Page 15 of Knights Game

I run the bath, heading back into my room for the dressing gown I’ve hung on the doorframe. Something feels off; I search my bedroom.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise.

The bed’s exactly like I left it. Unmade. A pile of yesterday’s clothes half in, half out of the hamper next to my chest of drawers. Pictures, trinkets, ornaments are all exactly where I left them. My cream sheer curtains billow.

But I didn’t leave the window open this morning.

I cross the threshold and, reaching behind the door, grab the cricket bat and cautiously walk towards the window. My heart beats rapidly, slamming against my chest like it’s trying to jump out, and even though I’m confident there’s no one behind the curtains, I jump forward swinging, trying to take the would-be attacker by surprise.

I’m met with empty space and accidentally knock a black photo frame of me as a young girl with my parents off the windowsill, the glass frame smashing as it hits the wooden floor. I have no time for regret as I quickly check outside.

I peer out of the bay window; I can see everything and nothing. All the shadows look like they’re hiding something. All the objects look like they are a person. I let out an involuntary shudder, pulling the window closed and for the first time since moving here use the little key and lock it.

I take one more look outside then close the curtains.

“Just your imagination,” I say out loud to reassure myself.

My imagination is in overdrive tonight and has already cooked up all sorts of backstories for a certain man. A particularly unbelievably good-looking one, and I can’t stop feeling as if my walk home tonight held just another heartbeat that has changed everything.

5

Luca

I’m laid out onRoman’s sofa flicking through channel after channel on his big 72-inch TV, but nothing holds my attention.

Some fucker tried to kill us tonight.

Kill me.

My mind fires at a million miles an hour trying to answer the question…Who?

Who put a hit out on us?

The Dutch? Albanians? Hell, I’ve got a list as long as my arm of people who want my blood, but who would be stupid enough to do it? They must have known that doing this might start a war.

I look down at my blood-soaked shirt and lift the material to inspect the bandage Layla secured in place, my skin blazing from where she cleaned my wound and stitched it.

Whoever it was, I swear to the devil himself, that I will find the fucker and rain hellfire down on them in a torrent of bullets and blood. I will peel the skin from their body and shove it down their throats.

“Luca?”

It takes me a moment to realise I’d fallen asleep; I can’t even remember closing my eyes. “Yeah.” My voice cracks, I clear my throat, sitting up as Roman crosses the living room, shucking off his suit jacket and walking straight to the dark wooden cabinet that houses his liquor. “You follow her?”

He doesn’t answer, pulling out a decanter full of amber liquid and grabs two glasses from the cabinet and brings them over to the sofa placing them on the coffee table. I sit silent watching as he pours two fingers, pauses and pours another two before passing me a glass.

“To death.” He raises his glass with a sardonic grin.

“To war,” I reply, and we both take a swig, the whiskey burning on its way down.

“Any thoughts?”

“Lots actually,” I say as he flops back on his end of the couch, resting his tumbler against his chest and closing his eyes.

“And…?”

“The Dutch. It’s the only reasonable explanation. We’ve fucked up one too many shipments, and they wanted to send a message.”

He opens his eyes, tired and bloodshot.

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