Page 33 of Sweet Deception
Motion-sensor floodlights greet us after Darren punches key codes into hidden kiosks that grant us entry through not one, butthreewrought iron gates on the drive to the house.
After we make it inside the giant wall, I realize how truly impossible escape will be. There’s only one way inside and one way out and—barring my discovery of some sort of jetpack stashed around here somewhere—I won’t be going anywhere until Darren Kelly is good and ready to let me.
The “safe house,” as he calls it, is a two-story, brick fairy-tale cottage surrounded by a tall garden wall draped in ivy to disguise the bajillion cameras installed on it.
Hideous, out-of-place bars block the windows to keep intruders out and prisoners in, as if that mile-high wall can’t get the job done. Flowering shrubs line the path to the front door. The rest of the yard is comprised of short green grass and patches of wildflowers.
Basically, they brought me to the home ofSnow White and the Seven Dwarves…if the dwarves were mobsters and Snow White were a vigilante tech geek in way over her head.
Inside, the house appears unexpectedly normal. Hardwood floors, spare white walls, the occasional abstract art piece. Iwander around, admiring the decorative taste of the place as much as I’m futilely hunting for some kind of escape route.
Maybe there are secret tunnels somewhere?
Darren watches me pace through the foyer into the cozy dining room, where a table that seats six sits beneath a modest antique chandelier. Piro follows at my heels, excited for the chance to use his legs after that road trip.
Once I’ve done a lap around the dining table, I pass back through the foyer and walk straight past Darren into the large living room area. A plush rug dominates the center of the room, two couches stationed around the perimeter facing a flat-screen television.
I sense Darren’s eyes on my back. When I glance over, he doesn’t seem overly concerned. Likely because there’s no way out of here that doesn’t involve going through him.
I’d be smug, too, if the roles were reversed.
“We could get through this a lot faster if you just told me what you’re up to.” His voice is clear and honest as he leans against the wall near the doorway.
“Why? So you can kill me and be done?” I trail my fingers along the soft blue upholstery framing the back of the couch.
“I never said I was going to kill you if you talked. I only threatened to kill you if you didn’t.”
“Guess you’re just going to have to kill me then.” I pivot away from him.
“It will come to that, Veronika, if you keep defying me.”
Yet another warning, except this time, he’s calm and controlled. Almost detached in the same way he was at the wedding reception.
“What about you?” My heart free-falls in my chest. I’m just antagonizing him, but why does it feel like chitchat? “What are you up to?”
No reply.
Piro’s gentle mewling is the only sound.
Our eyes meet in the lamplight of this quiet room, and Darren simply stares back at me, unwilling to answer.
So this is what the silent treatment feels like. The thought that I’ve been giving him this kind of hell for the better part of the evening is a point of pride for me.
It gives me the courage to keep talking. “I’m impressed you were able to find me.” I drop one hand to my hip, settling my feet into first position, my go-to stance. “How’d you do it?”
“Oh, you know, a little grunt work.” He narrows his eyes. “One dead taxi driver, a few traumatized hotel staff. Google.”
My heart freezes to ice. Did he really kill someone to track me down?
No. Wait. He’s baiting me. Trying to get a reaction.
He belongs to one of the most affluent mafia families in the city. They can get whatever information they want. I’m sure murder isn’t how they solve every single one of their problems. Some, maybe. Not all.
“Why’d you come after me?” I exhale the question.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t?” He lifts an eyebrow. “You didn’t actually believe you could crash a Gallagher wedding, double-cross one of the family’s top enforcers, and get away clean, did you?”
I hope to God I’m not blushing.
