ATONEMENT | MAFIA ROMANCE | SMUT

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

"It is on." His teeth chattered. "Still, I might die from hypothermia."

Walking ahead, I dodged unbalanced flowerpots, the stems and roots brittle. "You can join me indoors if you wish."

"I'd rather avoid Mr Fitzpatrick, Ma'am. He is not the friendliest of men."

I paused mid-step. "Josh is not unfriendly."

"To you, perhaps," he replied testily. "He has zero respect for underlings."

Well, I had no response to that. "Maybe I can talk to him."

"I'd rather you didn't."

I descended three concrete steps, which led to the back of the house. "Are you sure he is home?"

He expelled smoke. "Positive."

"Okay, I will see you soon." Ending the call, I tucked the phone in my bag and, turning a sharp corner, disturbed an eating raven. It squawked, ploughed into me almost viciously, driving and striking as if I threatened its recently fledged nest. "Shit." Whacking him with aimless slaps, I shouted in a state of panic, dashing through the unkempt flower bed. "Get away from me."

In a moment of dreadful hysteria, I stumbled over scattered shrubs and struck the ground headfirst, clipping my head on a small boulder.

Pain shot through my temple.

Wincing through momentary dizziness, I ground my teeth, rolled onto my side and cowered into my elbow.

Above, the raven gyrated with predacious squawks until its fanned feathers rustled into a nearby tree.

Releasing a caged breath, I examined my cheek, where a wet trickle of blood dampened my fingertips.

Pushing myself onto all fours, I fell back on my haunches and, holding my breath, touched my stomach with investigative hands.

My palms and face captured the fall. I worried about the baby, though.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, hugging myself protectively. "I never meant to frighten you."

Of course, I felt nothing. It was the first trimester, so the baby was probably the sheer size of a strawberry.

I stayed in the filthy shrubs for a while longer, not wanting to get up too quick or strain further. When more relaxed, I slapped a hand on the damp wall and stood to test the waters. I was a little shaken up, slightly nauseous—the aftershock of almost being beaked to death—but, once breathing evened out, the trembles and giddiness subsided.

Each bypassed window earned open-palmed belts. I pounded everything in sight to gain his awareness, the clacked sound startling the flapping birds above.

Tender climbing vines unadorned an old, padlocked door. It was the side entrance to the broken-windowed vestibule. I rattled the broken handle. It was easily breakable, the house close to accessible. Extracting the Eagle from my thigh holster, I aimed fire, the single-shot echoing into the sky, and disengaged the lock.

Swallowing to dampen my parched throat, I dabbed the blood on my cheek with the heel of my hand and strolled through the long, dank hall to the outdated kitchen. Leaving the gun near the solid fuel stove, I drifted from one cathedral-style room to another, the heels of my shoes clicking on the timber boards.

By the time I reached the foyer, I had forgotten all the reasons why I had visited. I am a spec in medieval grandness.

"Josh," I called, my stunned voice resounding throughout. "I know you are here."

My fingers grazed the tapestried wall as I strode from the dining area to the interconnecting living quarters. There is a melange of empty pill bottles on the coffee table, unfilled alcohol bottles, rolling papers and strewn tobacco.