32. “There’s a bounty on your head.”
32
“There’s a bounty on your head.”
Chapter Playlist:
“Heathens” - Twenty One Pilots
ACHERON
ONE WEEK LATER
The thrum of bass-heavy music rattles the walls, but here in the VIP lounge of the nightclub, it’s muffled, like the heartbeat of a dying beast. Expensive cologne and cigar smoke drift through the air, mingling with the tension of unspoken illicit dealings.
Adjusting my mask, I sit in one of the private alcoves reserved for high-end patrons. The leather couch creaks beneath me as I lean forward, steepling my fingers.
The dealer across from me shifts uneasily. He reeks of desperation, his sweat dampening the collar of his expensive but ill-fitted suit. His eyes flicker to the briefcase at his side, then back to me.
“Show me,” I say.
He hesitates, his hand trembling slightly as he slides a battered folder across the table. I open it, scanning the inventory list. A Klimt, a Chagall, several sketches attributed to Modigliani. My fingers pause over the photographs, the vibrant colors dulled by time and the weight of their history.
“These were taken from Jewish families during the Holocaust,” I say, my voice low, measured.
The dealer shrugs, an attempt at nonchalance that doesn’t mask the shame behind his eyes. “My father smuggled them out of Germany. They’ve been in my family ever since.”
“Your father was a thief,” I say bluntly, closing the folder. “And now his sins have become your burden.”
His face flushes, but he doesn’t argue. He needs this deal. His debts are mounting, and I can see the fear of his creditors in his eyes.
“Six figures,” he says, his voice faltering. “And they’re yours.”
I shake my head. “Five. And you will deliver them to my estate personally. No middlemen.”
He opens his mouth to protest, but one glaring gaze silences him. He nods, swallowing hard.
The deal is sealed with a handshake. As I rise, buttoning my jacket, I glance at the folder one last time. These pieces don’t belong to me. They belong to the descendants of the families torn apart by men like his father. They are like ghosts, waiting to be brought back to life and their heritage restored.
Once Everleigh finishes researching their provenance, cataloging them, and restoring any necessary ones, I will return them to their rightful owners or their descendants. I won’t bring her. The idea of her escaping or harm coming to her gnaws at me. As long as she remains in my exhibit and on my estate, I can protect her.
It’s too late for her to go back to her old life. Not with the bloody spotlight I’ve cast upon her.
As I step out of the lounge, the pulsing music grows louder, vibrating through my chest. The crowd is a blur of glittering bodies and flashing lights. My instincts prickle—a sixth sense honed from decades of surviving darker dealings than this.
I spot them as soon as I exit the club. Shadows moving against the glow of the streetlights, too synchronized to be drunks or revelers. Three men, each taking a different angle of approach.
The first man strikes as I pass the car’s rear bumper. A knife glints under the neon haze, slashing toward my ribs. Fire fills my veins. He is sorely wrong to believe he can take me in a knife fight. I pivot, catching his wrist and twisting until I hear the snap. He screams, but it’s cut short as I drive his own blade into his throat.
His body crumples, and I shove him aside, already turning to face the second. This one doesn’t lunge blindly; he circles, his movements calculated. A flash of metal reveals a garrote wire, glinting like a serpent’s fang. He lunges, aiming to loop it around my neck. My free hand shoots up, gripping the wire, my skin burning as I wrench it away, then drive my knee into his gut. He stumbles, and I retrieve the handgun from my belt and fire a single shot into his chest.
A sharp crack echoes behind me—the third man. He’s not playing games.
But a sudden squealing of tires signals my town car’s arrival as my driver careens it to one side, offering a barrier between the third man and me. A bullet ricochets off the car door, and I dive behind the vehicle, gritting my teeth as pain blooms in my shoulder. Fucking bullet got me.
“Stay down!” my driver hisses, pulling a compact submachine gun from beneath the seat.
I don’t stay down. I pop up, firing twice at the third man as he advances. The first shot misses, but the second catches his thigh. He stumbles, clutching his leg, but he’s not down yet.
I rush him, pain screaming in my shoulder, but adrenaline dulls the edges. He raises his weapon, but I’m faster. My fist connects with his jaw, and he drops the gun. I don’t give him a chance to recover. Grabbing his collar, I slam his head against the brick wall of the alley, once, twice, until he slumps unconscious.
My driver helps me into the car, his face pale but composed. A result of his former special forces training and life as a petty wheelman before I offered him this position. The interior reeks of leather and iron as blood seeps into the seat. I press a handkerchief to my shoulder, gritting my teeth against the pain.
“Drive,” I order.
The ride is silent, save for the hum of the engine. My mind races. Who sent them? The art dealers wouldn’t dare. They know my reputation. This is someone else—someone bold or desperate. And the deep-seated suspicion preys on me and surges ice into every bone in my body.
This is about Everleigh.
By the time we reach the estate, the pain has dulled to a throb. My private doctor, a wiry man with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue, is already waiting. He stitches my shoulder in silence, his hands steady despite the gore.
As he works, my manager steps into the room, his expression grim.
“What did you find out?” I bark and take another swig of my whiskey since I opted out of painkillers.
“There’s a bounty on your head,” he says without preamble. “Seven million. Anonymous source.”
I let out a low chuckle, though it sends a fresh wave of pain through my shoulder. “Seven million? I’m insulted. I’m worth at least ten.”
The manager doesn’t smile. “This isn’t a joke, Acheron. Whoever this is—they want you dead, and they have the resources to make it happen.”
I lean back, the fire in my veins stronger than ever. “Then we find out who they are. And we remind them why no one hunts me and lives to tell the tale.”
Once the doctor finishes, I rise. My enemies want a war? I’ll give them one. But first, I have art to give to my little historian.
However, when I enter the exhibit—too preoccupied with today’s earlier events—a small but solid fist crashes against my jaw, locking it up from the pain.
“Ow ow! Fuckfuckfuck!” Everleigh cries out and grips her fist. I can tell it’s not broken, but she may have sprained it.
I rub my jaw, having felt every ounce of her feminine fury. The same rage swirls a gray storm in her eyes. She’s fucking adorable in that sheer lacy camisole with her pretty pink nipples protruding through the fabric. Clenching all my muscles, I narrow my eyes, rip off my mask, and meet her on the battlefield. I feed the fire in my veins, eager to conquer her.
“The fuck do you think you’re doing, little girl?” I growl and advance toward her, glaring when she steps back.
“It’s not about what I’m doing,” she hisses, still holding her fist to her chest. “It’s about what you did!”
Then, she lifts the end of the camisole higher, betraying her lack of panties but revealing the evidence of her anger—blood smeared all over her upper thighs and a few droplets falling onto the floor.
She flares her nostrils, clenches her fists at her sides, and stabs out her chin. “You removed my implant, didn’t you? Didn’t you?!”
Fuck, she’s delicious. This is just what I needed.
Tilting my head with a predatory smirk, I flick my eyes down to her luscious thighs, and then…I laugh.