bursts, and for the first time all night, he looks small. Pathetic. “What the... Who...” He’s scrambling, eyes bulging as if expecting a monster to lunge from the shadows.

Maybe he should.

He points a trembling finger at me, fury and terror blending into something ugly. “You know what? No. Fuck this. No bitch is worth getting killed over.” His voice cracks on the last word, panic swallowing his bravado. Then he’s gone, running, practically tripping over himself as he bolts down the alley and disappears into the restaurant, tucking himself back into his pants.

Terror lingers in my mind, but only in the background. Because something else races through me. A wicked sense of satisfaction. Seeing a man who had me down on my knees, running for his life. This feeling is new... foreign. Given to me by the criminal with insanity in his eyes.

I remain on my hands and knees for a moment, feeling the thrum still vibrating in the concrete beneath me. My heart is slamming against my ribs, but not in fear.

More like... electricity.

Slowly, I rise. My palms sting with tiny shards of glass, but I barely register them. My vision narrows on the brick wall behind where Conrad stood, and the perfectly round hole punched clean through its surface.

My hand shakes as I lift it towards the bullet mark, the pad of my finger poking into the small divot. So smooth and so small. Rounding in wonder, my eyes lock on the place where my finger prods, and I imagine something darker. Just for a second. I imagine the hole, but in Conrad’s face, oozing blood instead of dust.

But when I hear a sharp rev of an engine, I push that thought out. The rumble fades, sliding away as try to fix my ruined dress.

One last text finds me tonight. I know it’s him before I reach for my phone.

Unknown: That’s a warning. You only get one. Next time, you’ll be wearing his blood.

Chapter 5

Maddison

My head is spinning, eyes bleary from looking at the computer for hours upon hours. On top of my usual work, replying to emails, vetting media coverage for anything remotely damaging and drafting press releases, I have the Senators event to focus on. It’s two weeks away now, the event fast-tracked beyond compare.

Celebrity guest lists have been created, filled with the elites of the city and more. As much as I am beginning to despise these people, once-loved movie stars that during my career have found out their less than moral secrets, it brings me joy to shake them down in the name of charity.

In Malcolm’s honour, I have chosen a women's and children's domestic violence fund called Beacon, one of my father’s vetted charities that will be very well off the day of the event. As much as these elites love their pockets full of cash, they love their shiny reputations even more, and some have already pledged amounts up into the millions.

It’s the part of the job that keeps my heart beating, even if it’s only a dull, little throb.

The other part, the one where we have to spend millions to hold the event, makes it just that little bit duller. I’ve gone over a thousand menus and centrepieces for the table, just to make this event picture-perfect. Because you bet there will be photos. In fact, there is even a red carpet.

Blinking sore eyes, I glance around the office through the glass wall that separates mine. Barely any other lights are on, but there are a few, which isn’t surprising. My father keeps his workers tied to a short leash. He is probably sitting in his own office at the other end of the building, burning the candle at both ends.

I check my phone, an instinctual habit that has formed ever since last weekend, when that ominous message lit up my phone. The weekend when a criminal gang leader shot centimetres away from my coworker’s head. He hasn’t texted me since, and it’s been almost a week. It should comfort me... It does. Yet my fingers continually itch to turn my phone and see an incoming message.

When my eyes flick back to the screen, the words and numbers begin to blur, and I give up. I won’t be able to do anything productive now, even if I wanted to. Maybe after a hot shower and a glass of wine, I’ll be able to knock out a few hours at home.

Stretching my stiff body, I slowly begin collecting my things, placing them in my white Birkin bag and throwing it over my shoulder.

The elevator doors peel open to the dimly lit car park, and I dig into my purse for my keys, heels echoing on the concrete level. I’m on autopilot as I make my way to my car, mind numb and vacant from the day’s work.

A huge palm clamps over my mouth before my brain can process what’s happening. In a spike of fear, my body twists and turns as another thick arm wraps around my waist and heaves me clean off the ground, my heeled feet thrashing in the air.

Arms squeeze tighter as panic floods my system, eyes darting around searching for help. For someone, anyone, to save me. But other than a few scattered cars, the parking lot is completely empty.

Black ink covers the arms holding me hostage as he backs us up into an alcove between my car and a cement pillar, hiding us in the shadows as I wriggle and try to free myself from his grasp.

It’s no use; his arms are like steel bands around me.