Page 64 of Ride with the Devil

There aretwo figures having a quiet argument; three if you count the small baby that the woman is holding onto, clutching to her dress. The woman is about my age, a cascade of blondehair moving with her as she swivels to see us entering the room before turning to look at the man behind the desk again.

I’ll admit, the first thing that catches my eye is the twinkling cross the church leader had posted on the wall behind his desk, just over his head height. Just beneath it, the gold altar that Luca told me about.

And in front of it…

Jack Donovan.

He grips the edge of his desk, too late to hide the angry expression he had on while talking to the other woman. A flash of annoyance does little to replace it as he says, “Yes?”

“Apologies, prophet. I didn’t realize you were with your wife.”

Huh. Me, neither.

Emily. That’s Emily.

Luca’s Emily.

Damn it. She’sbeautiful.

Oh, she’s slightly worn down, though having three kids under four by the time you’re in your mid-twenties might do that to you. The loose dress hanging off of her isn’t doing her any favors. She still has a natural beauty that shines through regardless, and a lingering spirit in the way she was glaring at her husband as we walked in that tells me she’ll be okay after I’m done.

I turn my attention from the woman back to the ostentatious figure standing behind the desk.

I look closer this time. Emily is in her mid-twenties. Donovan is at least sixty. His skin is that fake orange-y color you get when you think you’ll look better with a tan, and his hair is quite obviously a black toupee that gives new meaning to ‘rug’. Seriously. Did someone cut a piece of shag carpet and drop it on top of his bald head?

He’s a thick, round man with dark watery eyes that turn immediately lecherous when he sees me standing just behind Luca’s father.

“What’s this?” he asks.

“A new member for the fold.”

I step around Mr. St. James, walking toward the desk. At my approach, Emily moves to the side.

Her husband doesn’t notice. He’s too busy leering at me.

Ugh.

“You Jack Donovan?”

“Yes, I am, child. How can I serve you?”

I shrug. “You can die.”

His haughty expression turns puzzled, almost as if he can’t believe he heard what he did. “Excuse me?”

“No,” I say cheerily. “I don’t think I will.”

And then, to make it obvious that I’m not kidding, I dip my hand in my jacket and pull out the Ruger. I aim it at him.

The fucker moves.

That’s the problem with being a bloated bastard in your late sixties. You don’t move as fast as you used to, and as Donovan breaks for his wife as though he has every intention of trying to hide his bulk behind her, it only takes a second for me to readjust my aim before I fire.

I get him dead in the chest before he can reach Emily and the baby. Because my aim is, as ever, fucking perfect, it’s a kill shot. He gurgles as he hits the ground, then goes instantly silent.

He’s the only one who does.

Emily screams. Because her mother is screaming, the baby cries.

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