CHAPTER 4: YOU ARE LATE
1615 Words
“Start talking,” I said, my voice was quiet but heavy, like the air before a storm.
I didn’t raise the gun, but the weight of it in my hand was enough to remind her that this wasn’t a game.
Merci stepped forward, towel wrapped low on her hips, droplets of water sliding down her bare skin like slow-falling tears.
She has got some frim boobs and pointed t**s for a lady. I was always envious of her, though mine were larger and round.
Her hair was damp, curled around her collarbone, and her eyes searched mine with something between desire and fear.
Instead of answering, she gave me that soft, crooked smile, the one that used to undo me in seconds. She walked closer, her fingers reaching out, grazing the top of my breast with practised ease.
I love it when she does that. There was this tingly sensation that left my body as her fingers left my boobs to my navel..
“You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” she murmured, her voice almost reverent. “Even when you’re armed and dangerous.”
“You’re not touching me,” I said, my tone ice under fire. “Not until you start telling me why there’s a burner phone in your purse, buzzing when I called Kelvin’s contact.”
She blinked, just once. Her hand dropped.
“Oh,” she said, with a lightness that didn’t match the moment. “That? Kelvin works for my father.”
I tilted my head, keeping my expression neutral. “Your father? What does he do?”
“He’s... well, powerful,” she said, choosing the word too carefully. "Kelvin runs things. Business. Investments. Protection.”
“Sounds like a man with secrets.”
She smirked. “Don’t we all?”
I stepped in closer, the scent of her still laced with lavender and sweat. My voice dropped. “I want a name.”
She looked up at me, something flickering in her eyes. Defiance? Guilt? Pride?
“I already told you. Goldman. As in Goldman Industries.”
I gave her nothing. Not a blink. Not a breath of recognition. “ Goldman! Never heard of it, but of course you mentioned you work at Goldman Industries.”
She raised an eyebrow, amused. “Really? I thought everyone had. My father’s name is Yaris Goldman.”
The room didn’t move, but the walls suddenly felt smaller.
I nodded slowly, tucking the name into my chest like a loaded blade. “Sounds rich. Influential.”
She watched me carefully. “He is. But he’s not what you’re thinking.”
“What am I thinking?” I asked softly.
“That he’s dangerous. That he’s mafia. But he’s not,” she said. “He’s just... complicated.”
I let the silence hang between us, pregnant and full of knives. Then I asked, “Did you see the message on your burner?”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Kelvin’s guys are freaking out. Said someone broke into his house, hit him hard.” Her laugh was low, like she didn’t believe it.
“Said it was a woman?” Merci said, now laughing. “I can’t even wrap my head around that,” she said as she shook her head.
“Hmm”, I sighed
“Wait a minute, could it be you?” she said mockingly and laughed out so loud.
I didn’t flinch. I just stared.
She tilted her head. “Come on... was it? The burglar everyone’s losing their minds over?” still mocking me
I leaned in, so close our lips were nearly touching. My voice dropped to a whisper. “Do I look like a burglar to you?”
Her breath hitched. “No. You look like a storm.”
I leaned back, slipping the gun into the back of my waistband, but the fire between us hadn’t dimmed; it had just turned into something sharper.
“Be careful with storms, Merci,” I said. “They don’t warn you before they burn your world down.”
“How do you know Kelvin?” she asked quietly, arms crossed, towel clinging to her damp skin. “I’m sure you don’t work for my father.”
I let the silence hang between us for a heartbeat longer than comfortable. Then I turned toward her, cool and composed.
“I don’t know Kelvin,” I said, my voice calm but heavy with finality. “Never met the man.”
She blinked. “Then how—?”
“I knew Ned,” I interrupted, not letting her control the tempo of the moment. "One of Kelvin’s men. Or maybe just his errand boy. Either way... he’s dead. And I am going to find out who did it.”
I knew I had to lie to cover up. If my girlfriend is the daughter of the Mafia I wanted to destroy, then I have to be careful.
I walked past her without another word, my shoulder brushing hers deliberately, softly, like the ghost of something we used to be.
“I’m tired,” I said, over my shoulder as I pulled back the sheets. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
She didn’t follow. Just stood there in the quiet, still wrapped in her towel, watching me disappear into the bed.
The morning light filtered through the blinds, casting soft stripes across the sheets tangled around our bodies.
We were both still naked, the warmth of the night clinging to the space between us, but the air had shifted.
I stretched lazily and turned to her. “I’m heading out later today.”
She yawned, propping herself up on one elbow, her hair messy and eyes still half-lidded. “I’ve got a meeting with my father.”
My voice was casual, but my gaze locked on hers. “About Kelvin?”
She paused. Just a flicker. Then she nodded. “Whoever got to him didn’t just kill the man… they burned everything. His network, his money, everything he built, it’s all gone. And it’s thrown a wrench into a lot of my father’s operations.”
I watched her carefully, noting how she didn’t sound scared, just inconvenienced.
“That bad, huh?”
She looked up at the ceiling and sighed. “Yeah. Kelvin wasn’t just some underling. He was a major partner, informant and influence. Now there’s a gap in the system, and people are scrambling.”
I bit back the dozen questions that rose to my lips. She wasn’t stupid. And if I pushed too hard, I would raise alarms.
She was Yaris Goldman’s daughter. I couldn’t turn her into an informant, not yet.
But I needed one. I needed to find the man Ned had spoken of.
So I smiled, leaned in, kissed her collarbone, and murmured, “Let me know how the meeting goes.”
Then I slipped out of bed, mind already working. If Merci couldn’t be my source, I’d find someone who could. Someone lower in the food chain, someone desperate, overlooked, and willing to talk.
Ned’s words echoed in my mind like a ghost refusing to rest.
“Kelvin works for the Mafia. His handler’s name is Morris,” he’d said, his voice rough with exhaustion, his body already failing from the bullet he never saw coming.
But yesterday changed everything.
Merci's purse. The burner phone. The number was buzzing right there in her room.
She wasn’t just some spoiled heiress partying away her father’s blood money. She was deeper. Smarter. Dirtier.
Merci was Kelvin’s handler. I see it now, the control in her tone, the way she dismissed his downfall, like a manager addressing a broken cog in a machine. The timing of her questions. Her casual laughter.
Morris had been a name used to deflect. A ghost handler meant to hide her true role.
And now Ned, the only one who ever mentioned Morris, was dead. His body was still a fresh stain on the memory of my war.
Which meant there was only one way forward.
I had to track Morris. Or whatever shadow that name was hiding. Because if Morris were real, he might lead me to the root of this network. If he wasn’t, then I would be staring at the real architect the whole time.
And she had been lying next to me in my bed, her lips pressed to my skin. The thin line between lover and enemy has never been thinner.
I had followed the man I believe to be Morris throughout the day. Tracking his movements and guards forgetting I had a meeting with my foster father.
I was about to make my move when I saw him seated in the lounge with a glass of wine.
Just then, my phone rang. It was Don Pedro.
“Don’t be late for dinner,” Don Pedro said. He had a way of making even the simplest request sound like an order.
“I won’t,” I replied,
I already knew I was late, but I had to lie. Something about Morris didn't sit well with me. His logistics were like those of a mafia.
I looked at my watch again, “Wow! Don Pedro is going to kill me! I am so late.”
As I entered the private dining room, Don Pedro's eyes immediately locked onto mine. In the room were two Mafia Lords. Their bodyguards lined up behind them as they sat. But it was Don Pedro’s gaze that cut through the tension like a knife.
“You’re late, Jane,” he said, his voice low but laced with authority. There was a subtle disappointment in his tone.
- Writer
