Page 46

“Tea. Milk and sugar,” I state very politely. More than any lowly waitress deserves.

Preposterous. There’s not a single drop of drinkable leaves in this entire bloody city except at this…acceptable establishment.

Constant movement does not suit my tastes, but it is a necessary evil for the time being. After the debacle in Algeria, some unfortunate truths made their way out about me. Three months of this utter catastrophe and I am all but spent.

No more Interpol or Special Agent Morrigan.

Daciana Dalca of the ’Ndrangheta no longer exists, thanks to the Italian mob scene pronouncing her as persona non grata.

The list goes on. Not to mention that every one of my previous allies excluded from the proceedings at the ruins outside Khemissa somehow learned of my intentions and the…unsavory disposal of my guests from that affair.

Bloody frustrating.

Taking a sip of the bitter, creamy excuse for a cup, I grimace. I’ve been reduced to slumming it in cities where no one will recognize me. At least for a while. Until I can procure another identity and change my face again.

I’ll need to make it to my surgeon in Bolivia. Always could trust that man to put me under the knife. Damned near impossible to find good help these days.

“Hm.” I sniff a little laugh despite myself. “Cheer up, love. You’ve rebuilt before, you’ll rise again.”

The same way I have so many times throughout my lives. From a poor little girl in Romania, to the brothels of Singapore. I took my birthright back when I discovered who my father was, an Italian crime lord. A shipping magnate.

A small sigh escapes my lips.

Enough of my pity party. Time to do business.

“Now where the hell is that cursed accountant?” Checking my watch again, I lean back, downing my quickly cooling tea. My cup empty, I wait the appropriate five seconds before becoming irritated.

What must a queen do to get an inkling of service around here?

My cup clinks against the saucer, then clinks again. Peering down into the dregs of my beverage, I balk. There’s…

Ugh. The audacity. I’ll have the waitress’s hide for this?—

“What the devil…?” Tipping the cup, I let the item roll onto the tablecloth. Tea and milk bead away from its surface, leaving a twinkling, perfectly cut diamond.

Curiosity wins out. I raise the jewel between two fingers.

My stomach must be upset from the tea. Dreadful.

I blink several times, refusing to acknowledge what I saw. That emblem…

Etched into the center of the diamond. A lyre.

The ancient symbol of?—

There! My head whips across the dining room, catching the profile of a server entering the kitchen. I stand, the wretched threat clenched in my gloved hand.

“How dare that little trollop—” My heart stops.

Her eyes meet mine, her smile curling into a sneer. It can’t be…

My, but they must have opened a window. A draft, yes. That’s why I’m so chilled.

Tearing my eyes from the waitress’s, I scan the room, noticing suddenly that every eye is trained on me. The other clientele. The staff.

Bloody unacceptable.

A travesty. My hands start to shake.

I sit slowly, folding my hands over my lap. Watching as every single body in the building rises to their feet; Bratva, Yakuza, Diamante, Lyra. Others I can’t bring to mind, my objectivity crumbling as they close in around me.

A laugh sputters across my lips as the first blade sinks into my back.

Ananke … the goddess of death indeed.