Page 2 of Pure Vengeance

I go over the plan again in my mind, picturing each step, each moment of what’s going to happen.

Images of my younger brother float into the mix and my fingers curl into my palms.

He was barely twenty-three when he was killed. Our parents died when I was a freshman in college. It’s been just Michael and me for the last seven years.

And now it’s just me.

Because of Anton DeMarci.

I roll my shoulders back and force in a deep breath. Again, I feel for the gun in my purse, reassuring myself I haven’t lost it.

It’s an old pistol my father had buried in his closet. It works fine, and I’ve been practicing with it. I’m a good shot.

One more steadying breath and I head back into the restaurant. I try to keep my eyes from wandering to the back room, but I can’t help but turn when Anton’s deep voice strikes me.

“Send over the contracts.” He’s on the phone, one hand pressed against his other ear to keep the noise of the restaurant from distracting him. “I’m leaving here in five minutes. I’ll call you later when I’ve had a chance to look them over.”

Five minutes?

I hurry back to my table and try to wave down a waitress for my check. I should have more time.

But the restaurant is slammed, and my waitress is elbow deep in a larger party a few tables away, taking another drink order.

Frantically, I rustle through my purse, grabbing enough bills to cover my untouched pork loin and two glasses of merlot.Adding more for a generous tip, I toss them all down on the table and hurry out of the restaurant.

To keep from looking too out of place, I had chosen a black dress with a flowing skirt. Expecting to do some running tonight, I swapped the heels I usually wear with this outfit for a pair of black ballet flats.

After a quick dance around an old couple walking into the restaurant as I try to get out, I hurry down the front steps and jog to the side lot.

His car is already fired up, waiting for him.

I barely manage to get behind the thick bushes along the exterior of the building before the headlights flicker on.

Shit.

Shoving my hand into my purse, I fumble around for the pistol. The purse falls from my shoulder and hits the ground.

Fuck!

The side door opens.

“Yeah. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” His voice carries to where I am and my blood runs cold.

Quickly, I snatch up the pistol and pull back the hammer.

His phone rings again, and he stops on the top step to answer.

His lips are moving, but all I can hear is my heart slamming into my eardrums.

I’m going to kill him.

My stomach rolls again.

For Michael.

I grip the pistol the way my father showed me when I was younger.

This man is a criminal.

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