“She warned me not to tell you.”
“Why?” I ask like a dick, as if Tank might know the answer. Of course, he doesn’t. For fuck’s sake. I slap his beefy bicep. “Good man.” I leave him and burst into my office, finding Rose on the couch with the vodka in her hand. I narrow my eyes. “When I get back, we’re going to have a little chat.”
“What about?”
“About your vomiting episodes.”
Her jaw hits her lap. “He told you?”
“Yes, he told me. Because he works for me, Rose. Me!” I point the machine gun at her, this situation doing my other situation no favors. Why is she throwing up? Is she ill? Obviously, I’m thinking the worst, and that only serves to bring my already terrible mood down to the gutter. “Be here when I get back.” I turn and leave, slamming the door behind me.
“Where the fuck do you think I’ll go?” she yells.
I snarl my way down the corridor. “Watch her,” I order Tank as I pass, seeing Beau hurrying out of the kitchen.
She looks at me with the machine gun in my hand, her face a picture of disbelief, and she quickly backs up to the kitchen, pulling the door closed. I couldn’t give a fuck if her father’s here. “Did you know she’s been throwing up?” I ask, hostile and threatening.
She recoils, a filthy look passing over her pretty face. “Who the fuck are you talking to?”
“You! Did you know?”
“Calm the hell down,” she shouts, just as James walks back through the door, obviously wondering what the commotion is all about.
“What’s going on?” he asks, eyes swaying from me to Beau.
“He’s being a prick,” she snaps. “Do I know what?”
My jaw rolls, but I do my best to rein in my temper. “That Rose is puking her guts up,” I say calmly, feeling anything but.
Beau pulls up, thinking. “I did think she looked a bit pale yesterday.”
“She did?” She did. Why didn’t I pay more attention to that? I recoil at my own thought. Am I a terrible husband?
“Yeah,” James says, and I blink, wondering if I asked that out loud. “She disappeared into the bathroom pretty sharpish after we’d found Lawrence.”
I am a terrible husband. And that’s the fault of all the criminal bastards out there who are monopolizing my attention. I’ll kill every single one of them. Even more slowly than I’d planned.
“Is she still in your office?” Beau asks, and I nod. “Where are you going?” She moves around me.
“To kill someone,” I grate, marching on. “Fucking slowly.”
“Don’t get blown up,” she sings.
“That’s not fucking funny, Beau,” I shout back, emerging into the sunshine, slipping on my shades. I stop at the top of the steps and scan the line of cars in the driveway, a man at the driver’s door of each.
“Not fucking funny at all,” James hisses, joining me.
“Your girlfriend is about as hilarious as a nasty rash on my dick,” I say, checking the gun as Otto approaches.
“The address,” he says, as my phone pings. “Blue Lagoon, just south of MIA.”
“Nice,” I reply, knowing the district well.
“He moved in two months ago.”
“From where?”
“A very unassuming, cramped place Downtown.” Otto raises his eyebrows, twirling the piercing in his lip.
Interesting. “Let’s go.” I take the steps and point to the third car back with my gun. “We’re in this one.”
“I’ll drive.” Brad falls behind the wheel, I take the passenger seat, and James slides into the back.
What the fuck is wrong with my wife?
* * *
His office block is impressive. Very impressive indeed. The giant glass structure sits proudly on Blue Lagoon Drive, casting a shadow over the water. Palm trees line the front, the sun reflecting off the endless windows, making the building glimmer. It’s quite a step up from his unassuming, cramped office Downtown.
I slip out of the car and remove my jacket, laying it over my machine gun. “I’m good from here,” I say to the glass entrance.
“Not a fucking chance,” Brad scoffs, brushing past me, heading into the building, covering his own gun with his jacket.
“Why’s he being such a bitch these days?”
“The only bitch I see around here is you,” James grunts as he follows Brad.
They disappear into the lobby, and I sigh, going after them, leaving the rest of the men with the cars. The foyer is as impressive as the exterior, all cream marble, glass, and pale furniture. “Floor?” I ask.
“Fifth.” James points to the elevator.
“Can I help you?”
I turn at the sound of the voice, finding a middle-aged woman behind a large marble desk. I flash her a smile. She recoils. “We know where we’re going.” I take a leisurely stroll to the elevator and board with Brad and James, all three of us lining the back wall.
“Do we have a plan?” Brad asks, hitting the button for floor five.
In answer, James tosses the belt that feeds his gun over his shoulder.
“Subtle,” I muse, smiling as the doors close. They don’t meet in the middle, a man’s suit-covered arm appearing and stopping them. They reopen, and he looks up, smiling, stepping inside. It falls when he clocks us lined up against the back wall. “Going up?” I ask.
With wide eyes rooted to James’s bullet belt, he backs up. “I’ll take the next one.”
I nod, hitting the button again, and we ride in silence to the fifth floor. When the doors open, I step out, glancing around the fancy reception area. “This must cost a pretty penny,” I say quietly, taking in the clean space, the white and glass at every turn offset with potted palms. “I’m here to see Derek Green,” I say to the lady behind the glass desk.
She glances past me, to Brad and James, and I look back, seeing James has covered the belt with his jacket. So it’s clearly only our presence that’s the problem. “We’re,” I correct myself. “We’re here to see Derek Green.”
“Do you have an appointment, sir?” she asks, going to her computer, clearly anxious.
“No.”
“He’s in the boardroom. A meeting.”
I glance past her, to the walls of glass forming a corridor, rooms on either side. “That way?”
“Um . . . yes.”
“Thank you.” I flash her my sincerest smile, which I know will still be sinister. “Some tea would be lovely,” I call back as I wander down the corridor casually, slowly glancing each way as I go, checking the occupants of each room I pass, all smaller offices. The final room reveals an extensive boardroom, with an enormous white table and gray leather swivel chairs surrounding it. I count thirty chairs, but only five are in use, and at the helm, Daniel’s father. He projects quiet power. Unassuming, unlike his surroundings.
He looks up.
Sees me.
Drops his pen.
I pull back my suit jacket, revealing my machine gun, and then slowly twirl my finger in the air. Wrap it up. Darting his eyes to the table before him, he swallows hard. His persona, the fact that he clearly knows who I am, tells me more than he undoubtedly wants me to know.