Page 3 of Forget Me Twice

Across from me now sits the Mystery Man.

With slow, exaggerated movements—like I’m trying my best not to startle a wild animal—I place the mug down in front of me and fold my hands in my lap.

He doesn’t say a word. He just sits, elegant and stony-faced, regarding me from across the small, chipped table. His left leg is folded over his right knee, his hands resting casually along the threadbare arms of the chair.

His posture is languid, but ready. Like a big jungle cat, poised to take down its dinner in one effortless movement.

Shock—andcuriosity?—root me to my seat.

Under the café’s lighting, his golden skin glows and that shiny, deep brown hair looks almost black, despite the silver wings I now notice at his temple. It’simmaculate. He doesnotlook like he’s been standing outside, braving the South Lex chill for hours. Not a hair out of place or a wrinkle on his suit.

I continue to study him. He continues to reclines in that big cat way and studies me back. A king on his throne, looking down on a hungry peasant.

“You are very good at going unseen,” he eventually concedes after several minutes of mutual, silent perusal. His voice is dark, smoky and unhurried. It suits him and the wholedon’t cross meif you want to livedanger vibes that float around him like a cloying dust cloud. “It has taken me three days to finally pin you down. My men have been looking for weeks.”

He doesn’tlookimpressed, despite his words. In fact, he seems…bored. But that gaze is locked on me and it’s heavy. His attention makes the air feel thick. There is no doubt in my mind that the person I am sitting across from is a powerful man.

The analogue clock ticks loudly away above us.

His eyes, to my disappointment,aren’tblackened embers like a hell demon’s, but rather a rich blue. Blue, but still dark enough to give anyone in their line of sight a serious case of the chills.

He hasn’t said anything else. Clearly he’s expecting me to respond to his compliment.

I’m just wondering what the best course of action here is. If he’s here because he wants something from me, perhaps I can use that to my advantage. Solve theMystery of the Rich Gangster & the Rundown Street Bodegaonce and for all.

I ignore his blunt opener, and ask rather blithely, “Italian or Russian?”

A subtle crease appears between the dark slashes of his brows, the first crack in his otherwise emotionless mask. “Italian, or Russian?” he echoes slowly, clearly perplexed by my inane line of questioning.

I gesture with both hands in his general, well-groomed direction. “The hair? The suit and shoes? The murder-for-hireaura?”

I lean over and pick my mug back up, just so I can stop talking with my hands. I honestly can’t tell if he thinks I’m being serious, so I offer him a small smirk. “It’s all very mobster chic. But I don’thearan accent. So I was wondering…Mafia? Or Bratva?”

The little line of confusion that had made its appearance with my poor attempt at a joke now smoothes out, replaced by a slow smile that spreads across his irritatingly handsome face. It’s a very eerie thing to watch. Evil should never smile like that. All bright, white expensive teeth. Sharp canines.

It’s a conqueror’s smile.

Apredator’s smile.

I can’t look away, my eyes fixed on his mouth. I’m imagining him ripping out throats with those teeth.

“Sabine,” he drawls, “What was your server’s name?” The smile is gone, and an intense look—somethingexpectant—is now in its place.

My eyes drag up from his mouth only to collide with that all-seeing gaze. I blink, the realization thathe knows my namesluicing over me like an ice-cold bucket ofwhat the fuck.

“How di—”

“There are no realloyaltieson the streets, Sabine. You should know this by now. Every man, woman and child will talk for the right pressure. It’s a fact of life.” His expression is so cool and knowing, like he can see every cog and gear inside me and exactly what makes me tick. “Be careful with whom you share these pieces of yourself.”

I don’t miss that he sayspressureinstead ofprice.

Jesus. Who the fuckisthis guy?

But I know exactly where he’s applied his so-calledpressure.The middle-aged librarians at the County Library are the only adults who know me in any capacity these days. The library had been a safe haven; warm, open long hours and full of free books for a bored, homeless teen to devour.

“Nobody cares about my secrets,” I say, somewhat bewildered.

He doesn’t move, but his eyes flash dangerously. That choking presence of his is somehow becoming evenmoreoppressive. It’s like he’s sucking the remainder of the air out from the small space between us, just by virtue of being here.

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