Page 63 of Sexted By a Stranger
Inside was chaos. Documents scattered across the floor, expensive cigars trampled to bits, the liquor cabinet glass shattered, amber liquid pooling and spreading.
No one there. Just a blown-out hole leading to the filthy back alley, night wind howling through.
"Fuck!" one of my men cursed behind me.
I walked to the edge of the hole and looked down. In the dim yellow glow from a streetlight at the far end of the alley, I could make out several drops of dark red blood on the wet, grimy pavement—intermittent spots trailing off into the darkness deeper in the alley.
"He's wounded." I crouched down, rubbing the sticky blood between my fingers. "Can't have gone far. Lock down all exitswithin a five-block radius, pull all surveillance footage from the area."
"Yes, sir."
Everyone immediately scattered, racing toward various exits.
"Boss, the casino's surrounded," Ragnar's voice came through.
"Clean them out," I said, standing and surveying this room reeking of defeat and panic.
"Boss, no sign of Connor anywhere."
My heart tightened.
A snake had slipped away.
The convoy rolled back to the estate as the horizon began to show a pale crab-shell blue.
I stripped off my blood-stained jacket and handed it to Wilson, the butler who was already waiting on the front porch.
The main hall was brightly lit. I deliberately softened my footsteps going upstairs—the bedroom door was slightly ajar.
Under the warm yellow light, Sheila lay curled on her side, long hair spilling across the pillow, a soft cushion clutched in her arms, breath steady and even. Pure as an innocent child who knew nothing of the world.
Seeing her sleeping peacefully, the violence and anxiety churning in my chest from Connor's escape slowly settled.
I quietly closed the door and stepped back out.
She was safe.
Morning light woke me with a sharp stab.
My head pounded. All night, my dreams had been filled with Connor's sneering face alternating with images of Sheila.
After handling several urgent reports, I instinctively walked toward the garden—Sheila's favorite place.
Sure enough.
Sheila sat at a white wicker round table, wearing a white linen dress, a china coffee pot and two cups set before her.
Morning light outlined the soft curves of her profile, but she wasn't as relaxed as usual—her back was somewhat rigid.
Hearing my footsteps, she looked up.
Her amber eyes were clear, but something like barely perceptible undercurrents seemed to lurk in their depths.
"Morning, Luca." She handed me a cup of coffee.
"Morning." I sat across from her.
The floral scent was rather intense; something heavy settled in my chest.
