Page 171 of Black Castle

But Zev swears it was just a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. That day, he had taken out all the detectives who decided to insert themselves into his business. But he never touched the Japanese boy and his mother. He never had any intention to. All he wanted when he barged into their home that night was his fucking wife. He was just going to grab her and walk out. But when he got there, there were people covered in blood, while Vivienne passed out somewhere.

Vivienne already had this preconceived idea that if anything ever happened to her friend, it was him. Now she’s boldly accusing him of a murder he never committed. And to be honest, he’s far too exhausted to plead innocence. Besides, she is a grieving woman with a made-up mind. She won’t believe he is innocent even if he plays her a tape from that night.

The only thing he can do is find the killer. But that seems to be hard too, just like how he has failed to find the person who stole his ledger.

“Where to, Boss?” The soldier behind the wheel asks, snapping Zev from the war within him.

“Home.” Is his curt reply.

The room is quiet when Zev walks in. But it’s not the kind of silence that soothes and comforts. No, it’s the type that lingers heavy in the air, thick with something unsaid.

He looks around the room, and Vivienne is exactly where he is sure he left her earlier this morning; the window side. She’s always there.

His gaze lingers on her for a moment, a faint flicker of curiosity threading through his exhaustion. What exactly does she see out there that seems to have her eyes so glued all the time? The mountains that wrap around his manor like a fortress are the same every single day. They are unchanging and eternal. Yet every day and every minute, she stares as if expecting something, as if something beyond these walls calls to her in a language only she understands. And if that is so, he needs to find that language and learn it. He needs to find that something before it takes her away from him.

Exhaling, he moves further into the room, crashing into the black leather couch. They do not speak. They never do these days. It has become a routine.

The weight of the meeting he just had and the unexciting news he also received from his soldier is a suffocating reminder of his failures. His patience is wearing thin. The search for the ledger and the killer turns up with nothing. And every day a failed result tightens the knot around his throat.

His eyes fall on his bottle of whiskey. A drink. He needs a drink. Whiskey always clears his mind and burns away the tension like fire licking through his veins.

His hand reaches for the bottle and he stills.

Something is different. The color. There’s something off about the color. Most won’t notice it. But that’s the problem. He isn’t like most men. His world is built on details, the smallest of shifts, the tiniest of tells. And he happens to know his whiskey like the weight of a gun in his palm. This whiskey is not quite right.

Yet, he lifts the wine glass to his hand, bends the bottle, and pours. The liquid swirls into the glass, releasing its scent into the air; smoke and oak, but something else lurks beneath. Faint. Wrong.

His fingers tighten around the glass, lifting it to his nose, slow, deliberate. He inhales.

Yes. Definitely, something isn’t quite right. His eyes flicker to her. She’s watching him. And he sees it too—the fear tightening her features, the way her breathing has gone shallow, the barely perceptible tremor in her fingers. He sees the way her hand twitches as if she wants to reach for him, to stop him, but she doesn’t, not yet.

It’s only when he moves the glass dangerously close to his lips that she moves. A sharp intake of breath, a lurch forward, hand thrusting to snatch the glass.

“No!” she shrieks, her fingers merely brushing the glass as he empties the content into his mouth.

Because he is so obsessed with her, he will take even the death her hands offer.

“No.” Her voice trembles.

Too late.

The burn of whiskey coats his throat. But there’s something else, something bitter. Something that sinks its claws into his stomach the moment it hits.

The pain is slow at first, curling low in his gut like an ember waiting to catch flame. Then it begins to spread, twisting, writhing, clawing through his veins like a living thing, like a thousand tiny knives slicing through him from the inside.

His breath hitches, her words doubling over and distorted, the image of her blurring.

The fire erupts, his stomach knotting violently, a sharp, tearing agony that has him doubling over. His fingers spasm, the glass finally slipping from his grasp, a distorted shattering sound when it hits the floor.

His blood turns molten, burning, breaking him from the inside. Then comes the choking. A cough wrenches from his throat, pressing as splatter of blood stains his lips, dribbling down his chin. The taste is thick and metallic, drowning out everything else.

Like a mighty king finally falling, his knees hit the floor, his body rebelling against him, spasming, every muscle seizing, twisting a pain so consuming it almost rips a laugh from his lips. Almost.

Through the haze of agony, the suffocating fog closing in, he feels her arms wrapping around him, pressing him against her body, laying his head on her lap.

His blurry gaze lifts to catch what she looks like when she finally pushes him to kneel before her.

And there it is.

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