Page 123 of Secret Love
Chapter 40
Dante
Iwalk into his office with a smile on my face.
Terrance Vaughn looks up at me from his desk. A bit of frustration crosses his eyes, but it quickly disappears once he sees my grin. He doesn’t say a word. No salutations or pleasantries. I can’t really blame him, though.
He knows he’s about to die.
“Good evening, Mr. Vaughn.” I stay on my feet, ignoring the chair at the other side of his desk. Intimidation 101. Always stay standing.
His Adam’s apple bobs up and down in his throat. “Good evening,” he says. He lowers his pen to hide the shaking in his fingers.
I stare him down. What a pathetic man. Middle-aged. More gray than brown in what’s left of his hair. He let himself go years ago. The world will probably remember him for what he used to be, but they’ll get over his death quickly.
“Do you know who I am?” I ask.
He’s not sure how to answer. He may not know my name, but he sure as shit knows who I am. “Yes,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
“My name is Dante Hart. I work for Antony Zappia.”
He presses his fingertips into his desk. “I just need a little more—”
“You’ve run out of time, Mr. Vaughn,” I interrupt. “I am not a debt collector. I’m the one Mr. Zappia sends in when the money doesn’t matter anymore, and he requires something… personal instead.”
He lowers his head. “Please… don’t kill me…”
I let my eyes wander his office. I’ve heard this part plenty before. They all do it. Every one of them tries to reason with me or appeal to my humanity.
“I’m begging you, Mr. Hart.”
I admire them for the attempt, I really do, but they’d be better off reaching for a weapon instead. They have greater odds trying to kill me first than of me letting them walk.
“I’ll give you anything.”
I look at the bookshelf behind him. He’s not big into fiction. Books on business and ballet and music line the shelves with no real order or system from what I can tell. It annoys me, perhaps more than it should, but that also means I’ll get a little pleasure from killing him. More than usual, that is.
A lonely photo sits on the middle shelf, about eye-level with him if he were to gaze over his shoulder. A girl, young, with long hair tied back in a tight bun on the top of her head. Petite and fit. She wears a skin-tight, dark-colored leotard and pink ballet shoes with one pointed foot raised high against a beam. Graceful, elegant.
Familiar.
I sit down on the edge of his desk and point at the frame. “Is that your daughter, Mr. Vaughn?”
He glances back. “Yes, sir.”
“May I?”
His eyes shake with confusion, but he reaches back and grabs the frame. I take it from him and hold it closer to my face to take in the finer details of her. Green eyes. Brunette hair. Not a single wrinkle in her crème-colored skin. Athletic, but not overly muscular. Poised to perfection.
I lick my lips. “How old is your daughter, Mr. Vaughn?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Does she dance for your company?”
“Yes.”
“Is she here tonight?”