Page 113 of Ruthless Lord

“How do you know?”

“Heard a bunch in my life. Normally they’re something like, no, please don’t, or like, urhhkkkkk, or whatever.”

“That’s… horrifying.”

“Told you. Turn off the sound.”

“Just keep going and stop talking.”

I reach the last turn. Slowly, painstakingly, I peer around the corner. The hallway’s gloomy and dark with a single light at the very far end casting long shadows.

A guard’s standing solo. His back’s against the wall, and lucky for me, he’s got his phone in his hands. He’s scrolling through, intent on something. I duck back and take a few deep breaths.

There’s nothing between me and him except open space. There’s no way to sneak forward. If he raises the alarm, this is going to be very bad.

I have to go fast.

“Wish me luck,” I whisper, barely making a sound.

“Good luck, Stefano,” she whispers back.

I throw myself around the corner. I run hard, probably making too much noise. But the guard’s intent on his phone and only realizes I’m coming by the time I’m already halfway down the hallway. He stares, eyes going wide in shock, his mouth opening to scream?—

I slam into him with my shoulder, ramming the air from his lungs. He makes an awkward ooooffffffhhhhhhhh noise and starts grunting and gasping for breath as he tries to draw his gun. He’s a decent fighter, but I don’t give him time to gather himself. I kick his knee, crush his windpipe, and jam a knife straight between his eyes. He drops to the floor, tongue lolling from swollen lips, blood pooling around his body.

“Done,” I say, pushing the door open and stepping into the old man’s suite.

“He’ll still be in bed. Straight in the back.”

I stare at what looks like the simplest room in the entire house. It’s like a normal middle-class home from the seventies in here. Modest couch, modest furniture. Simple thrift store art on the walls. Like the man decorated once way before he was rich and never bothered updating it.

But Charlie’s wrong about one thing. The TV’s on playing a black-and-white cowboy movie. On the screen, there’s a gunfight happening.

And her grandfather is sitting on the couch.

Harrison Westbrook looks smaller than I remembered. His wizened white hair is in disarray and he’s wearing matching flannel pajamas. He’s leaning on his side, staring at me like I’m a ghost, his mouth hanging open. Like this, he’s not at all intimidating. Not the powerful monster I’ve been imagining.

Just a frail old man.

“Don’t get up,” I say, slowly approaching the couch. “And don’t start yelling.”

His face locks back into place. The surprise instantly evaporates, and I get a glimpse of what he must’ve been like in his prime. The gaze of a predator, cool and calculating. He’s weighing his options. Already making plans.

“What are you doing here, Stefano?”

“You know what.” I reach into my belt and draw a second knife. I left my good one in the forehead of the guard, but this one will have to do.

He keeps looking at me, still lounging. “That’s it then?”

“It was your call.”

“I’m not so sure it was. Sit down, Stefano. We have a lot to talk about.”

I don’t move. The second I start following his orders is the second I let him worm his way back from the brink. “You tried to kill her.”

“I did no such thing.”

“Your security man, the new one. Micky tried to cut her throat.”