Chapter 9

Alina's POV

Rowell kept his word.

A week later, when my condition had improved enough, he had someone take me out of the castle-like estate and even arranged for a driver to take me back to my apartment on the Upper West Side.

I didn't speak the whole way there. I just watched the scenery moving past the car window in silence.

New York in autumn was beautiful. The maple leaves had turned half the sky red. The streets were full of people, everyone moving with somewhere to be.

But my head was full of the questions Rowell had asked me in the cell.

"Were you put up to it? Was someone behind you that night at the auction — directing you to get my attention?"

The look in his eyes when he said it had cut deep. It made me wonder whether all of it — the quiet smiles, the coat draped over my shoulders, the burger he said the kitchen had made by mistake — had been nothing more than ways of testing me.

I closed my eyes and leaned against the car window, unable to name what I was feeling.

Back at the apartment, the first thing I did was open my laptop and check my bank balance.

The number was the same sad number as before. Under three thousand dollars.

The debt I owed Rowell was an amount I didn't even dare to think about directly.

I needed to pay it back as fast as possible. I didn't want any more ties to him.

But my injuries weren't fully healed. I couldn't go back to the fighting circuit to earn money quickly, and I couldn't take on any kind of work that required physical effort.

So I started looking for something that would work for me in the meantime.

I sent out countless applications and made countless calls. The responses that came back were either "your experience doesn't match what we're looking for" or "we'll keep you in mind" — or nothing at all.

I had no university degree, no respectable work history, and my identification documents were incomplete. When my foster father took me from the orphanage, he had kept nearly all of my paperwork.

In the end, it was a bar in Brooklyn that gave me a shot.

The owner was a woman in her mid-forties named Margaret — broad-shouldered, heavy-set, with a voice like a thunderclap.

"You know how to mix drinks?" She looked me up and down.

"No, but I pick things up fast."

"You can carry plates, at least?"

"Yes."

"Fine. Come in tonight. Fifteen dollars an hour, tips are yours." She paused, glancing down at my injured leg. "Don't break my glasses. Breakage comes out of your pay."

The bar was called the Oak Barrel, tucked into an unremarkable corner in Brooklyn. Business was steady but unspectacular, mostly regulars from the neighborhood.

On my first day, Margaret tossed me a black apron and pointed to the area behind the bar. "Drink menu's on the wall. Table numbers are on the table corners. Off you go."

I took the apron, tied it around my waist, took a breath, and started my first night.

My leg still ached. The wound on my shoulder pulled whenever I lifted the tray. I bit down and said nothing about either.

The most important thing the underground fighting circuit had taught me was that pain could be endured.

I told myself that as long as I kept going, I would earn the money I needed. But on the fifth night of working there, everything changed.

I was on the late shift that night — eight in the evening to four in the morning.

The bar wasn't particularly busy. Margaret had headed home early, leaving me with a bartender and a few other servers.

The bartender was a guy named Hunt. He was quiet and kept to himself, but his technique was good.

Around two in the morning, a few cars pulled up outside.

Black. Low-profile.

The doors opened and seven or eight men in black suits stepped out. I took one look at the face of the man in front and knew I would never forget it for the rest of my life.

It was Rowell.

My heart almost stopped.

What was he doing at a bar like this?

But he didn't notice me. He went straight upstairs to a private room at the far end of the bar.

A few minutes later, another group arrived. They were dragging a man whose face had gone completely white. They hauled him upstairs and into the same room as Rowell.

I was still standing there staring when Hunt tapped my shoulder. "That table ordered drinks. Take them up."

I looked at the tray in his hands. Two bottles of whiskey and several glasses.

"I... you take it." My voice was unsteady.

"Margaret said the private rooms are your responsibility." Hunt pushed the tray into my hands without expression. "Don't drag your feet."

His words left me with no room to argue. I looked around at the other servers for help.

They all instinctively took a step back. None of them wanted anything to do with the men in that room.

It was clear that I was the one going up.

I accepted this, picked up the tray, took a slow breath, and walked toward the private room.

I made my way to the door with a knot in my chest. The moment my hand touched the door handle, a dull thud came from inside.

Then a man screamed.

The door hadn't been shut all the way. A narrow gap remained.

The light inside was harsh and pale, casting the silhouettes of several men in black suits across it.

On the floor, a figure was writhing. My gaze landed on his face and my blood went cold in an instant.

Where his eyes should have been, there were only two ragged, blood-soaked holes.

Blood was flowing freely from them, soaking into the expensive carpet.

Several pairs of dress shoes stood around the man. Then one of them drew back and drove a hard kick into his side.

"Still not talking?" one of the men demanded. "Who has the half of the ledger your people took?"

"If you tell us the truth, Lord Rowell might let you go easier."

At the sound of Rowell's name, I slapped my hand over my mouth and choked back the scream that had nearly made it out.

My stomach heaved.

Terror poured over me like ice water from head to foot. I stood frozen in the hallway, hands and feet numb, mind completely blank.

On the floor, the man slowly stopped screaming. His hollow eye sockets stared up at the ceiling. He let out a short laugh. "I'm not... going to tell you anything..."

"Rowell is nothing. Just a dog on the side of the road —"

He didn't get to finish. Another kick landed in his stomach.

"Mr. Rowell, since he won't talk, there's no point keeping him. Feed him to the crocodiles?"

Through the gap in the door, I watched Rowell walk slowly toward the man on the floor. The light fell across his handsome face and made it look sharp and merciless.

"Go ahead," he said, drawing a handgun from his waist. He chambered a round with clean efficiency and leveled it at the man on the floor.

The shot fired. The bullet entered the man's forehead. The sound was enormous.

At the same instant, I let out a short, sharp cry — and one of Rowell's men heard it immediately.

"Who's there?" A low shout came from inside. The door was yanked open.

Survival instinct threw me backward. I stumbled and fell into the empty private room next door.