Page 15 of Mine

“This game is over.” Astor’s deep voice cuts through the noise.

“Leave us,” Carlos demands of the crowd.

When no one moves, Carlos turns and opens his jacket, displaying the pistol on his belt. “I said leave us!”

The room is emptied almost immediately. Even the waitresses and Harold hightail it out. Thanks a lot, Harold.

The music stops.

“Lock the doors,” Carlos demands of the doorman.

It is now, me, Carlos, Astor Stone, and three of Carlos’s guards. Astor is alone. It’s him against everyone else—and the odds are not in his favor.

This is also when I realize something very dangerous is going on here, and I’m caught, quite literally, in the middle of it. I take a step back, distancing myself from Carlos, but stop at the edge of the platform. I’ve seen him angry countless times but never this unhinged.

“Give me the key,” Astor demands.

Carlos reaches into his pocket and tosses the keycard. Astor catches it in midair.

“She’s not up there, though.” A smug smile plays on Carlos’s lips.

She?

She who?

“Where is she?” Astor growls.

“She’s dead. Your wife is dead.”

Nine

Sabine

Wife? Dead?

What?

I didn’t even know Astor was married.

My lips part and my heart begins to pound, little red flags screaming at me to get the hell out of this room—ASAP.

Carlos continues. “She killed herself, Astor. My men found her with a wastebasket liner over her head, tied at the neck. She suffocated herself to death.”

Astor remains totally still like a statue—and it’s absolutely terrifying.

Carlos tosses a photograph onto the poker table. It’s of a woman lying on a bathroom floor, her long blond hair fanned around her head like a spiderweb. She’s as pale as the nightgown she’s wearing. Her eyes are closed, her lips a sickening blue. Next to her is a plastic bag.

Carlos then flicks a diamond ring into the air. It bounces several times on the table before settling right in the middle of the picture. Her wedding ring, I presume, based on the size of the diamond.

Astor glances at the photo. He plucks the ring from the table, slides it into his pocket, and then refocuses on the room in a way that suggests he’s taking account of how many men surround him, and where each exit is.

“Where is she?” He refocuses on Carlos.

“Cut into a dozen pieces, chilled in a cooler.”

My jaw drops. Still, not a twitch from Astor.

“I did you a favor, Astor.” Carlos spits. “That woman was a miserable little slu?—”

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