Page 41 of Taming Seraphine

There’s no answer from the other side of the door.

My jaw clenches. There were always going to be repercussions from the poker night massacre, but I didn’t expect it this soon. Don and his team were careful to dispose of all the crew’s cars at various locations around New Alderney, so there wouldn’t be a fleet of abandoned vehicles outside my building.

Miko tampered with as much security footage as he could access, but even his hacking skills have their limits. No amount of technical know-how can erase a man telling a friend or loved one where they’re going.

It’s only a matter of time before someone comes looking.

When the doorbell rings again, my nostrils flare.

Another hitman would judge the distance of my voice, and know I’m not directly behind the door. They would wait until I’m tempted to use the peephole before shooting a round of bullets through the wood.

Raising my voice, I say, “If you don’t tell me who you are, you’ll stand in the hallway all day.”

A feminine giggle sounds behind the door, and my eyes roll. There is such a thing as a female assassin—I might have one in my own home right now. I have two of them working in the firm, a blonde and a brunette, both with a one-hundred percent success rate. They’re beautiful, cunning, and able to get close to even the most reclusive targets because no one ever suspects that the demure, attractive woman is a killer.

“Open the door, Leroi. It’s me,” says a voice that grates on my nerves and not because it belongs to an assassin.

Quite the opposite. This is a woman who likes to be choked. And spanked. And degraded. I didn’t realize she was bad news until after we’d fucked for the sixth time, and I found her snooping through the apartment.

It turned out that she worked for the New Alderney Times, but she refused to confirm whether or not she was writing an article on me or my infamous cousins.

Fuck. “What are you doing here, Rosalind?”

“We haven’t played together for a month.” I don’t even need to look through the peephole to know that she’s pouting. “I’ve missed you.”

I’m not stupid enough to think she’s alone. It’s a classic move in the hitman handbook—using the man’s wife or lover to lure him into opening his door. Except she’s neither, just an irregular hook-up.

“You know better than to come here,” I say.

“Let me in,” she whines. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

The sound of creaking has me turning around. Seraphine stands in the doorway of her room, her features a hard mask.

In her hand is a pistol. “Who the hell is Rosalind?”

FIFTEEN

SERAPHINE

Leroi glowers at my gun, his face a mask of fury. I walk toward the door, hoping there are enough bullets to get rid of the threat.

“Seraphine,” he hisses. “Stay away from the door.”

“Who is she?” I ask.

“Nobody,” he growls.

“Leroi, let me in,” the woman whines. “We have to talk.”

“Stay.” He holds out his palm, like I’m his dog.

I stop in the middle of the living room, my breaths shallowing. When he motions for me to stand out of the way, my jaw tenses. The only reason I’m obeying him is because he’s going to help me find Gabriel. Stepping aside, I make a promise to myself to stay calm, at least until he’s helped me get what I want.

“Take your finger off the camera lens,” Leroi says, already sounding tired of her.

A moment later, he glances down at his phone, and some of the tension in his shoulders eases. His features are less murderous when he turns to me and asks, “She’s alone. Can I bring her inside?”

My lips part with a protest, so he adds, “I could warn her against returning in the hallway, but she could have someone hiding in the stairwell. Let me drag her in.”

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