Page 75 of Gilded Saint

“How’d they find out?”

The stairs slide to a halt, and I climb them two at a time. I don’t have an answer for Nick, so I don’t give him one.

“Never mind,” he says. “Get Willow and come here.”

“What about the bodies?”

“Where are they?”

“In John’s car. Two in the trunk, one in the back. No witnesses. But there’s blood at the scene. We need to pull the security footage before someone checks it.”

“And John?”

“They killed him. Driver’s seat.”

“Fucking certifiable.” He spits out garbled curses, saying a lot of what I’m feeling. “You’re safest here while we sort this. Pack up Willow and come to the estate. I’ll send cleaners.”

Chapter25

Willow

Leo is stiff and silent, eyes roving, both hands on the wheel, a loaded gun resting between us.

We didn’t pack. I don’t have clothes, but I haven’t mentioned it because I assume we’ll acquire what we need. I haven’t spoken because I don’t want to break his concentration. Back at the condo, he tenderly washed my cuts, bandaged my wrists, kissed my forehead, gave me aspirin, and we left.

He scans his surroundings constantly, as if he expects a car might sideswipe us or bullets rain from the sky.

Did I do this? I didn’t allow anyone in. Leandro and his men didn’t call up. I don’t know how they found me. I’ve done exactly as Leo told me and haven’t shared my address with anyone other than my parents. Scarlet pushed for it, wanting to update my contact information, and I told her I couldn’t share it. But I had my art shipped to the studio. Is that how they found me?

I steal a sideways glance at Leo. For the first time, he reminds me of his namesake, a lion. He’s scanning the concrete jungle, a killer poised to attack.

We turn onto an expressway. The outline of London skyscrapers comes into view in the reflection of the side view mirror. Traffic is slow moving, heavy with homeward bound commuters.

Leo rests his elbow on the divider between us and rotates his wrist, holding his hand out, palm up. An intricate mesh of deep lines crosses his palm. If only I’d paid more attention to the palm reader in Florence.

“You okay?”

I nod in answer, but his attention is trained on our surroundings. His fingers wiggle.

“I am,” I say.

“Then give me your hand.”

With everything going on, my insides still thrill at his request. I place my palm over his. He weaves his fingers through mine. I slide in the seat, shifting closer to him, mindful of the gun.

He lifts our joined hands and rubs the back of my hand against his rough, unshaven jaw, then presses his lips against the skin.

“If I had shown up any later, he would’ve taken you.”

“I tried to fight him.”

His gaze cuts to me and his jaw flexes. “I can see that. I should’ve taught you self-defense techniques. Did your father not teach you?”

I always have security, but saying so feels like blaming Leo, and I don’t want to cast blame. None of this is his fault.

“I can’t believe he came for me. He’spazzo!”

“Did he say anything to you? Like what he was planning?”

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