I see Ringo on the steps of the mansion as we’re crawling down the driveway, his tall, sturdy body static and oozing menace. It reminds me that I am not the only one who loved and respected Carlo Black. Fucking hell, The Bear’s move isn’t only the lowest of the low, it’s the most hard-hitting message that could be delivered, and meant to be.
No move is too low.
I pull to a stop and look up at my rearview mirror to Doc in the back. He looks as impeccable as ever, his tweed suit pristine, his gray beard freshly trimmed. “Take her to our room and get her settled,” I say, and he nods, getting out and rounding the car. I can feel Rose’s eyes on me.
“Call me anything but my name again, Danny . . .”
I close my eyes, hearing Doc open her door, and she gets out, leaving me behind the wheel once again trying to get my head on straight. It feels like it’s constantly spinning on my shoulders.
On a deep breath, I get out and follow Rose into the house, Ringo flanking me. He doesn’t speak. I come to a stop at the bottom of the large sweeping staircase, watching her climb the steps. She’s wearing jeans and my favorite jumper with the Union Jack emblazoned across the front, her dark hair tied up in a ponytail. I’m momentarily taken back to three years ago, when I watched her walk down these steps before I took her to the boatyard for the first time. To the time she was my prisoner. My bargaining chip. Love fucked me over then. And it’s fucking me over now, because I will not make one move without first considering Rose. And that hampers me. She’s my Achilles heel. And I love her as passionately as I hate bringing her back to war. I hate that I yelled at her, suggesting she was never happy.
What do I bring to this relationship? I make your life even more difficult. Cost you money, time, stress, and what do you get in return?
I hate that she doubts herself. Doubts how precious she is to me. She brings everything I never thought I’d have to my life. Love. Acceptance. Purpose. How can she not see that?
“Danny?”
I blink and see Rose disappear at the top of the stairs and turn to face Ringo. He’s motioning toward my office down the hall. “Talk,” I say as we walk side by side.
“James is upstairs with Beau.”
“How is she?”
“I don’t believe there’s an adequate word.”
I inhale, knowing that to be true. There’s not an adequate word for my anger either. “And James?” He’ll be in my camp. Ready to go psycho. All we both fucking want is peace. Calm. Not just for our women, but for us, and every time we think it’s ours, the rug is pulled from under us. We both accepted getting out of this world was impossible. That we’ll always need to rule it and eliminate all enemies. Easier said than done when you don’t know who the enemy is. And on top of that, Tom Hayley is running for mayor and, fuck knows, he hates us and is likely to make our lives as difficult as possible. Or even more so.
“Don’t ask,” Ringo sighs, opening the door to my office. I stand on the threshold for a few moments, as ever having to brace myself to enter. It still smells of him. Like brandy and cigars are embedded into the walls. Today it smells more intense.
Goldie and Otto are on the couch, and Brad is walking in circles. Our eyes meet, and he shakes his head mildly. “Things are about to get very messy,” I say, striding to my desk, laughing to myself. Whenever have things been clean in my world? “If you’re not up for messy, you can leave now.” I take a seat and cast my eyes across the office to the unmoving bodies of my closest, lacing my fingers and taking them to the back of my head, stretching. It’s an impulsive move, as if I’m widening my chest, giving my pounding heart more room to beat. The pain from my slashing mission has lessened, a deeper, more potent pain replacing it. Brad reaches into his pocket and comes to me, setting something on the desk before me. Green eyes stare back at me, dulled by mud.
My throat begins to close as I snatch it up and put it in my top drawer, slamming it shut. “Are we waiting for James?”
“He won’t leave Beau,” Goldie says, her face a picture of disquiet. She knows what James is capable of. Add Beau’s hurt and grief into that mix? Between James and me, we’re all in for one hell of a showdown.
“Someone get Higham to the club later,” I say, standing, needing to keep moving or risk imploding. Ringo goes straight to his mobile. “How’s the boatyard?”
“Ticking over nicely,” Otto says. “Liam and Jerry need a raise.”
He’s right. They do a grand job between them. “Fine,” I mutter. “The club?”
“All good,” Brad chimes in, and I look at him. Vague, to say the least.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He’s not sure at all, but I know Brad better than anyone, and this stance he’s taking is familiar. Whatever it is, it’s trivial, and he won’t bother me with trivial, especially now. And that’s fine by me. “The shipment?”
“It’s sorted,” Brad practically sings.
“What the fuck is going on?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he protests, a little high-pitched. “Nothing is going on.”
“Talk,” I order. “Give me another problem, Brad, because it’s taking everything in me not to leave this house with a machine gun in each hand and shoot my way through Miami until I find him.”
“We’re exchanging earlier with Luis.”
I frown, and Otto, Ringo and Goldie all look at Brad like he’s lost his mind. “Why?”
“The cash arrived at Hiatus.”
“He paid early?”
Brad nods.
The fuckers. No one settles before they get all the goods. They’ve backed us into a fucking corner.
“James spoke to Chaka,” Brad continues. “He’s meeting the original delivery date of a week this Friday.”
“And then we exchange with the Mexicans the next day?” I ask. “Need I remind anyone that the next day is a Saturday? We generally avoid Saturdays because they fall on a fucking weekend. And correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty certain Chaka said there’s a Coast Guard training day that Friday.”
Brad shrugs. “James is dealing with it.”
I doubt James is capable of dealing with anything right now. I’m mad, yes, but this rage would be so much worse if the casualty of this fucked-up mess was Rose. “So we need James,” I say, just as the door opens and the man himself appears.
“You have him.” He heads to a chair opposite my desk and drops into it. Everyone’s eyes follow him there, everyone silent. So silent, I can hear the burning of the blood in his veins. “Talk,” he orders.
I flick my eyes to Otto and Goldie, who look grave. So fucking grave. “The guns,” I say with an edge of caution.
“Chaka’s delivering as originally planned so we can exchange earlier with the Mexicans.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Wanna give me a bit more than that?”
“Turf war across the border. Luis is running out of time and arms.”
“Okay. So we risk our business to save his?”
His eyes turn slowly onto me. “You want the Mexicans on the list of men we need to kill, because I think there’s enough on our list at the moment.”