Page 37 of The Kiss Of Death
She laughed. “Why? You’re concerned about me?”
“Do you want to be unconscious? Is that your idea of winning? I could take what I want from you in a finger snap. Be smart.”
“But I am smart.” She smirked, her finger spinning on the edges of the bottle. “Because for the first time in your life, you can’t find what you want about me. Not with your computers. Not with your minions. As for the other part, you said you didn’t like weak opponents. I’m taking a leap of faith by thinking there’s still one decent part in you.”
She thought I was bluffing and wouldn’t hurt her, but she didn’t know how far I would go for her. She was special to me, so she deserved special treatment.
“Are you scared of this, Dalia?” I said, pointing at the skull mask.
She drank the rest of the alcohol until the last drop. She then threw it aside, the bottle shattering on the ground. “Oops.”
I rose, bored of these games. “Looks like you can’t hide anymore. You owe me a reply.”
“Then tell me something about you too!”
“You can’t negotiate in your position.”
She tried to stand from her chair but couldn’t walk straight. I despised drunk people. Just like Patrice used to be. They weren’t in control of themselves. Weak. Vicious. Perverted. Ugly. She pointed her finger at me, then lost momentum and tried to grab me. Needless to say, I took a step back and let her fall to the ground.
“Look at you,” I said, breathing loud.
“You could have caught me,” she protested, pouting. “It hurt.”
“You don’t need a Prince Charming.” I crouched to her height. “Now. Answer. Me.”
“Fine!” She lifted her eyes to mine, making them look big and unblinking for whatever reason. “I’m not scared.”
“Okay, then.” I put that damn mask on and cocked my head to the side.
She crawled back, not caring she’d almost cut herself with the broken pieces of glass.
“Levi”—she swallowed—“put it down.”
“Answer me, or I’ll give you something to be scared of.”
She snapped her eyes shut, burying her head between her legs, and screamed, “They killed her!”
“You have to be more precise.”
“Put it down,” she begged again.
I did as she asked. “Look at me now.”
She searched for my eyes, wondering if she could trust me. Not like I’d left her a choice. I was the only one allowed to break her.
“You have beautiful eyes,” she whispered. “Gray like smoky clouds.”
It caught me off guard. Alcohol makes people reveal their true selves. They grow evil, violent, sinful, not…kind.
“What happened, Dalia?” I repeated, not allowing her big eyes to distract me.
“There was a terrorist attack,” she admitted, her absent eyes falling on the floor. Looked like little Dalia had alcohol sadness. “Ten years ago. They stopped the performance at the opera house.Twenty-seven names. Twenty-seven people died, and I survived.”
That information sent a light switch in my head. Los Calaveras had attacked Pantheon ten years ago, aiming to kill the French president’s son; they’d disappeared after that. Their small mercenary group had operated for corrupt politicians, Mafias, and warlords. No one had ever found their locations or who they were; they were like an old myth.
“Your mother died during the terrorist attack at Pantheon’s opera. She was one of the victims.”Why did I not know that?!“And you were there too.”
She nodded, tears wetting her eyes. “Her name is on the plaque.Diana Caron.” So she hadn’t been married to Mercier. “They wore masks, just like those ones. And I-I should have died, but Mom, she…” Her voice shook. “She told me to hide, and I’ve been hiding since then. Pantheon was our tradition. I begged Mom to bring me here every year for Christmas. It’s all my fault. Why did they die, and I didn’t? Why did I survive…”
