Page 109 of Heartfelt Pain
“I might’ve spoken too soon.” Trevino stands up. “About no one wanting to kill your friend.”
I lurch out of the chair. “Isolde? Wait, are you sure it wasn’t Roma?”
Taking out Lev’s son is fucking risky but if you’ve got a point to prove it’s certainly an option.
“Who’s more likely to be hanging out at your apartment?” Trevino asks. “Your ex-boyfriend or your best friend?”
“Why?” I blurt. “Who?”
“Don’t know.”
“They weren’t trained.” I know it for certain. “He didn’t notice Roma who ended up tackling the guy. Unless Isoldepissed off a teenager lately, I’m not really sure what’s going on?”
“There’s a hit out.”
A dry puff of laughter leaves me. Trevino remains grim.
“You’re serious? Someone hired a gun to kill Isolde?” Everything he says hits me. My heart lurches as things crash into me all at once. “I know all the hired guns in this city!”
Triggermen come tomefor work. So who the fuck hired him?
CHAPTER 25
Ren
The hotel is swanky but stuffy. The bar on the top floor is empty, except for one woman reading a newspaper next to a roaring fireplace. She holds it directly in front of her face.
Joan Stuart’s family owns the hotel. It’s supposed to be a charming mix of British coziness with high-class amenities. No doubt the whiskey on the table is top shelf. The BBC plays on one of the televisions above the bar where a man wipes a glass tumbler clean.
His head turns at the sound of my heels against the floor. At least until I get to the thick rug which is supposed to make the place feel more inviting. It’s not until I slide into the chair across from her, that Joan lowers the paper.
She’s blonde. The hair just dusting the top of her shoulders. She’s wearing a suit, but it’s not all crisp edges. There’s a softness to this plump woman with stunning blue eyes.
“I heard you’d hurt yourself.” The paper wrinkles as she sets it aside.
When she speaks, her voice is soft-spoken, and the Englishaccent is a pretty trinkle. She’s who you want your neighbor to be. Or your grandmother.
The nice, kindly woman who might not be a stunning supermodel, but she’s pretty and soft and will offer you tea.
Or whiskey in this case. She nods to the barman.
“Is it bad?” she asks, glancing at my wrist. Trevino wrapped it again for me.
I pull out a silver lighter. It belonged to Aunt Macy. “Do you mind?” I light up before she can respond.
If anything there’s an amused look on her rosy cheeks. She shakes her head when I offer her a cigarette.
“I thought you Brits liked to smoke?” I inhale, filling my lungs. I can’t believe I went several days without the stuff.
“It’s horrible for your health, dear.” She smiles in thanks to the bartender who brings her a fresh whiskey and deposits one in front of me.
“Thanks,” I say to his retreating figure. “I’m surprised there’s not a dog in here? Like an Irish wolfhound or something.”
Joan hums under her breath. It’s a delightful noise. Everything about her is happy. “No, I left Ronnie the whippet at home. I’m afraid he doesn’t like all the noise in New York.”
“Aren’t you from London?”
“He finds it much more civilized,” she remarks.
