Page 51 of Bullseye
I was right. He’s connected one way or another. Damn, after very nearly killing each other a couple of hours ago, he’s now running to my rescue, and it’s like we’re starring in some freaking bromance together.
“Come on, come on…” While I wait for my connection to get back to me, I run through my apartment, grabbing whatever I may need for a couple of days’ travels—toothbrush, phone charger, an extra pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, and a couple of clean T-shirts and underwear. Then, from a box under the bed, I grab my passport, extra ammo, and five grand.
The vibration from my burner cell on the counter is so jarring, I nearly jump out of my skin. Great. Way to stay cool, Bullseye.
Rushing to it and grabbing it, I read the text.
“Possible hit. Check email.”
My otherwise steady hands are shaking as I open the laptop I also store under the bed. Giving it a minute to load, I click onto my heavily encrypted email account—although, what part of my life isn’t heavily encrypted?
Holy fuck. What the hell…? Staring at the screen, I squint to get a better look. No way. No. It can’t be.
There, staring back at me is my gray-eyed goddess, only this girl—dressed in a fitted, white ribbed-knit sweater with matching pearl earrings and long hair that falls around her shoulders in loose, flowing waves—looks like freaking Miss America.
Scanning down the file, I find the text:
“No match: Seneca Villetrio. Age: 24.”
“Match: Sloane Villetrio. Age: 24. Born: Sag Harbor, New York to New York hedge fund manager, Donald Villetrio, and socialite, Patricia Villetrio. HNWIs—high-net-worth individuals. $600+ million annual yearly salary, plus assets in the Caribbean and other offshore accounts.”
“Holy shit, they’re loaded. Seneca grew up filthy rich…” My brain can barely process what my eyes are absorbing.
“Sloane Villetrio attended Johnson Academy Prep School before graduating early, summa cum laude, from Columbia University with a degree in Women’s Studies.”
“And brilliant.”
Raking my hand through the front of my hair, a strange tingling covers me from head to foot, and I’ve got to sit down. Flopping onto my couch, I lean forward, placing my fingertips to my temples, and rub, fighting back a headache.
“But she’s also a liar.” Sitting back and closing my eyes, I let my restless thoughts roam freely for a few moments. Have I been duped all this time?
Or am I the one doing the duping? Fuck it. She may be a liar, but I’m one too. Something else we have in common.
And frankly, that might be a harsh way to describe us both. Like me, it’s not that shelied—well, except the bold-ass Florida remark—it’s more that sheomittedthings. Like, where she grew up, what her life was like before moving to Hoppa, and who she actually is… Still, I’ve never been completely sold on that whole idea of a “lie by omission”, anyway. Omission is simply being smart and choosing what you might want to share.
What I need now is some freaking coffee and a plan.
A cold chill washes through me, and I feel like I’ve been dipped into ice water from the inside out.
New York. She went to New York. I know it. She has a brother she loves. She said it to Seth. And she was born on Long Island, like me. Only hers was a very different part of the island.
I know it in my very soul—the woman is on her way to New York. The one place I should not and cannot go.
One wrong step in New York means Mikey and Tony would trap me, Ironclad would use me to kill Don Bordono, and then, with Ironclad running the drug scene, they’d kill my father, and then they’d have fun killing me.
But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is what they’ll do to Seneca when they catch her in New York. And they will catch her.
Fuck. Who knew fate would be this cruel?
I can’t sit here and wait for Seth any longer, I’ll have to meet him downstairs. Tossing my laptop and burner into my bag with the extra ammo and sliding the strap over my head and one shoulder, I let it hang across my body and close to my chest. Then, throwing on my Knights’ jacket, and grabbing my keys for the truck I haven’t used since I met Sen, and my bike, I rush out of my apartment and hustle down the stairs.
In the parking lot, moving as fast as I can, I drop my bag stuffed with every important document I own, plus the ammo, laptop, and burner phone, onto the seat along with my Knights’ jacket. Then, I tie down my bike in the flatbed of my truck. My truck’s a sweet little number, black with an extended cab and a flatbed customized for my bike. I’ve missed driving it, and I would have loved to park somewhere quiet with Sen and climb into the back of the cab… but we never got the chance.
“Damn it, Sen,” I mumble. “There’s so many things we never got the chance to do.”
Of all of the things I would have liked to do with her, the truck was low on the priority list. But still… She loved the bikes so much, we just rode. And that was fine by me. Besides, I knew in my gut that we may never get a chance for more.
Suddenly, headlights flash in my eyes. Holding up my hand to block the light, Harry’s truck pulls up.
