Page 15 of Ruthless King (Mount Trilogy 1)
I skip the elevator again in favor of the stairs. It’s basically the only exercise I get, and the elevator takes me longer to get back to the basement.
I’m not sure about other distilleries, but in my family, the basement office signifies that the CEO learned the business from the bottom up, and serves as a reminder to always stay humble and grounded.
I’ve always loved the basement for that reason, down to the faint scent of mildew that clings to the old wooden beams. But now it feels foreign and forbidding.
When I reach my office, I feign my familiar confidence as I reach for the doorknob, telling myself there’s no reason to fear going inside. But as soon as I open the door, I’m proven wrong.
My desk lamp was off when I left, and now it’s on. In the pool of light is another note.
* * *
Five days.
* * *
Beneath it is the framed picture of my sisters and me that normally hangs on the wall behind the desk.
My instinct is to freeze in terror again, but instead I force out a declaration from between gritted teeth.
“You don’t scare me, Mount. I refuse to cower.”
This time, there’s no answer from the darkness.
* * *
The notes keep coming.
Four days, with a picture of Magnolia and me from Sacred Heart taken in ninth grade. It was left on the front seat of my locked car.
Three days, with a copy of the picture of my employees and me from our company newsletter. This one is rolled up and stuffed in my employee mailbox.
Two days, with a snapshot of me in my own freaking restaurant, tacked onto a box of copy paper in the storeroom across from my office.
One day, with a photo taken from a distance of my parents on the golf course wearing the same clothes they’d had on in the selfie they posted on Facebook yesterday. I found it in my purse, which I keep in the locked drawer of my filing cabinet, when I needed my credit card earlier.
Mount made his point, and I’m about to go crazy waiting for whatever is going to come next.
I throw down my pen, unable to concentrate on a damn thing, even wistfully reading the itinerary of the Global Whiskey and Spirits Convention I won’t be going to next week in Dublin because Seven Sinners can’t afford extra pens, let alone such an outrageous expense. Maybe next year. If I’m still alive.
I’m sick of waiting. Sick of wondering. I pick up my phone and call the only person I can talk to about this disaster. “How do I find him?”
It’s not a request, it’s a demand, and Magnolia is quick to reply.
“You don’t find him, Ke-ke. He finds you.”
“But he sent me a picture of my parents that was taken yesterday.”
“I told you this guy doesn’t fuck around.” Her voice is quiet.
“Well, I’m sick and tired of waiting. I’m done. Done. If he wants me, then he’s going to get me, and I promise he’s going to wish he hadn’t.”
Silence hangs in the air for a few beats. “You need to simmer down with that redheaded temper you got going on, girl. This isn’t a game where you get to make the rules. I told you how it works. He calls the shots or—”
“Or people die,” I say, interrupting her. “I get it. He made his point, and I’m done. I want it over with. Just tell me where the hell I can find him.”
“Ke-ke—”
“Don’t tell me you have no idea, because I won’t believe you.”
