Twins for the Mafia Heir (The Warwicks #3)

6. Emma

Chapter 6

Emma

W ell, now’s as good a time as any to get the hell out of this place.

I slip my woven bracelet off my wrist and carefully untuck one strand of the wire from its neat pattern. To anyone else, this looks like a simple piece of wire-wrap jewelry with a polished blue stone at its center, a cute but unassuming boho chic piece you could buy at any art fair. But to me, this bracelet is one of my most treasured possessions. Even during my days using the moniker of Silver, when I was masquerading as both a street gang leader and a man, I kept this thing tucked carefully under my long sleeves. That’s where I’ve had it all of today too.

Now I take the untucked end of wire and start picking the lock on my door. Back when I was ten and my dad locked me in my room when he went to work, this was an essential skill I had to learn if I didn’t want to go hungry the entire day. I’d agonize over my doorknob for thirty minutes with stray paper clips and bobby pins, not knowing the first thing about picking locks except that people did it in movies.

Now it takes me less than thirty seconds to hear that satisfying click.

As much as I’m itching to listen to my instincts and run now , I wait with breath held, counting three minutes before I decide no one’s waiting on the other side of the door. It makes sense, Achilles dragged me up here in a rush and left just as quickly, but I don’t want to assume and be wrong.

After all, if someone had told me twenty hours ago that I’d be ordered to marry a mafia enforcer while pretending to be a mafia princess, I’d have raised my eyebrows so fast they would have flown off my head.

With painful slowness, I turn the door’s handle and ease it open. There’s an awful creek that echoes all the way down the stairs, which I’d been dreading. Again, I wait in tense silence for the sound of approaching footsteps, of yelling. My heart is a jackrabbit in my chest, but at last I decide no one’s coming. I have to keep moving, or else I’ll miss this window of opportunity.

Careful not to push this noisy ass door open any wider than I have to, I shimmy out of the room and onto the landing. I’ve always been grateful for my petite build and lack of curves, but never more than now. My steps make less noise on the stairs than Achilles’s did, even if they, like the door, aren’t totally silent. At the bottom of the tower I wait again, my ear pressed to the door for any hint of a footstep.

Nothing, again. At least nothing I can hear through a door that is definitely solid wood instead of particle board. I ease the door open- luckily much more quietly than the one at the top of the tower- and stick my head out into the carpeted hallway.

Now I can hear the sound of raised voices, even though they sound like they’re coming from the other end of the house. Achilles and Fantasia arguing, I think. I can’t make out their words, but their tone is bad enough.

Achilles will definitely not marry me just because Fantasia told him to, and Fantasia will kill me just so she doesn’t have to deal with my presence in her house.

Right. Let’s get out of here.

I slip into the hallway and close the door silently behind me. Right now I’m on the second floor of the manor, and the stairs to the first floor are behind me, so I dismiss the other doors along the hall as possible escape routes. I remember the way back through the kitchen, but should I go that way? To get there, I’d have to pass by the open drawing room door. Also, the staff saw me enter with Achilles, so surely they’ll notice me leaving alone. I don’t want to give any indication which way I went for Achilles to find later.

I listen hard. Whoever else is in the house, minus the people in the kitchen, are dead quiet. According to the last glance I managed to snag of Achilles’s watch, it’s nearly two in the morning and the place seems to be asleep. Fantasia and Achilles might change that with their shouting, but even if people do wake up, they’ll probably go straight to the source of all the noise.

Now might be my last chance to escape, even if I’m dying to get information on these Warwicks before I find some way to return to mine.

I stay light on my feet as I move in the opposite direction of the argument and start opening any doors I find. As much as I’d love to find an office, a meeting room, or even an armory of any kind, what I’m looking for is an empty bedroom and a balcony, or a door leading to a secondary staircase used by the staff. Unfortunately for me, every door along this hall is locked tight.

When I escape tonight, will Achilles just come back to the estate with backup, or can we crush them before they get the chance?

Around the corner, I lose what little light I was working with. The hallway is devoured by blackness only interrupted by the barest sickly light coming from beneath several doors on my right. It must be the only semblance of moonlight able to creep through curtains.

Even as a child I was never afraid of the dark, but right now I can definitely admit it’s inconvenient not to be able to see handles. It’s not knowing who else is in the darkness with me that really has me worried.

I’m relieved when I reach the first door and the handle turns with ease. But that relief evaporates when I peek into the room.

There’s a small lamp lit at the side of a bed against the far wall, and a little girl no older than five is sitting on the rug in front of it. With one arm she’s hugging a little stuffed penguin as tightly as she can to her chest, and with the other she’s arranging several other plushies inexplicably into a pyramid.

I don’t have a chance to close the door before I’m spotted. The little girl raises her head, and I brace for her scream. But when she opens her mouth, all she says is,

“Your hair looks like the moon.”

Oh my god. Whose child is this? And why is she awake and alone at this hour of the night? Her hair is dark, maybe black, and I think of Fantasia with a shiver. The idea of that woman reproducing is horrific to me.

Before I can think better of it, I enter the room and close the door behind me. The girl shrinks back a little. The penguin in her arms is crushed almost to death.

“I colored it that way,” I say softly. “My hair, I mean.”

“Like with crayons?” the girl asks, her voice a little weaker than before.

“Not exactly,” I say, forcing myself to laugh a little to relax her. “Like with… ink. Special ink.”

“Can you make it blue?” she asks, looking a little more intrigued.

I pretend to think. “I could, but I’d have to go to the hairdresser for help.”

“Oh.”

The disappointment in her voice is so obvious I feel helplessly terrible. I’ll feel even worse if I’m caught here, but I can’t bear to leave this girl alone without knowing if she’s okay. “I’m E- er, Raleigh,” I say, catching myself just in time. “What’s your name?”

“Sidony!”

“Sidony,” I repeat. “That’s an awesome name!”

She nods, because of course she knows that already. “Daddy calls me princess,” she informs me.

I shiver again. Her dad.

I remember the sound of my own father coming home, the wild rattling of the front door that told me he’d dropped his keys and was already drunkenly furious. I’d have to scurry back to my room and close the door before he managed to pick them up and get into the house. He was a goon for Morgan Speare, a hired hand who did the dirty work without hesitation, and sometimes he was so drunk he forgot to wash the blood off his hands and clothes before he yanked me out of my hiding place.

Other times, he wasn’t drunk enough, and I knew all too well that beating me would help cheer him up.

If I sense this little girl is in danger, I won’t leave her behind. I’ll bring her with me, no matter the inconvenience of being on the run with a small child.

“Sidony,” I say again, forcing the memories to the back of my mind. “I’m sorry I came into your room without knocking. I just- I wanted to know how you are.”

Sidony gives this more thought than I would like. “Sleepy,” she finally decides.

I can’t help but smile. “Yeah, it is pretty late. But, uh… are you okay?”

Again, Sidony thinks about this for a long time. Finally she says, “Sometimes scary men come. Daddy says they’re dreams. He pinky-promised me.”

I can’t fault a kid growing up in this house for having nightmares. Still, I’m willing to bet these ‘scary men’ are all too real. Whether they’re from her past or still around is another question.

My indecision freezes me on the spot. I can’t just abduct this little girl and get out of here without being caught. That’s insane. But the thought of leaving her in a house with a madwoman and a cold-hearted killer and god knows who else makes me sick to my stomach.

“That’s good. Pinky-promises are serious.” I swallow to wet my throat. “And… where’s your daddy now?”

Sidony’s face falls. Her penguin is squeezed so tight I’m shocked its little button eyes don’t pop off. I’m afraid she’ll tell me he’s died, and I’ve just reminded her of the loss. Instead she says,“He went away. He- He said he’d come back soon. Tasia always sends him away…”

‘Tasia’. Fantasia, I’m guessing. My body goes numb with dread. If her dad keeps being sent away, it might be because he’s-

I hear the footsteps running down the hall too late. The door crashes open as Achilles lunges into the room. His suit jacket is missing, but there are a couple drops of something dark enough to be blood on his white dress shirt. As soon as he sees me, he freezes in place.

I’ve seen this man angry, but I’ve never seen him afraid. It’s a terrible thing. His eyes are too wide, the warm brown rimmed with white. His nostrils flare as he fights to catch his breath from running, while his lips are pressed into a bloodless line, the muscles in his jaw jumping as he grits his teeth.

I’m too afraid to even put my hands up in surrender. Any move might push him over the edge of his terror. He looks between Sidony and me and back, determining if I’m close enough to reach her before he can, if Sidony is hurt or afraid, if he can pull a weapon without frightening her further.

Maybe he decides he can’t, because instead he demands, “Get away from my daughter. Now .”