Chapter 4
Maximo
I’ve been sitting in my office for hours, papers spread across the desk, the light low enough to ease the migraine behind my eyes.
Someone in my crew is a traitor. And until I know who, I can’t trust anyone.
That’s why my hand snatches up my gun lying next to the ledgers when my door explodes open. The entire frame rattles, and instinct takes over before thought.
I’m halfway out of my chair, weapon raised…and then I see her.
Constance storms inside my office like she owns the fucking place, her hair still damp, robe hanging off one shoulder, eyes burning hot enough to scorch the room.
She doesn’t flinch at the sight of my gun pointed directly at her.
Of course she doesn’t.
For a second, I consider the possibility that I might actually be losing my mind, because the sight of her angry, trembling, beautiful in a way that should be illegal, hits me harder than the threat of an intruder would have.
“What the hell are you doing barging into my office without knocking?” I bite out, lowering my weapon but not putting it away.
“You,” she seethes, marching up to my desk. “You knew.”
She throws the folder at me with enough force that the papers explode across the desk.
“You knew my father asked for help!” she exclaims, her voice quivering. “You knew he reported that car outside the restaurant. And you didn’t do a goddamn thing about it!”
I set the gun down on the desk slowly and retake my seat. “I didn’t know about the suspicious car until after the fire.”
“Bullshit!” She’s shaking now, not with fear, but betrayal. “Your men dismissed him. They called him paranoid! This—” She slams a finger onto the folder. “This is what got my father killed.”
“Constance—”
“No. You don’t get to say my name like that, like I’m overreacting. Not when you or your men ignored him.”
My jaw clenches. “I didn’t ignore him.”
“Then your men did. And you’re responsible for them.”
Every word out of her mouth is as sharp as a knife, and she goes right for my jugular.
“You have every right to be angry,” I say quietly.
She freezes because she expected denial or deflection, not my agreement.
“I know I failed him,” I admit.
Her eyes widen, not with victory at hearing my confession, but with something heavier.
“But I won’t fail you.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
She sucks in a breath. “You can’t possibly promise that,” she whispers.
“I’m promising it anyway.”
She looks away for a second, her jaw tight, robe slipping further down her shoulder. My fingers twitch with the urge to pull it back into place, and that alone infuriates me.
“Did you just bust in here to scream at me?” I ask her.
She swallows, her throat bobbing. “I came in here to confront you, yes. And now…now I want…” She hesitates. Then says, “I want you to teach me how to kill them all, everyone responsible.”
I lean back in my chair to brace myself. I knew she wanted revenge, but I didn’t expect her to ask for training. That’s something else entirely.
“You want me to teach you to be a killer?”
“You or one of your men.”
As if I would trust “one of my men” to work closely with her without being nearby.
“You want to learn what exactly? How to shoot a man in the head? Stab him in his chest?”
“Practice makes perfect, right?”
Sighing, I get up to walk around the desk to face her. Constance lifts her chin as if to remind me she’s not afraid of me.
“You’re not built for this,” I say. “You’re smart. I’m well aware that you’re studying business administration at NYU. Your father was so proud…”
“Not anymore, I’m not.”
Okay, I let that remark slide for now.
“But this is a different kind of business, Constance. Nothing you learned in a college course will prepare you for my world. It will eat an innocent woman like you alive.”
“Then teach me how to bite back,” she snaps as her cheeks redden while her eyes bore into mine.
There it is.
Her fire.
Her fury.
Her raw, beautiful need for vengeance.
And for a second, just one brief moment, I almost reach out and touch her. I restrain myself with more effort than I like to admit. Because if I touch her, I won’t stop. And I need to stay in control.
Instead, I step back, creating some distance between us, and remind myself that this is about justice, and not idiotic desires for a woman I can’t have.
“Meet me in the basement at nine in the morning,” I say.
“What’s in the basement?” she asks.
“The armory. We’ll start your training there. Maybe you’ll work off some of your anger at me in the process.”
She nods once and turns to leave. Just before she walks out, she says, “You should have listened to him,” as if she has to get the last word in, to stab me in the heart one last time.
I stand there, staring at the door, wondering when exactly I started losing control of this situation.
It’s becoming clear that Constance doesn’t want to sit back and watch while I find vengeance for her father’s death.
No, she wants to become a weapon in her own right.
Going around behind my desk, I lower myself back into my chair, staring at the papers she flung across it.
And for the first time tonight, I finally holster my gun.
Because the only person in this house who scares me right now is the reckless woman I just agreed to train.
After Constance leaves my office, I try to go to bed, but I can’t sleep a wink.
Not because of the leak. In my line of work, an occasional betrayal is just the cost of doing business. It’s not even because of the men I might have to kill in the coming days.
I don’t sleep because of her.
Constance Monroe walked into my house like a storm cloud filled with rumbling fury. Her grief is a weapon, and she knows exactly how to use it. And still, I let her speak to me the way no one else in this city would dare. I let her question me. I let her stay out of guilt.
Was it my failure eating at me worse than before she arrived?
Was it the way she looked at me, unafraid, even eager for revenge?
Was it the way my robe fell off her shoulder revealing a line of skin that I wanted to taste?
I can still see her pale skin and long, dark hair trailing down her back, and the way her hazel eyes catch the light when she glares at me as clearly as if she were standing in front of me.
Wanting her feels like another failure, and I don’t have room for one more.
Those are the thoughts that keep me awake as I give up on sleep and return to my desk, sending out emails and orders from my laptop. I barely notice how much I’ve drunk until I pick up the whiskey decanter from the bar and pour the last dregs into my glass.
Even though the ache behind my eyes worsens, I sit in my office until sunrise, thinking about every word she said.
Because she’s right.
We failed her father.
I failed him.
There was a car parked outside Robert Monroe’s restaurant for three nights in a row.
My men reported it but didn’t act. They were waiting for evidence, for orders that never came.
The camera outside the back entrance went offline the afternoon of the fire.
No one bothered to replace it. A patrol was supposed to pass by every thirty minutes. That night, they skipped an hour.
And during that hour, Robert Monroe’s restaurant went up in an inferno with him inside it.
It’s a miracle Constance wasn’t there, up in her room studying, but out with her friends instead.
Well, not really a miracle, I suppose. I had cautioned Robert back when our deal was first struck to make sure the restaurant was empty when one of our drops was passing through.
He always made sure his daughter was far removed from our business. That caution likely saved her life.
And while right now we still don’t know who lit the match, we will soon.
Because I won’t stop until we find out who is responsible.
My cell buzzes on the desk. Enzo’s name flashes across the screen.
I answer with one word. “Talk.”
“We found the car we think they used,” he says without preamble.
“It matches the one we saw on some of the surveillance from the next block over. It’s the same Black Lexus with a big-ass dent in the trunk.
The plates were pulled off, but it was dumped in an alley near the docks sometime in the last few nights. ”
“Prints?”
“Seems like it was wiped down. But I’ve got one of our guys running a UV scan. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
I sigh as I scratch at the stubble that has grown on my chin. It’s been a long fucking night. “Find out who was assigned to Monroe’s rotation that entire week. All of them. I want full names, addresses, phone records. Specifically, let me know who was responsible for the patrols that night.”
“You got it, boss.”
I hang up and toss the phone down on my desk.
We found the car, and we’ll find the men.
Then there will be no forgiveness, only unmarked graves.