“And what about the lovely young Ms. Romera? Will she end up being my business? I fear she will if we can’t find a way to make both of us happy right now.”
Sloane sits up, clearly having heard her name. She looks mildly concerned, which makes my blood boil. Who does this guy think he fucking is, threatening her to get his own way? I won’t allow it. I will burn down his whole fucking New York empire before I let that happen. “You don’t say her name. You don’t ever say her name,” I growl.
“Don’t forget who you’re talking to right now, boy. I’m bigger and I’m badder than Charlie Holsan ever was. When I offer someone a title within my organization, they fucking jump,” he spits. “And this isn’t just any old title. I’m offering to make you the motherfucking King of the west coast. You’d be answerable to no one but me. You need to think about this for a couple of hours, Zeth. Bear in mind, I don’t make these kinds of calls personally very often. It’s unlikely I’ll be making another one. And also, you should bear in mind that I am not someone to be fucked with.”
I laugh, and it feels raw in my throat. Caustic, poisonous laughter that gives away what I think of his threats before I can put my thoughts into words. “I vowed after Charlie that I would never be answerable to anyone ever again. And I won’t. I don’t want to be the King of the west coast or anywhere else for that matter. And something you should bear in mind, Roberto? I am a dangerous individual. And people don’t usually live to tell the tale after fucking with me either.”
THIRTEEN
GRACIE
Serving in the military teaches you a lot about … well, everything. My time in the army taught me how to overcome fear and think with a cool head in situations where I might otherwise break down. It taught me how to fight, how to defend myself and those around me. It also taught me how to deal with hostage situations.
And this was not what I was taught. Allowing myself to get side tracked by Theo Barbieri administering a very particular brand of punishment to an apparently dim-witted blonde is not how I should be passing the time. I should have fucking bolted. I mean, come on, Gracie? What the fuck?
My cell phone is gone. It’s around about now that my employer will be flipping his shit. He’s used to me picking up whenever he calls, and the fact that I was escorting up his precious, spoiled-ass daughter today means he will have phoned the moment it looked like we were waylaid. He’s going to be furious. He wanted me to bring Ian with me—two men on the job are always better than one, love—but I’d told him I could handle a simple pick-up. It hadn’t escaped my attention that he’d said two men. He’s always been like that—unwilling to believe I can be good at my job. When my parents died and Paddy took me in, he told me that being strong had nothing to do with your sex. It had everything to do with determination and willingness to sacrifice. If I was willing to sacrifice the love I felt for my parents, it wouldn’t hurt that they were gone anymore. That was being strong. If I was willing to sacrifice petty things like boys and shopping and high heels, if I concentrated and trained hard, I could become the kind of person other people feared. That’s always been a big thing for Paddy: instilling fear in others. So I did whatever he told me to. I stopped loving my dead parents and I didn’t kiss boys, and the people of the McLaughlin household hug the motherfucking wall when I walk by them, but still … Paddy’s never believed I’m cut-throat enough to survive his world. I’ve always felt like a disappointment to him. Always. It’s his own daughter who should be the disappointment, and yet the girl can do no wrong. She fucks around. She takes drugs. She has a foul temper on her and is constantly finding herself in situations that would get most people killed, and yet the old man thinks the sun shines out of her perfect little ass. I mean, she’s the reason behind the entire feud between the Barbieris and the McLaughlins, after all. Waiting in the musty-smelling dry store with nothing to do but kill time, I find myself wondering if Theo knows about that.
He’s gone for an hour. When he comes back, I’m ready for him. I’ve smashed a jar from one of the shelves and I’m hiding behind the door like a goddamn idiot with a shard of glass in my hand. I’m a second away from sinking the wicked point into his neck when I see he’s already bleeding. That kind of throws me.
Theo looks at me, looks at the weapon in my hand and then has the gall to look unimpressed. “Planning on slitting my throat?”
“Thinking about it.”
“Awesome. Make sure you dig in deep. My father only just about broke the skin.”
“I didn’t think Roberto Barbieri went half-assed on Columbian neckties.”
Theo gives me a bland smile. “Turns out being his son does have its occasional advantages. Now, you gonna shank me with that, or are we gonna get the hell out of here before we both end up dead?”