Chapter 26 Cybil
Cybil
Dallas, Texas
Saturday night
Hearing Ben say my name a few minutes ago would’ve sent a thrill through me, but hearing him say it now—to Ramirez—sends a
bolt of pure panic through my veins.
“Ms. Langford is—”
I jump when a clattering of pans drowns out the rest of Ben’s words. What is he telling Ramirez about me? I scoot closer to
the kitchen’s doorway, desperate to hear what he’s saying.
“Somebody’s feeding them information.”
This sounds like Ramirez’s lawyer, and my heart jackhammers against my ribs. They know about me. How?
“I don’t like loose ends,” Ramirez says, his voice ice-cold. “Make the problem go away.”
Blood drains from my face. My brain kicks into overdrive, scrambling to remember every conversation, every question I’ve asked,
every step I’ve taken. What did I do wrong? If I was going to get caught, I thought it would be by Mr. Edmond—not Ramirez. Not Ben.
My breathing shallows. I take a quick step back and crash into a server. The tray of empty plates tilts—then crashes to the
floor with a deafening clatter.
The server swears, and I mutter a frantic apology, my hands shaking as I move around the mess, desperate to disappear before anyone sees me. But it’s too late.
A door swings open and heavy footsteps bring Ben and Rook into the hallway, their gazes scanning the wreckage before locking
onto me.
Ben’s expression stops me cold. It’s not the gentle gaze I got lost in minutes ago when I was dancing in his arms. His jaw
is tight, lips pressed together. His eyes are dark and unreadable and sending me a warning that coils tight in my stomach.
He knows I heard something I shouldn’t have.
My breath shudders. I need to get out of here.
Backing away from the mess, I leave Ben and Rook in the hallway and step back into the main restaurant. The glow of the chandeliers,
the murmur of conversation, the clinking of glasses—it all feels like a cruel illusion of normalcy.
But there is nothing normal about what’s happening around me. I’m surrounded by a roomful of individuals who have the power,
money, and connections to make me disappear. I scan the room, my eyes darting from face to face. Every look lingers too long.
Every whisper sounds like my name. My fingers tingle with the need to grab my keys and make a break for it.
Just act normal. Get your purse. Get out.
The jazz trio is playing something slow and brooding, the kind of tune you hear in a mob movie right before someone ends up
in an oil barrel. The ominous melody curls around me like smoke, seeping into my already frayed nerves. So this is the soundtrack to my death—awesome.
Sliding between guests, I weave my way toward the coat check. Every few steps, I steal a glance over my shoulder, expecting
to see Ben, Rook, or—worse—Ramirez closing in. But they’re nowhere in sight. Instead, I notice something even more unsettling—Ramirez’s
men.
They’re everywhere—like a mafia flash mob, except their only choreographed move is tossing people into the back of a van.
And if they suspect me, if Ben or Rook has put them on alert, that’s exactly what they’re going to do to me.
“My bag, please,” I say, handing my ticket to the clerk. My palms are damp, and my pulse is pounding so hard I feel it in my throat. Unfortunately, the clerk doesn’t sense my urgency and moves at a glacial pace.
The moment she hands over my purse, I turn—only to crash into a solid wall of muscle.
No. Not a wall.
Milosh.
His hand clamps around my arm, his grip hot and unsteady. “Leaving so soon, beautiful?” His breath reeks of alcohol, his words
slurred but his hold firm. “Stay a little longer. Dance with me like you dance with little man.”
Under normal circumstances, Milosh referring to Ben as “little man” would’ve made me laugh, but his tightening grip on my
arm has my stomach twisting. I try to step back, but he follows, backing me against the wall.
“I really need to go,” I say, putting as much authority in my voice as I can.
He doesn’t let go. His fingers curl tighter, his other hand drifting lower, brushing along my arm. My skin prickles with fear.
“Let me go,” I say sharply.
Milosh’s lips curl wickedly like we’re playing a game he’s always won. Sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. Marcos made
sure I had self-defense training, but Milosh is at least a hundred pounds heavier than me, and if I engage him, it’ll ruin
my attempt at a quiet escape.
Hmm, quietly accept a handsy Russian oligarch or take him out and accept my fate in a woodchipper?
A smooth, authoritative voice slices through the tension and my decision. “Are you okay, Cybil?”
Mr. Edmond.
Relief rushes through me as I turn my head. He stands a few feet away, his presence steady, unmoving. Behind him, Sebastian
watches Milosh with the kind of detached boredom that barely hides his disdain.
Milosh hesitates, sways slightly, then releases me with a muttered curse.
I step away fast, my skin crawling. “I’m fine,” I lie, forcing a grateful smile. “I just don’t feel well.”
Mr. Edmond studies me, his expression unreadable. “Go home, then,” he says simply.
I nod quickly. Almost there.
Clutching my purse, I leave Milosh with Mr. Edmond and Sebastian and head down the dark hallway leading to my escape. I’m
nearly there when a shadow steps into my path.
Rook.
“Leaving already?” His voice is casual, but his gaze pins me in place. “I was hoping we could chat.”
My stomach clenches. I look over my shoulder to where Mr. Edmond and Sebastian are down the hall. I should’ve stayed close
to them. Is the saying “It’s safer to stay with the enemies you know than the ones you don’t”?
“Just a few moments.”
I’m trapped. If I refuse, it’ll only make me look more suspicious. I paste on a smile even as my pulse races. “Of course,”
I say, turning to head back the way I came. Maybe if Mr. Edmond or Sebastian sees me, they’ll get me out of this situation
too.
“This way.”
Rook gestures to another hallway. It’s dark, quiet, and I’m pretty sure if I die back here, no one will know. So like the
professional spy I’m pretending to be, I fall into step beside him.
“Should I get Mr. Edmond and Sebastian?” I thumb in their direction over my shoulder. “They’re just down—”
“No, no,” Rook assures me. “Lorenzo would like to speak to you alone.”
Alone. Yep, that equals death in every mob movie.
We take a corner, and I hear voices and kitchen noises.
Another turn and I realize we’ve circled the restaurant and are back at the hallway where I was caught eavesdropping.
Hope flutters in my chest that if I scream now, someone will hear.
Doesn’t mean they’ll do anything about it—I have no doubt every one of these employees can be bought off with a gym bag full of cash.
Think, Cybil. Think.
We pass a door with an emergency exit light shining like a beacon of freedom. I slide a glance at Rook. He’s lanky, thin.
I might have a fighting chance if I catch him by surprise.
But not him.
Ben exits the kitchen, his eyes catching mine before moving to Rook. “What are you doing?”
“Lorenzo asked to speak to Ms. Langford.”
There’s something in Ben’s gaze that looks nervous, but then it’s gone and in its place is hard steel. He’s looking at me
like I’ve betrayed him, and I don’t think he’s coming to my rescue this time.
I can’t even assess how that makes my heart feel before loud commotion echoes from the kitchen. There are shouts and Rook
immediately leaves my side to investigate.
There’s a whistle. Sharp. Familiar. Instinct draws my gaze to Ben. He’s leaning against the wall, unbothered by the chaos.
The low light catches on the curve of his mouth—a fraction of a smirk, like he knows something I don’t.
Then he pulls the alarm.
The shriek of sirens pierces the air. Kitchen workers and staff pour into the hallway, shouting about a fire. The acrid smell
of smoke fills the air—the proverbial match that sets off the chaos.
I don’t wait. I turn, slip into the crowd, and move with the rush toward the nearest exit. The emergency door swings open,
emptying the frantic crowd into the parking lot behind the building, where my car is parked.
The air is thick with panic as more people evacuate, including residents from the condos above the restaurant. When they catch
sight of the smoke, their anxiety ratchets up. I push through the growing mob, making a beeline for my car, but then my heel
catches on a crack in the sidewalk.
In my scramble to steady myself, I collide with a man.
“What’s happening?” he asks, his voice laced with confusion.
I’m about to apologize when I recognize him—the same man I saw earlier in the hallway. He’s swaying, looking even worse than
before. “Sir, there’s a fire in the restaurant. You need to get somewhere safe.”
“Safe?” His eyes glaze over, and he mumbles something about not feeling well.
I glance around, searching for anyone who’s missing the guy, but no one seems to be looking for him. My eyes spot Ben and
his narrowed gaze is on the hunt for someone—me?
I can’t waste any more time.
“Sir, you need to get to your car,” I urge him.
He nods, still dazed, and points to a nearby car. Whatever. I just need to go.
I reach my car and freeze. Sitting on the hood, with piercing yellow eyes fixed on me, is a cat. I didn’t admit it to Ben
in Italy, but he was right—I hate cats, and they all seem to know it. I press my key fob, hoping the sound will send the cat
running. It doesn’t.
“I don’t have time for this.” I walk around to the back door, hoping slamming it will scare the cat away. It doesn’t budge.
“Shoo!” I yell at the cat. It stares at me like I’m the nuisance, and then it moves—right under my car. “No, you stupid cat!”
A small, irrational part of me wants to jump into the car and just drive away, but I can’t risk running over the stupid thing.
As much as I hate cats, I can’t bring myself to do that.
Grumbling, I kneel on the asphalt, the pebbles biting into my skin as I search under the car. There he is, perched near the
tire. I rise and move to the other side of the car to chase him away.
The sound of fire engines blaring nearby makes my pulse spike. Behind me the crowd is thick, cars clogging the lot as people
scramble to leave. I don’t know if it’s fear of the fire or fear that when the police arrive, they’ll be suspicious of the
crowd of criminal guests.
I return my attention to the cat. The last thing I need is to get stuck in this mess. I squint under the car. Nothing.
Relief washes over me as I stand and rush to the driver’s side, sliding into the car and slamming the door behind me.
I start the engine and inch my way through the parking lot, maneuvering carefully around the cars and people, keeping my head low just in case Ben’s not the only one looking for me.
Once I’m a few blocks away and my heart rate finally begins to slow, I pull my phone from the console and dial Athena.
When she picks up, all I can manage is, “I’m in trouble.”