“It’ll be quick, dear, I promise. I’ve gotta hurry; told the wife I’d be back downstairs in a jiff.”
I grimace. But the chain is latched and Mr. DeMarco is about five-foot-five on his best days, with a bum knee that makes climbing the stairs a marathon for him, so I’m not really worried about him doing anything crazy.
I undo the deadbolt and twist the knob. The door opens an inch, stretching the chain taut.
Mr. DeMarco looks at me apologetically. “I’m so sorry, dear. He said you were—”
I scream and leap backwards as the door explodes inward. The chain bursts and broken links go flying everywhere.
Sasha fills the frame, brows knitted together into a single dark s***h. He’s in a black suit, black shirt, like he tripped and fell into an ink well on his way here.
His eyes lock onto my I
