Page 32 of A Breath of Life
The gym? Maybe. It was a twenty-four-hour establishment. Diem worked out when he was stressed, punching a bag until his knuckles bled. Perhaps he’d gone to the gym.
The likelihood was slim, considering he wasn’t dressed properly and had Echo with him, but I refused to dismiss it outright. Anything was possible with Diem.
My mind kept returning to the liquor store and alley idea, but I didn’t want to think he’d done something so drastic. Unfortunately, on the scale of possibilities, booze outweighed everything.
Back in the apartment, I stood sentinel at the window and waited. He would come home. He would reek of alcohol and cigarettes. I would ignore it. We would put the fight behind us and crawl into bed. He would hold me, and I would cuddle against his side and listen to his heart beat under my ear. In the morning, it would all be better.
Midnight came and went. No Diem.
At nineteen minutes after twelve, I caved, grabbed my car keys, and took off. The office was locked up tight, and I cursed as I looked for signs that Diem might have been and gone.
Nothing.
Next stop: Fallout Fitness.
A few hardcore members worked weights under the harsh fluorescent lights, but Diem wasn’t one of them.
When asked if anyone had seen a guy fitting Diem’s description, they told me no.
At a loss, I drove a few city blocks around our neighborhood, taking every side street at least once and checking our normal routes for when we walked Echo in the evenings. I examined the face of everypedestrian who even faintly resembled my six-and-a-half-foot-tall tank of a boyfriend—there weren’t many.
Out of options, I went home.
At half past two, I cradled my phone, staring at the screen and willing it to ring. My gut twisted uncomfortably. I’d filled Diem’s voicemail with endless messages, telling him that I was sorry for being a petulant brat, that I loved him, that I was worried, and that if he came home, I promised to never sass again.
“You can get rid of the card. You can put me behind a desk with research tasks until I’m old and gray. I don’t care, D. Please come home,” I begged, voice wobbling. “Or, at least let me know you’re all right.”
At some point, I fell asleep.
The late morning sun shining through the living room window woke me the following day. Confusion surfaced first. Why was I on the couch? Clarity came second, and I tumbled to the floor and bolted to the bedroom, where I was greeted with an empty, unslept-in bed.
Still no Diem.
9
Diem
When I agreed to cooperate, Ace’s number one—he had yet to properly introduce himself—glided to a sideboard where he poured himself a drink from a stoppered decanter. He swirled the rich amber liquid around the tumbler, admiring it under the low light of an overhead chandelier.
“Black Maple Hill,” he announced. “A sixteen-year-old premium bourbon whiskey. Absolutely delectable. Are you a whiskey drinker, Mr. Krause?” He filled a shot glass and handed it to the Bishop. “It might help dull his pain.”
The Bishop pressed the glass to my mouth and tipped. I swallowed indulgently, letting the smooth burn coat my esophagus and warm my belly. Fuck yes. I needed about fifty more of those.
The pompous man in the suit grinned. “Good, isn’t it? It really should be savored, not slammed, but ah well.” He aerated his own drink by swirling it in the glass. Bringing it to his nose, he closed his eyes and deeply inhaled before humming with pleasure. “Yes. Lovely.Nougat, honey, and brown sugar, with a hint of marzipan in the background. I’d offer you a proper tumbler to sip from, but alas, your hands are tied, and I don’t trust you enough to free them.”
“Wise. I’d fucking kill you.”
The mantsked, angling the glass in a cheers motion. “To deals yet to be struck. Shall they come to pass without excess bloodshed.” He sipped as he paced. The leather pouch containing the card peeked from the pocket of his suit jacket, where he’d safely stowed it.
The Bishop resumed cleaning my wounds. I ignored him, doing all I could to not react when he hit an especially tender spot. Any other time, I’d have told him to fuck off. My face was a blistering bruise of agony, but it was nothing compared to the throb resonating from the back of my head. The longer I was conscious, the worse it seemed to get, stealing the show and making it hard not to spit nails or growl.
My nerves popped and jumped, and the more I listened to Echo’s distress in the distance, the harder it was to keep my temper in check. I wanted to raze the fucking ground under these assholes and get my dog back. I wanted to put the smarmy bastard in front of me six feet under.
Mr. Pinstripe savored his drink as he watched the Bishop tend my wounds. The waiting was too much.
“Who are you?” I asked when the drinking and observing went on for too long.
“You may refer to me as…” He puckered his lips and examined the amber liquor as though considering something clever. If he thought to impress me with his little act, he failed. The answer rolled off his tongue a moment later. “You can call me il Consigliere.” Smirking, he helped himself to another sip. “Fancy enough for my position. Yes, I think I like that.”
