Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 48709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 244(@200wpm)___ 195(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 244(@200wpm)___ 195(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
“Meet us here,” I mutter under my breath. “We don’t even have to bury you. Just put cement in your boots.”
“You don’t like the spot?” Max asks.
“It’s as good as any other. We’ve vetted it. There’s not much else we can do.”
“None of us are going to be armed, remember,” Max says. “We’re giving our weapons up at the door, like usual.”
I nod, grabbing the door handle and pushing it open.
The warehouse looms up ahead of me, shattered windows glinting in the sunlight like some kind of monster.
I try to calm my thoughts, try to stop myself from thinking about Liliana and what she’s doing right now.
It wasn’t the best way to leave her, storming out like that, but the word family was driving me toward insane things, madness-driven declarations.
Now I have to try and swallow all that down, push it deep, so I don’t get distracted.
Max and I walk to the side entrance, where the security man waits. He’s a member of a discreet, high-end mercenary firm. The Cartel and the Bratva each pay half for every meeting, with the money going into an escrow account…only released when the meeting ends peacefully.
It’s the only way to ensure nobody sneaks weapons in.
And that the mercenaries don’t betray us. They want their cash.
I recognize the man, a bald Englishman with a tattoo on his neck.
“Same as usual?” I say.
“Yeah.”
The man’s eyes flit down as though he can’t look directly at me. They never can. Maybe it’s simple respect, or perhaps it’s my reputation galloping on ahead of me.
Raising my arms, I let the man quickly search me.
He nods when he finds I’m not hiding any weapons. He does the same to Max and the rest of our men, ten of us in total, the agreed-upon number for both sides.
Together, we walk into the warehouse, our footsteps echoing around us.
Gabriel’s words are clashing in my mind, the way he spoke to Liliana at the party, the way he devalued her. And now this shit with Nick. A Cartel man once, fine, but he’s moved on. He hates them as much as I do. I could see it in his eyes this morning.
I need to be cautious, not to let this animal need of mine out to put this bastard in his place take over. But at the same time, all I can think about is Liliana, my woman. If this motherfucker had his way, I’d never see her again.
Gabriel is waiting for us at a table in the center of the large room. There’s something performative about the way he sits, with his second-in-command at his side, the other eight men standing around them in the shadows.
His second-in-command, Lucas, is leaner, taller, with sharp features and eyes that miss nothing. He wears a clean tight-fitting suit, looking more like a businessman than most Cartel men care to.
Gabriel taps his fingers against the table, the sound seeming loud in the echoing quietness of the cavernous room.
I turn to Max, lowering my voice. “Have our men spread out. A couple can take the exits in case shit goes down and certain people try to run.”
Max nods, turning to the men as I stride across the room.
Gabriel stands, smiling so that his gold teeth glint. There’s something shaky about his eyes, as though he’s not sober. Sweat coats his forehead, his cheeks, his neck glistening.
“Hello, my old friend. I’m glad you could make it.”
I stare at him for a moment, then nod. “Me too, Gabriel.”
“I suppose we should get right to it,” he says. “There’s no point messing around.”
“Okay then.”
He sits, as does his second. Max returns, and we sit opposite the Cartel men. There’s something off about the way Gabriel shifts in his seat like he’s trying to work himself up to something. I try to tell myself that’s not it.
He’s not going to do something stupid.
“We need to talk about the city.” Gabriel leans forward, his upper lip curled, looking almost disgusted. “About the way things are run. About who’s in charge.”
Suddenly his curling lip makes sense. It sickens him, the idea that he and I could be on the same level in any way. He doesn’t know – or care – that it sickens me too, that he could think this. This goddamn monster, with the things he said to my woman, the things he would’ve done if I hadn’t stopped him.
The things he did, too, marking her innocent wrist.
“Do we?” I say calmly.
At least my voice sounds calm.
He nods quickly. “That’s right. It’s time we stopped pretending, Damien.”
“Pretending?”
He waves a hand, making a blustering noise. It’s like the very idea I need more information makes him impatient. It’s like everything makes him impatient, and I wonder what drug he’s on, or drugs. A stimulant, almost certainly, making his movements jerky, his speech clipped.