“You should just cut his fucking tongue out,” James spits, unimpressed.
I nod, thoughtful, giving Ringo, Goldie, and Otto a moment of my eyes. They all get the message without the need to ask, getting up and leaving my office.
“How well do you trust your men?” I ask James the moment the door closes.
His eyebrow quirks, and I roll my eyes.
“Your people,” I correct myself. Although the woman, Goldie, certainly has animal traits in her eyes. I’ve seen it in endless men.
“I trust them with my life. Otto was my father’s first for fifteen years. He saved my life. Protected me while I pulled my head out of my arse and found my calling.”
“Killing.” I state it as the fact I know it is.
“Justice,” James corrects me coldly.
I nod. Same thing. “And the woman?”
“Honorable. Loyal. She’ll never leave my side. Trust me on that one.” He goes back to his pocket and pulls out something else.
“You got Mary Poppins pockets?” Brads asks dryly, as both our eyes fall to the photograph James places down.
“I don’t know, have I?” He’s back at his pocket again, and this time he pulls out a gun.
“I’m disappointed,” Brad mutters, unfazed. “I was expecting a bazooka.” He waves a finger flippantly at the picture. “Who’s the dude?”
“Brendon Brunelli. I want him alive or alive. Last known location: London after being released from Wormwood Scrubs. I asked Spittle to look into it, but he’s sidetracked at the moment having his dick shaved.”
I chuckle, and it’s unstoppable. “What did he do?” I ask, but I get nothing from James, just a look that’s warning me to not push him on that. “Ring any bells?” I ask Brad, dragging the picture toward me.
“I’ll ask around.”
“Start with Eugene Connor in London,” I say. “If anyone knows, he will.”
“Thanks.” James turns his eyes onto the photo of Pops on my desk, reaching forward and spinning it to face him. “I can see the resemblance.”
Both Brad and I break out in uncontainable laughter, and James looks at us both like we’ve lost our minds. “He’s not my biological father,” I say, relishing the usually unmoving face of James recoiling. “Maybe I’ll tell you the story one day after a Scotch or twenty.” Because that’s how many I’ll need to retell that tale. It would make a fucking brilliant novel.
“So, the plan,” James says, getting us back to business.
“We buy Byron’s Reach. Chaka gets us our guns. We kill The Bear.” Once we find out who the fuck he is.
“All while keeping a wife and a girlfriend happy?” Brad asks seriously. “Good luck with that.”
James sinks further into his chair, and I follow suit, both of us shrinking at the thought. Brad’s right. I hate that he’s always right. Now’s probably not the right time to tell the boys that I’ve negotiated a deal with Rose that will give her the elaborate wedding she always dreamed of. Not when Miami is about to be ripped apart at the seams.
God help us.
6
ROSE
* * *
I’m not crying, but I’m close. I’m in my suite, the room he put me in after taking me from the Aria over three years ago as collateral. I wanted to hate him. Did to an extent. Then I started to chip through the lethal exterior and what I found scared me more than the man who bought me as a girl and controlled me for ten years. I found hope. I found hope in a notorious killer. And then I found love.
He’s given me freedom, killed my demons, found my son, and he’s going to take it all away. I love him. I hate him. I’m back to square one. Powerless.
I rest my hands on the terrace railings and look to my right. To his terrace. The room next to mine. That woman, the resilient, strong, impenetrable woman, survived being Danny Black’s prisoner. And then married him. I love him with every fiber of my fucked-up being. I know he’s stressed. I know he wouldn’t choose this. I know I shouldn’t be causing him more problems. And yet my deep, deep resentment for a world I’ve always hated won’t let me lay back and accept the inevitable.
I sigh, returning my attention to the impeccable grounds of Danny’s Miami mansion. So perfect. So colorful. But outside these walls?
I hear movement from the room next door. Danny’s room. I bite my lip, knowing what I would see if I were a fly on the wall. My husband stamping around searching for me.
I creep back to the French doors, my eyes nailed to the other terrace, as I hear him curse me to hell. The sound of something hitting the wall sounds, and then he bursts out onto the terrace. His expression, one of fear and fury, tells me all I need to know. He thought I’d run out on him.
He finds me on the threshold of the doors, holding the frame, nervous as shit, although trying so hard not to show it. Fuck, he’s angry. On the warpath. I find my shoulders pushing back as a result of that conclusion. I’m ready. Bring it on, Black. But unlike the times we’ve sparred and I’ve automatically pulled my armor into place, I don’t need to do that anymore. I’m exposed. Vulnerable. But only to him.
He approaches the glass dividing the two terraces, his dark hair damp, curled slightly where it’s meeting his nape. It’s not the short, tidy cut he had when we met. But what’s never changed is the fire in his icy stare. Whether he’s livid with me, burning for me, laughing with me, there’s always fire. He is fire. Danny Black is an unadulterated, uncontrollable inferno. “What are you doing in there?” he asks, slipping his hands into his pockets, probably to restrain them from strangling me.
“It’s my room.” I lift my chin, confident in my stance.
“This is your room,” he retorts, jerking his head back in gesture to the space behind him. “Our room. Don’t make me drag you back, Rose. I’m tired. Moody. I need a good fuck, a cuddle, and my mum’s homemade stew.”
“I’m not hungry, I’m not horny, and I don’t need a cuddle.” I must be out of my fucking mind pushing his buttons like this. Out. Of. My. Mind. The scar on his face deepens. It’s my measure, my way of assessing what level of rage I’m dealing with. Right now, it’s breaking the spectrum.
I see his body engage, and I back up, but before I’ve even made it past the door, he’s cleared the railings dividing the terrace, catapulting his body over using one hand on the bar as leverage, and is coming at me like a bull. I don’t bother running. I won’t get very far.
Coming to an abrupt stop before me, his toes touching mine, he blows angry breaths into my face. My eyes narrow. Naturally, my skin prickles, heat washing over me, and it’s got nothing to do with the heat of his anger. He snarls, reaching for my hair and fisting it. I smirk to myself, jarring my head, goading him. His snarl falters. A dirty, wicked smirk slowly forms. “Why’d you do it to me, baby?” He bends fast and hauls me up over his shoulder. “Don’t answer that. I already know.” Stalking to the door, he swings it open. “You want attention, don’t you?”
I snort, and it’s pathetic, because it’s true. I’ve been spoiled for three years, been my husband’s be all and end all, and now I have half of Miami’s criminal underworld to compete with for his attention. That’s pretty pathetic too, even having that thought, and yet here I am thinking it. I want to go back to St. Lucia and resume our bliss, not return to the blood, death, fear, and twisted clashes that brought us together in the first place.