The next morning, I opened the deepest compartment of the safe and took out the scarf from seven years ago.
It had once been his talisman. For seven years, Davis had kept it close to his heart.
Until six months ago, on a sleepless night after one of our countless battles of wills, he had pressed it into my palm, his eyes reddened.
"Once you take this scarf," he had whispered, "my life, my body, everything I am belongs to you. Forever."
Now, I folded the scarf carefully into my bag and stepped outside.
I had barely reached the underground garage when a convoy of black armored Maybachs tore into the entrance like a storm.
Davis stepped out. The murderous aura surrounding him was almost tangible.
He crossed the distance between us in seconds and seized my wrist hard.
As if he were afr
