Page 132 of Ballrooms & Blackmail

Or that’s the plan, anyway.

But the plan did not take into consideration that I would be snatched from the sidewalk in front of my office building.

The Lyons work in the shadows.

Not grabbing people off the sidewalk in the middle of the day.

It’s too public. Too risky.

They prefer parking lots and dark side streets and gloomy abandoned buildings.

But I should have known better.

Ghosts from the past are patient.

Persistent.

And it doesn’t matter how prepared we are, doesn’t matter how many plans I put in place—the Lyons are dangerous.

I twist at my hands, and the cuffs clink softly.

Not softly enough, though.

I grunt at the blow to my head, feeling my skin split open and blood drips down my face.

“Don’t even try it,” Sergio mutters, shoving me forward.

With my hands cuffed behind me, I don’t have any way to break my fall.

I hit hard enough to bruise, pain rippling through my ribs, my back, my hip. “Try what?” I wheeze. “To get away from your disgusting breath? You never did remember to floss—” I grunt when he kicks me. “You call that a kick? Are you getting weak in your old age?”

He repeats the maneuver.

Then again.

And again.

My vision edges toward black, my side on fire, my nerves in agony, but I don’t cry out. I won’t give him the satisfaction.

“Always did have a big mouth.”

“You—” I grunt again when his boot connects with my side a fourth time. “You’re the one—” Then again. “Who always—” Again. “Talked too much.”

He winds up yet again, and?—

A slow clap echoes from the dark.

A man steps into the weak light spilling from the naked bulb overhead.

He looks older than he was in my memories.

Meaner too.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” I rasp.

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” he says with a sickening smile. “Aren’t you happy to see your dear old dad?”

I say nothing.