The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher
Lorcan
The call comes just after midnight.
I sleep out of necessity now. Pass out long enough to think straight in the morning, not long enough where I’ll miss anything. I also sleep with my burner phone in my fist, my combat boots on my feet, and an AK-47 by my side.
When the burner buzzes, I leap to my feet and strap up. “Speak,” I bark into the cell, yanking the bulletproof vest over my head and stalking towards the door.
“Intruder on the premises,” Donnacha’s stone-cold voice snaps back. “We’ve brought him into the drawing-room for interrogation.”
I stab the end call button without another word and pace it downstairs. My men are crowded in the lobby, standing to attention, and give me a curt not as I pass. Antoin falls into step with me as I round the corner towards the drawing-room. “Is it Bratnov?” I growl.
“I know as much as you do,” he croaks back. A glance down at his wrinkled suit and scruffy beard tells me definitely weren’t pulling a night shift.
But Donnacha is as alert as ever, standing outside the drawing-room door, eyes glowering. He puts his hand out to stop me from bursting into the room, gun cocked. “Not a Bratnov,” he growls. “Some kid. He was screaming outside the gates. Thought it was best to bring him in and interrogate.”
I’m confused, but I nod and push past him. “Wait here,” I bark at Antoin.
Perched on the edge of my oxblood leather tufted sofa is a scrawny-looking kid with brown hair and bewildered eyes. They grow wider when I step out of the shadow. “Who the fuck are you?” I grunt.
“S-Sam,” he stammers, tearing his fearful gaze away from me long enough to glance between the two men that have their heavy hands on his shoulder. “I’m s-sorry. I think I’m in the wrong place. I didn’t mean to—to interrupt.”
I make a quick assessment. He’s rich. In a polo-playing, vacation at the Hampton’s kind of way. Threat level: close to fucking zero.
“Leave.”
The idiot tries to rise to his feet, but my men push him back down. “Not you,” I growl at him.
The room vacates, leaving me and this quivering kid to occupy it. “You with the Bratnovs?” I snarl.
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Who?”
“Then I’ll give you five seconds to explain why you’re trespassing on my property. Then I’ll give you two seconds to explain why I shouldn’t put a bullet in your head for waking me up.”
His mouth opens and shuts again.
“Four.”
“W-wait,” he stammers, holding his hands up. “I’m looking for Poppy. Poppy Valentina. I-I heard she might be here…”
It’s instinctive to pop the safety catch of my ‘47 and point it between his eyes. “How do you know Poppy?”
The squeal that escapes his lips is pathetic. I should shoot him for that alone. “Please don’t shoot,” he squeaks.
“Better answer my fucking question then.”
“I’m her boyfriend.”
He earns himself a hard blow to the temple with the receiver of my rifle. The gurgling sound he emits isn’t satisfying enough for me.
Sam.I knew his name rang a bell. This is the scrawny prick that was calling her in Le Papillon. He’s the reason she said I’d never get away with taking her.
I’d say he’s got some balls turning up here, but by his dazed expression I know he’s a fish out of water. He had no idea what lay on the other side of the gates.
Important things first. “How did you know she was here?”
His speech is slower. Concussion will do that to you. “W-when she didn’t turn up for her birthday—”
Another slam to the side of his head. This time, he brings his hands up to protect himself, and I hear his wrist snap as the butt of my rifle cracks against it. “Please,” he screams, “No more.”
“Better cut to the chase then.”
“The restaurant,” he yells, clutching his hand and rocking back and forth. “The restaurant told me.”
I make a mental note to burn it to the ground when this war blows over. Speaking of war, I don’t have time for this shit. “It’s your lucky day. I have more important things to worry about than some jilted lover. If you’re quick, I won’t shoot you in the back of the head on your way out.”
But the fucker doesn’t move. He even has the audacity to shake his head. “I’m not leaving until I see her.”
“You really have a death wish, huh?”
“N-No. I really don’t want to die. Like, really. But I can’t leave her here, in this…” he gazes around the mahogany oak cladding and dust-covered books. “Mansion. I need answers. I need to know she’s okay.”
God, it’d be fucking easy to shoot this little cunt. Satisfying, even. I’d wrap him up in this Persian rug and bury him in the garden.
But I don’t have the time to deal with a hysterical Poppy if she finds out that the fresh patch of soil she sees on her daily walk has her boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—underneath it. Also, I don’t know who else knows that this kid is here. We don’t need the inconvenience. Not at the best of times, and especially not during a war with the Bratnovs.
“Stay here,” I say through gritted teeth, stomping back out into the hall.
Donnacha greets me with an amused smirk. Antoin, on the other hand, is glaring at me with an expression that says. I told you that bitch was trouble.
“False alarm,” I bark down the corridor. “Go back to your stations.” Then, I turn to Donnacha. “Get Poppy from the museum and tell her she has a visitor.”