Page 78 of Fortress of the King

I quickly make for the door, lowering my head and walking briskly until I get as far away from the bar as possible. While the street is well lit, there are unscrupulous people everywhere and I don’t wish to meet any of them. I manage to hail a cab pretty easily and only when I’m safely in the back, clutching my purse to my chest, do I let out a rush of air in my relief.

What the ever-living fuck am I doing?

Do I even know anymore? Have I completely lost my mind?

Insanity and desperation clearly tick all of those boxes.

I stare out the window as the driver leads me away from this stinking part of the city.

I just want to be safely back at my apartment, so I can think about what the hell I’ve just done in the privacy of my own four walls. I don’t see how I had any other option, and time is ticking while they are doing God knows what to my sister. I mean, what are the chances they are taking proper good care of her?

I want to be sick thinking about some of the possibilities. I push that as far from my mind as I possibly can. If I go there, I will never come back out again and that’s not going to help her or my nerves in the process.

I rest back on the headrest. The cab seems to move in slow motion. I just feel so weary, and I want all this to be over.When is it going to be over?

One thing that kind of gave me some hope was that the P.I. seemed to know what he was doing at least, even though it crosses my mind that there’s a very good chance he’s a professional con-artist. However, when I put the word out and did some research, his name came up more than once. I’m flying blind, but my options are minimal, all I can do now is see what he comes up with.

I reach into my pocket absently and pull out the business card he gave me, staring at it like a lifeline, and really right now, it’s my only one.

His name and contact details are written in tiny scriptwriting, simple and straightforward, much like our conversation in some respects. And while I’m not mildly confident, the way he held himself and the way he seemed quite unphased by the sketchy details I gave him, gives me the hope I need to hang on to, no matter how futile.

I immediately punch his number into my phone, so I’ll know it’s him when he calls.

Maybe he’s the one who’s going to save us and blow this whole kidnapping to smithereens, wouldn’t that be perfect. And I know I’m counting on him way too much to come through for a guy I’ve just met. My eyes flick down to the card again as I read his name in fancy writing.

Enzo Russo.

My savior or my swindler. I don’t know which.

---