Leroy Kingston.
He is dangerous. He is ruthless and he craves revenge.
As a mafia boss, he's used to simply taking lives out without even blinking. Why didn't it work with Katrina? Was it the fear in those sky-blue eyes that made him start thinkin...
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How is that possible? This is not real. It can't be real. It can't be real. He's dead. I saw how he died.
He is dead.
But why is exactly the man I actually saw dying a while ago smiling at me? Am I hallucinating? Surely I shouldn't have missed out on a shower and food. I guess so, because my mind seems to be playing a very nasty game with me.
I clench my teeth as Leroy gives me an indefinable look from the side. Is he asking me to greet the - actually - dead Charles? But that can't be it, because Charles and his companion hardly pay any attention to me.
When Leroy gently taps my hand with his fingertips, I realise that he is looking at me like that because I am digging my nails into his hand.
Dismayed, I pull my hand away from him as a little bit of blood flows from the wound. It's just a little scratch, but sometimes the little things hurt more than the big ones.
"Let's sit down, Mr Richards," I hear his pleasant baritone. Charles turns his head away from his companion with a smile and nods to Leroy.
He gently grabs my wrist and pulls me behind him, because my legs are frozen, but he neither hisses at me nor crushes my arm. We arrive at a high table and immediately a waiter appears next to the table. He looks at us expectantly. Didn't Leroy just say we should sit down?
But now we are standing and I can't guarantee that my legs will hold me for much longer. Especially not when I have this dead body in my mind! But even while I let my gaze wander, I have to realise that there are only high tables here - without chairs.
What a fucking shit!
"Champagne?" Asks the waiter as no one pays any attention to him.
"Of course," Charles exclaims delightedly and claps his hands with a grin. Deep lines form the old man's face, but especially around his mouth. I estimate him to be about seventy years old, but even if he were a little younger, I still wonder why someone like him doesn't enjoy retirement at his age, but likes to fool strangers into thinking that he is dead. What the hell is he doing?
"White wine for me, please," I hear the woman say.
"And what would you like?" The waiter now turns to me as soon as he has taken down the order. Just as I'm about to ask if there's also gin and tonic, a familiar voice can be heard.
"A grape juice for her," Leroy answers in my place, before turning his attention back to Charles. I take a shaky breath while the waiter squints uncertainly at Leroy.
