Page 14 of No Promises, No Lies

A dark figure appears around the side of the desk closest to me. He’s so close I could touch him as he passes by, but he doesn’t look my way. His back to me now; attention fixed on my father’s desk.

I bite my lip so hard I taste metal. I’m a deer in headlights. If he looks to his left, he’d be looking directly at me. But as luck would have it, he goes right for the drawers.

When he too finds them locked, he lets out a string of colorful curses.The thick Irish accent is unmistakable.

In his frustration, he slams his gun onto the desk, and I flinch. Punching down on the desk with two fists, he pauses for a moment, thinking.

I’m completely still.

Not moving.

Barely breathing.

The Irishman rips off his hood, revealing reddish-blonde hair in a prison-style crew cut. When he pushes off the black mask that had been obscuring his face, I stifle a gasp.

It’s no surprise I don’t recognize him. My father kept me away from Bratva business. He’s mid-to-late thirties, with cold blue eyes, and rough stubble covering his face. A faded pair of dice is tattooed on his neck.

I press harder into the wall and side of the cabinet, my eyes locked on the dangerous man before me.I want so badly to run but I know he’ll see me if I do.

Angrily, he swipes the gun back off the desk, taking two steps back before firing a couple rounds into it. I have to resist the urge to cover my ears, afraid the movement alone might draw his attention.If he looks left...

Lowering the gun, he steps forward to inspect his progress. He’s gained access to at least one drawer, having shot the lock in half.

He rummages through its contents, dumping out paper all over the top of the desk.

“Find it?” Another male voice comes from the direction of the office door, but closer—insidethe room. I stiffen, a chill running up my spine, not having heard anyone else enter, and knowing there’s two of them in here with me now. The new one’s Irish accent is only slight, and mixed with something familiar. Not nearly as heavy as his buddy’s.

“What do you think?” Crew Cut snaps. “It would be helpful if I knew what the fuck I was looking for,” he curses again. With a rough tug, he coaxes another drawer open, tearing through it.

Movement in the corner of my eye draws my attention, as the new arrival steps up to the desk.

I freeze, but it’s too late.

His eyes lock on me.

Several long seconds pass, and for a moment, nothing happens. Like the first man, a balaclava conceals his face, pulled up to his eyes. Curious sea-green eyes flicker from my own eyes, to my hair, and down to linger on my mouth.

My lips part and he must assume I’m about to scream, because he lifts a single finger to his lips. His eyes crinkle with amusement before sliding back to his friend, who’s finishing up with the second drawer.

I let out a strangled breath—on the verge of hysteria.

The newcomer pushes back his own hood and tugs down his balaclava. He’s younger than the first, maybe only a few years older than me. He looks strangely familiar, but I can’t place him. “We’re running out of time,” he warns the first man. As if I don’t even exist.

I blink wildly at him.

“Fuck,” Crew Cut runs a hand over his shaved head, visibly frustrated. “I know—I know, but he said it would be here.” He’s already working on the last drawer. “We still have a few minutes, check the file cabinet.” He lifts his head for the first time in my direction and I swallow hard when his eyes find me.

Barely a breath passes before he’s up, and I’m staring down the barrel of his gun that’s pointed directly between my eyes.

I breathe out slowly. Looking between him and the gun. His face is stony—impassive—and his eyes narrow as he looks me over.

Panicking, I look to the second guy for—help? I don’t know, but he saw me first and said nothing.

He’s watching me too, his expression blank, with a slight tilt to his head.

“Oi, Ace.” Crew Cut signals to the second guy, and cocks the gun he’s holding. I can’t hold back the whimper of fear that escapes me.

“We have a problem.”

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