Chapter Eleven Callum
“I want the docks locked down. I don’t want anything coming in or going out without my knowing about it.” I stalk across my office from one wall to the other before turning around and striding back.
“You know I don’t have control of that, Russo.” The cavalier air in Sal’s voice makes me want to strangle the cockiness right out of the fucker. “I told you, I’ll talk to the higher-ups and do what I can.”
“If you let what I’m looking for out of the country, no one you love is safe from me.” Venom drips from every syllable that leaves my mouth, each word deadly serious. If Charlotte Harris is shipped out of the country because Sal’s twiddling his damn thumbs, I will personally skin him alive.
And I’ll enjoy it.
When a girl is taken to be trafficked, the window to find them is usually very short.
Maybe ninety-six hours, if you’re lucky.
But with adolescents, that window extends for transit conditions.
Younger bodies don’t last as long without food and water or being in extreme temperatures.
That means timing and weather conditions are huge factors in when a container of girls can be shipped overseas. Which adds days instead of hours.
The Russians aren’t taking just any girls, they’re shopping from a list. They won’t move any of them until the full shipment is fulfilled. That extends my window to weeks.
If they have a buyer already set upon delivery, that changes the security factor. Having someone waiting turns the girls from livestock up for auction to curated goods, driving up the price. Where there’s more money, there’s more security. And security means firepower and strategy.
“That won’t happen.” His assurances mean shit. “Look, I gotta go. I’ll call you.” My phone beeps softly in my ear to announce that that call has ended.
The motherfucker hung up on me.
My fingers curl tightly into fists, muscles bunching against the urge to smash everything in sight.
The pressure from how tightly my jaw is clenched threatens to crack my teeth.
My legs carry me from one end of the room to the other, each breath coming out harsh and ragged.
It’s taking every ounce of my restraint to contain the fury raging through me.
My arms twitch and swing with the desire to cause destruction and violence.
It’s several minutes before I’ve reined in the fury enough to walk past my safe without pulling out a few guns and going to pay Sal a visit. He’s not safe from me, especially if he can’t do what he’s told, but that will have to wait until later.
Striding out of my office, I’m looking for Roscoe. I find him in the kitchen with blonde Suzy-fucking-homemaker.
The entire apartment smells deliciously like sugar and cinnamon, the scent as enticing as it is infuriating. Lexie stands at the counter in a cute little apron with a pan of baked goods. Roscoe’s behind her, lifting the heavy mixer back up onto the top shelf of the tall cabinet by the fridge.
“When you’re done playing baker”—the bite in my voice has my enforcer standing at attention—“Enzo is waiting for you at the warehouse for my cut of the Ortega shipment.”
“I’ll leave now, boss.” Roscoe nods, but Lexie stops him.
“Oh, here.” She lifts a plate carrying a large cinnamon roll in front of his face. “Take one with you.”
I refrain from rolling my eyes when the grizzly man’s face lights up, his lips twitching with a smile, as he takes the plate before heading towards the door. The look I flash him is more than irritated, and he swipes the ridiculous mushy expression off his face on his way out.
Either unaware or unfazed by my mood, Lexie turns to me with another dessert on a plate. With her hair spilling over her shoulders, girly apron cinched in at her waist, and a big smile as she presents the baked good—she’s the picture of sweet perfection. And it’s aggravatingly arousing.
“Do you want a cinnamon roll? Roscoe said they’re his favorite, so I made a bunch.”
“No, I don’t want a cinnamon roll,” I grate, frustration brewing inside me. Sal’s incompetence has me grasping at straws, getting in the way of my meticulous work. I can’t do my job if people can’t follow through on their end, and it’s my results that suffer.
“What’s your problem? I was just being nice.” Lexie’s tone turns assertive, her arms crossing under her breasts.
She wants to be friends. We’re not fucking friends. With Lexie, it’s either more or nothing. And we can’t be more.
There’s something about this woman that rattles me to my very core. Every instinct in my body is roaring for me to lean in closer when my rational brain tells me I should get as far away from her as possible. And the warring urges fuel a resentment inside me, sparked by irritation and frustration.
“The problem is that we’re not friends, Lexie. You work for me, that’s it. I’ll let you know when I need you, all you have to do is follow orders.” My words come out coldly, betraying the anger simmering inside me. “I don’t need baked goods with frosting and sprinkles.”
A full range of emotions crosses Lexie’s face—shock, outrage, confusion, defiance—before settling on hostile acceptance. She lets out a short humorless laugh, completely devoid of her usual warmth.
I hate it.
“Fine, if that’s how you want it to be.” She matches my coldness, plopping a cinnamon roll heavily onto a plate. “I won’t bother you with any more baked goods.”
With that, she swipes the plate from the counter and stalks out of the kitchen towards her room. I watch her go, frustration warring with a wrenching in my gut that feels almost like regret.
My head hurts. Every gritty detail of the Harris job—every question, strategy, and possible outcome—races through my mind in a thundering roar that pounds against my temples.
I’ve been sitting for too long, focusing too hard.
Shoving away from my desk with a harsh breath, I stand to stride across my office.
Standing in the doorway, I fight to quiet my brain as my eyes wander across the penthouse.
My gaze doesn’t stop moving until it lands heavily on Lexie’s blonde head in the living room.
The Harris job fades away as my laser focus zeroes in on the captivating woman.
Sweet fucking silence.
She’s barely looked at me since our confrontation in the kitchen yesterday.
And true to her word, she hasn’t offered me another cinnamon roll, or a slice of the banana bread she baked early this morning.
I should feel relieved, but all I feel is irritation.
Turns out, being on the receiving end of Lexie’s cold shoulder bothers me more than I thought it could.
And it’s only been one damn day.
I can’t seem to keep my eyes off of her. Since we’ve met, Lexie’s drawn me in like a moth to a fucking flame. Her energy is unapologetic and irresistible. With the way she collects admirers wherever she goes, I know I’m not the only one who feels it.
Half of me—the twisted selfish half—feels the primal urge to snuff out that beautiful light of hers when she’s sharing it with other people.
I want to be the only one who gets to bask in her rays.
That smile should only ever appear for me.
If I can’t harness it and own it, it shouldn’t exist at all.
It’s a possessive and sick way of thinking, but it’s always a temptation residing just below the surface.
Luckily the other half, the one I tend to listen to, doesn’t have it in him to steal that glow from her.
Her lovely, addicting glow that radiates with everything she is.
I have enough self-awareness to know this part of me is selfish too.
If her light’s gone, my life dims with it.
Her ability to scatter the shadows lurking with my demons vanishes.
I’m not willing to give that up. Not willing to give her up.
Lexie’s laughter rings through the penthouse, filling the living space from her corner of the couch. Christ, I can’t stop looking at her.
She’s playing with the sleeve of her loungewear set, the sky-blue color matching her eyes, her focus trained on the usually unfeeling bald man sitting on the opposite side of the couch. But even Roscoe cracks a smile for Lexie.
When I walk into the living room and her eyes meet mine, her smile falters.
I don’t fucking like it.
“Go get dressed, Lexie. We’re leaving,” I say before I fully think it through. This dinner with Viktor is just an excuse to go back to his office for a drink afterwards and talk about his territory. I hadn’t decided to take Lexie along. Now that I’m standing in front of her, I want her with me.
“Am I putting on my scrubs?” she asks with a sigh. The fact that she assumes I only want her to come patch someone up chips at the wall around my heart. That couldn’t be further from the truth. But I should just say never mind and have her stay home. She’ll just be a distraction anyway.
Instead, I hear myself say “Put on a dress, we’re going to dinner.” The words slip through the cracks in my self-control far too easily. Her face floods with surprise and confusion, but she stands to go change anyway.
Telling her to put on a dress was a mistake, one I regret as soon as she emerges in a little black number that has my imagination running rampant.
Thin straps lead to an open square neckline draping across show-stopping breasts and curves to accentuate her fleshy waist. The hemline, that stops just above her knees, is made less modest by the slit on one side that flashes her creamy thigh.
Her glittery black heels click on the floor as she walks towards me, sleek ponytail tossed to one side while she struggles to clasp a gold necklace.
Fucking hell.
Not a distraction, she’s a devastation. A tornado of beautiful chaos determined to leave my life in ruins. And I’m nothing short of a storm chaser praying for disaster.
Christ.