Page 127 of Gamble with Me

Valeria

Zyon’s resurrection shook the entire New York. His face was everywhere. Reporters again camped before our main gate and occupied the driveway. It was impossible to leave the house without someone with a camera following us.

I became a person of interest, too. My relationship with an infamous mob boss filled the pages of every newspaper, not to mention I was still married.

People took photos of me when I went for a run or when I decided to drive my daughter to school. I was happy bodyguards were constantly with us because the media was crazy. They didn’t let me breathe without their regular presence.

“Do you remember the project we did for art class?” Zara asked in the car, leafing through her schedule for another week. Zyon wanted to move her to a prestigious private school, but I wanted to wait until the end of the term.

“Yes.” I looked into the rearview mirror, checking where the vehicle with our security was. “Did you submit it on time?”

“Well…” She cast me a wide smile, looking too guilty for my liking. “I forgot, and today is the last day.”

“Zara,” I sighed, parking the car before her school.

“Sorry, Mom.” She leaned between the front seats, blinking at me innocently. “Will you bring it? Please.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I shook my head, realizing I had no idea where the project was.

“I found the note about it this morning,” she replied, showing me her notebook. “I really forgot, Mommy.”

“It’s okay.” I smiled at her. “I need to download the school app on my new phone to get notifications about your forgotten projects.”

“Why? Zyon already told me about the new school,” she announced, her face lighting up. “It is in the national championship in math.”

“Amazing,” I told her, noticing her bodyguard waiting outside. “Where is the project?”

“In our old apartment,” she answered, gathering her stuff. “Under my bed. I put it there to dry and forgot about it.”

“Okay, I’ll bring it,” I promised, touching her hand.

“Thank you, Mommy.” She stuck her head in front and kissed my cheek. I exited the car with her, waving at her before she disappeared inside the building.

“I need to make a detour,” I said to the bodyguard who was assigned to accompany me. He left the car with his colleague and joined me in my car.

“No problem.” He shrugged, looking into his phone. He checked something on the GPS, not paying attention to where we were heading.

The ride was silent because the guard wasn’t a chatty guy, and my mind was preoccupied with thoughts about Chester. I was confident he had fled the country, but returning to our apartment after everything that had happened there felt bizarre. It wasn’t my life anymore. I escaped him, yet I was still anxious about opening the front door.

“Stay here,” the bodyguard ordered when I stopped the car before the front gate. He used my keys to unlock it and checked the perimeter. I saw him disappear inside the building, and the window in my former bedroom opened two minutes later. He showed me a thumb-up, and I released a deep breath. Chester wouldn’t be hiding there. Zyon’s men would have found him instantly. This was the first place they searched after the attack.

I got out of the car and crossed the front yard. An old neighbor from the apartment above ours stuck her head out from behind the curtain, waving at me. I waved back, intending to pay her a quick visit.

The lady was in a wheelchair, and the nurse caring for her usually attended to another patient and returned around lunchtime. The lady’s family didn’t come often, so she was happy for any guests.

I ran up the stairs, feeling an odd nostalgia. All in all, I spent eight years of my life here. And they weren’t only bad. There were times when I was happy to be Chester’s wife, but he killed everything I felt toward him with his lies and abusive behavior.

Thinking about Zyon instead brought me back to the present. I pushed the door open, frowning. I expected the guard to wait for me in the entry hall, but he was nowhere to be found. A ridiculous sensation of someone watching me washed over me, yet I pushed it back. The apartment had been checked. Everything was okay.

Attempting to find the art project, I gripped the door handle into Zara’s room when something in the bedroom caught my attention. I came closer, stopping in my tracks on the threshold. On the floor, beside the bed, lay my bodyguard, unconscious. The blood from the wound on his head soaked into the carpet, and his arm was twisted at a strange angle.

Covering my mouth with my palm to mask a desperate scream, I realized I had seen a thumb-up from my car but hadn’t seen the face. Veering around, I wanted to run toward the front door when a familiar, chilling voice froze me on the spot.

“Well, well, well. Who do we have here?”

Chester walked out of the living room with a maniacal grin on his bearded face. His hair was longer than usual, and he looked decrepit. There was no sign of my handsome, elegant, and confident husband. The man standing before me was thin, like he hadn’t eaten in days. His usually perfectly manicured fingers were dirty, and his sunken eyes looked crazy. The hunt for his head forced him to hide like a rat, taking its toll on him.

“What are you doing here, Chester?” I asked, trying to hide the tremor in my voice. “If Zyon finds you, you’re done.”