by Linnea May
CARDS OF LOVE: THE TOWER
LINNEA MAY
Content
The Tower
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilog 1
Epilog 2
Cards of Love
Also by Linnea May
Sneak Peek: VIOLENT DELIGHTS
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Copyright © 2018 by Linnea May
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
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The Tower
The Tower is the one card you really need to brace yourself for. Dark and foreboding, the Tower is the embodiment of disruption and chaos, but the destruction it brings is usually directed at something that was built on false beliefs. It is the Major Arcana card of sudden upheaval and change. Though always seen as a threat, life inevitably involves tragedy—and you must decide whether you will face it with grace.
Prologue
Libby
I'm falling.
No.
Floating.
Darkness has set all around, swaddling me as I sway on the verge of fainting. The pain is too much, burning a path through my crippled body while gathering pieces of my crushed soul.
So many people died tonight.
And I was right next to them, watching as persons turned to corpses.
I ran. I was pulled to run.
I was sacrificed.
And then I was saved, swooped up by a strong hand still holding the gun that pierced a bullet through my body.
A deep voice is uttering ominous commands while I was carried away from the mayhem.
I'm helpless. I'm at his mercy. I have nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
I can't run, can't hide.
Tonight was supposed to be about ringing in something new.
A tower, high and mighty with its powerful light, leaving an imprint on the entire city.
I was there. A small and irrelevant sparkle among the stars.
I was smiling, pretending.
Living a lie.
And then my world collapsed.
It was loud, violent, a savage massacre.
It's quiet now. Just a cold breeze kissing my ears, drowning out everything else.
I'm falling.
A dark abyss waiting for me.
Flooded with blood.
And I know that nothing will ever be the same.
Chapter 1
Keane
Thirty-six minutes. Just a little more than two thousand seconds before all of this is over.
Half an hour and then I'm free.
Free. I can't even fathom the word. What must it be like? To be your own man, the one in control over your life, the one who makes all the calls, the one who decides what jobs to take on—the one who's allowed to say no.
I haven't been in the position to say no to anything in years, if ever. All I've ever been is their henchman. A ruthless killer—talented, efficient, reliable—but not in command. An underling for the Covey, a group of skilled societal outcasts who operate under the command of a man who calls himself Big George, despite his short but strong frame. He's made me who I am today—the one who took me in when no one else wanted me, the one who trained me, the one who pays me, and the one who tells me what to do.
All of that will change once tonight is over.
Once this last job is done.
The Covey always made it clear there's only one way out: feet first in a body bag. Of course, they have to tell you that. A henchman's loyalty is fragile if he's not serving under free will, and most of us aren't. Force and fear are the powers that bind us more than the generous compensation we get for a job well done.
Still, tonight's reward will out earn everything I've ever done for the Covey. By far. The last remaining piece in the project of my lifetime.
The plan to free myself of the Covey.
Everything is ready. Months of planning and setting aside the funds needed to support my life in freedom.
I'm almost there.
Only this one last job, a last kill. And it has to go well.
Thirty-five minutes.
"One. Eyes on target?"
The voice in my ear rips into my thoughts with the force of a cold knife.
"Affirmative," I hiss, subtly lifting my sleeve up to my mouth to make sure the response gets to them loud and clear. The tiny mic hidden inside my cuff has enough power to detect my voice even without having to lift it up to my face, but when the chance is there, I still prefer to make sure my voice gets heard, especially when I'm in a crowd like tonight.
We're on the 60th floor of the city's newest prestige building—the Abbott Tower. Tonight is the official opening, an exclusive gathering of high-ranking snobs who congratulate themselves on being better than the ones walking sixty stories below their feet while clinking glasses filled with costly champagne that I bring to them. The waiter disguise is such a cliché for operations like ours, but it's so damn effective and laughably easy to succeed. Getting in was a lot easier than getting out will be once we're done here.
My silver tray is almost empty as I slowly move through the room, keeping my eyes on the target while offering the last few glasses to the attending guests. So far, the hardest part about this job has been to hide my disgust at this event and these people. It's not the first time I've had to move within an environment such as this, but I've always hated it. Lavish evening gowns and suits from the most expensive tailors meander the festive hall encircled by floor-to-ceiling windows that allow for a panoramic view of the city below. The lights are dimmed enough to perceive the city lights outside but still too bright to really take them in.
That will change. Soon.
"Could I have that last one?"
The voice appears out of nowhere, tearing my focus away from the target and to my immediate left. A blonde is standing awfully close to me, almost close enough for her to feel the gun hidden beneath my vest. I instinctively step to the side to put distance between us even though the sight of her evokes a desire for the opposite.
She's stunning.
Fuck, she's stunning.
The tips of her bleach blond hair grace her collarbones in an unkempt style that clashes with her pastel evening gown, just like her shoes do. Pretty much every other woman in the room, no matter whether they're staff or a guest, is wearing a heel of some sort. Not this girl. It seems that the dress was the only thing she was willing to play along with, matching it with a pair of white sneakers with gold details, a color accent she carried over to her heavy makeup. The shimmering dark shadows she has drawn around her piercing blue eyes in no way diminish them. Rather, it causes them to stand out even more, locking me down with the intense expression they conjure on her face.
She looks like a little punk whose mother forced a dress on her, only that she should be old enough to make her own decisions. She's young but most likely not much younger than I am.
And sh
e looks like she was fucking made for me. A little punk who can disguise herself if she has to.
She tilts her head to the side, pointing at the last remaining glass on my tray. "May I?"
Fuck. I need to get my shit together.
"Sure."
The word comes out as nonchalant as it should, but my pose is stiff, betraying all the training I've had over the past years. Something about her gets to me. That look. That attire. She stands out as if she doesn't belong here, yet she does.
It almost appears as if she's playing a role.
Just like I am.
My eyes follow her every movement as she reaches for the glass, struggling to hide her thirst while still looking as elegant as she's expected to.
She's a dangerous distraction.
I want to believe I see a hint of disappointment when I move away from her as soon as she retrieved her drink, but my imagination may just be playing tricks on me. If she's a guest at this event, she'll see nothing but a waiter in me. Unsuspecting, disinterested.
I walk away, shaking my head.
Focus. I need to fucking focus instead of lusting after a girl who can in no way play a part in my life, not even for a night.
Especially not this night.
I just hope she's moving a safe distance away from the mayhem we're about to unleash on these festivities.
The event started about an hour ago, and it has been the longest hour of my life. I've been dreading this hour—and the upcoming thirty-something minutes, for that matter—ever since I first heard about tonight's plan.
I hate waiting. I hate standing in position, ready to pull the trigger, but not being allowed to do so.
If I was the one in charge, things would be done differently.
But I'm not. I fucking never am.
"Thirty minutes to go," the dark voice inside my ear adds. As if I didn't fucking know that.
I don't respond, knowing one's not needed this time. We talk as little as possible during our operations, and if we do, it's only via our headpieces.
I do a quick scan of the room to confirm my surroundings before my gaze locks back on the target. Clyde Abbott is a tall and slender man who's still in good shape, considering his age. His gray hair still crowns his big head in voluminous waves with a heavy strand covering half of his left eye. He looks more like a sleazy artist than a cruel moneybag.
Very few people would use that term to describe him because he's good at hiding and even better at pretending.
But we know better. The Abbott family has been leading one of the most influential crime syndicates in the area for decades. That alone isn't impressive, but the fact that they did it while still maintaining a perfectly clean public image is. Even some of their own family members don't know about their wheelings and dealings and the power they hold over large parts of the town and its corporations.
All of that will end tonight.
The Abbott family has been on our list for years, and one by one, we've successfully eliminated their leaders and most prominent figures. Now, there are only two left. Clyde Abbott and his wife. Margaret Abbott may have less of a say within the family's operations, but she is no less evil than her husband. In a way, I'd say she's even worse because she tries so much harder to portray the image of the perfect wife and mother figure, despite having no children of her own. She's responsible for the deaths of many innocent people, mainly due to her despicable hospital fundraisers that funneled the unsuspecting public's money elsewhere. Margaret Abbott has repeatedly taken advantage of other people's goodwill and eagerness to help, spreading lies and awakening false hopes among those who already suffer the most.
And for that, she will pay tonight. As will her husband.
Clyde may have been quiet and less active in recent years, but I know what this man is guilty of. And I couldn't be happier to put a bullet in this asshole's head tonight.
Twenty-six minutes.
I can't fucking wait.
Chapter 2
Libby
I've never felt this uncomfortable and out of place in my entire life. Surrounded by fancy dresses, eloquent gentlemen, overpriced drinks, superficial chatter, and passive-aggressive behavior by show-offs who want to impress without coming across as pretentious.
If you ask me, every single one of them has failed in that mission. I've had the questionable pleasure of talking to just a handful of them, acquaintances mostly, faces I've never seen before but could always place with a name.
Not one of them could place me. That's not surprising and probably for the better.
I bring the champagne up to my lips for the umpteenth time, emptying it with one greedy swig before I place the empty glass on one of the silver trays carried around by the numerous handsome waiters. The waitstaff tonight is particularly young and dapper, providing a much-needed redeeming feature to this otherwise boring and excruciating night.
One guy, in particular, caught my eye right from the beginning. Tall and broad-shouldered, his muscles are so defined that the white shirt of his uniform stretches to the limit when he bends his arm to balance the silver tray and mosey through the room. In combination with his very short buzz cut and the tattoo peeking over the top of his collar, he looks more like a military guy than an ordinary server. He's out of this world handsome with a chiseled jaw shaved to perfection and sinister eyes that are constantly narrowed in strain.
I wonder why he's so tense? Is it his first day on the job? That can't be. He doesn't look young enough to be doing this for the first time.
I've never been good at flirting, but life presents an opportunity to approach him when he walks past me, balancing one last glass of champagne on his silver tray. I'm quick to decide that this glass was meant for me and use it as an excuse to get closer to him. But our encounter is cut short by his dumb sense of duty. He only stops long enough for me to reach for the glass, putting an abrupt end to any possible conversation by turning away from me just a moment after.
There was something in his eyes when he looked at me.
Interest. Curiosity. Lust.
Incredibly sexy.
Hell, just one or two more glasses of this champagne might even provide me with the courage to flirt with him for real.
I try to catch another glimpse of him as I wander through the room, but he's out of sight. I make sure to avoid eye contact with any of the guests when I make my way over to the panoramic view. I'm done talking for now and just seek a place to quietly drink another flute of golden liquid in solitude. Almost one and a half hours have passed since this started, and I know I'll have to be here for another two, at least. My presence is requested, despite my lack of interest in this event, and despite my non-existent connection to any of this.
Except for blood relation, that is.
Tonight is the opening ceremony for the Abbott Tower, a high-rise glass building that tops all others in town, making it the highest office building in a five-hundred-mile radius. My family had little to do with the building process, the design of the tower, the architecture, or the offices that will host several companies in the coming weeks. The tower is only named after us because we did one single but major thing—we financed it.
Old money families like mine love to plaster their names all over the place with such nonsense. Handing out checks, shaking a few hands, and sharing drinks among a self-regarding crowd to leave their mark on the city by having a new building named after them.
I hate to be a part of it. I hate being here tonight, and I hate feeling so out of place because it only manifests the ever-present indisposition I suffer when I'm surrounded by my family.
Not that there is much family to speak of. My parents have been gone for most of my life, I never had siblings or cousins, and every other blood relative that I know of has died in recent years—not always by natural causes. I can't help but feel uneasy about some of the circumstances that robbed me of my kin even though I may not have known them.
Both my grandfathers died of what was ru
led a heart attack that came out of nowhere, and at both their funerals, I heard the whispers throughout the crowd.
"That was no heart attack. No way."
"Someone is after them."
"Someone wants the Abbotts to die out."
I tried to ignore them. It's just gossip spread by bored rich people. I tried to ignore the voices that told me there could be some truth to this, but it's so damn hard. Too much uncertainty surrounds the deaths of my relatives, including my own parents. The only thing that makes me not believe these dark assumptions is the lack of a motive because I can't for the life of me figure out why anyone would want to see my family dead. Yes, we're rich, and we have been for generations, and I know that's reason enough for some dogs in the manger to envy and hate us.
But is it reason enough to kill an entire family? A family that is guilty of no evil other than being rich?
Of course, I'm excluding myself in that assessment. I'm far from being free of sin and was a black seed from the day of my birth. That’s why no one here knows me, and most people don't even know of my existence. It's the reason I feel like a fish out of water tonight.
Why on earth people wanted me here is beyond me. I was surprised to find the invitation in my mailbox just days after returning to the city. It was sent from my uncle's office, signed with both his and my aunt's name, and addressed to me. No mistake. Still, it was weird. Neither of them had mentioned the event to me beforehand, and I'd just let them know I was coming back to the city over the summer. I didn't even find the invitation until two days ago, the day of my return. And when I called my uncle's office for confirmation, I was put off by the secretary and told that my uncle was too busy to talk to me, but that my presence would really mean a lot to him.
"It's really important to him and Margaret," she insisted.
Now that I'm here, I find that hard to believe because both my uncle and my aunt seemed surprised to see me when I walked through the door. And we barely exchanged more words than necessary, which is fine with me, but still odd, considering my uncle's secretary insisted that it was oh-so-important for me to be here tonight. I guess she was just speaking in general then, saying that the event itself was important to him, not my presence.
