Destiny Mine (Tormentor Mine #3)(80)

When the mirror confirms that there are no traces left of my impromptu panic attack, I paste a smile on my lips and step out, assuring Mom yet again that I’m fine.

We return to the living room, which is now startlingly empty.

“They all left,” Mom says, smiling at my look of surprise. “While you were in the bathroom.”

“Oh.” I look at the clock and am shocked to see that it’s already two in the afternoon.

No wonder Peter wanted to make sure I ate a hearty breakfast.

“The ceremony starts at four, but Peter said the photographer is coming at three for family pictures,” Mom says. “So we should head over there. Your dad is already on his way.”

“Right, okay.” I curl my hand into a fist to hide the slight tremor in my fingers. My throat still feels too tight, and the thought of it all—the pictures, the ceremony, everyone staring and gossiping—is unbearable, completely overwhelming.

“Mom…” I press my hand to my stomach, which is now genuinely unsettled. “You know, I think I do need some medicine. There’s a pharmacy a block away, so I’ll just—”

“What? No, don’t be crazy.” Mom all but pushes me toward the couch. “You can’t go anywhere dressed like this. Sit here, relax, and I’ll be right back, okay?”

“No, Mom, that’s fine. I’ll just slip out of the dress and—”

“Sit.” Mom’s tone brooks no disagreement. “I may be old, but I can walk a block. I’ll be back in a few minutes, and you just sit and rest, okay? Maybe eat something, too—you might have low blood sugar.”

That’s actually a good point. As soon as Mom leaves, I go to the kitchen and pop a few leftovers into the microwave. I remember this from my first wedding: being too busy to eat and feeling faint. This time, there’s much less to worry about, thanks to Peter overseeing everything, so I actually have a few minutes to grab a bite.

The photographer can wait.

The doorbell rings just as I’m taking the pasta out of the microwave.

“It’s open, Mom,” I yell, grabbing a towel to make sure I don’t burn myself with the hot plate, and then I realize it’s far too soon for her to have returned.

Did one of the makeup people forget something?

Setting down the plate of pasta, I step out of the kitchen and freeze in place.

Agent Ryson is in my living room, his gaze raking over my white dress with derision.





62





Peter



“You’ve actually pulled it off,” Anton says admiringly as I adjust my black tie in the mirror. “Civilian life, amnesty, the girl, and all. I fucking can’t believe it.”

“Believe it.” I turn around and grin at my former teammates. “How do I look?”

“Not bad.” Yan walks around me, studying me critically. “I would’ve gone with a white tie, though. More formal and goes better with your skin tone.”

Anton rolls his eyes at him. “Stop being such a fucking metrosexual. Seriously, Ilya, what did your mother feed this one?”

“Same crap she fed me,” Ilya says and steps in front of the mirror to adjust his own tie. Unlike his elegant twin, who looks like he was born to wear a suit, Ilya resembles nothing more than a thug playing dress-up. The jacket strains across his steroid-enhanced shoulders, and the tattoos on his shaved skull gleam menacingly in the bright daylight.

Sara’s father might have a heart attack just looking at him—and that’s without knowing about the arsenal hidden inside his jacket.

Inside all of our jackets.

There’s no real reason to worry, of course, but I’m still uneasy. Back in the good old days, events like this, especially in an outdoor venue, often provided an opportunity for us. Weddings, birthdays, funerals—we loved them all, because our targets, caught up in all the excitement, would invariably forget some key aspect of security.

It’s a mistake I have no intention of making, which is why in addition to my usual Sara-watching crew, I’ve hired twenty more bodyguards and commissioned aerial surveillance via a dozen drones.

No one is getting within a kilometer of the venue without my knowledge.

“So, how’s the civilian life so far?” Yan asks, falling into step beside me as I head outside to check if the photographer has arrived. “Is it everything you’ve dreamed of?”

His tone is mocking, as usual, but when I look at him, I don’t see any amusement on his face.

“Yes,” I answer, deciding to take the question at face value. “You should try it sometime.”

He chuckles, but the sound lacks humor. “No, thanks. I’m enjoying this life too much.”

I nod, not the least bit surprised. Instead of taking advantage of the amnesty I got for him, Yan took over the business—files, shell corporations, team accounts, and all—and has been using the team’s contacts to secure new, ever more lucrative gigs. The takeover happened the day after I left for Esguerra’s compound, which means Yan had been planning it for a while.

I was right to be wary.

If I hadn’t stepped down when I did, one of us would likely be dead.

As expected, Ilya joined his brother in the new venture, but Anton is still deciding.