3. Tristan #3
“No,” Ciaran agrees. “Cade understands the pecking order. Or at least he says he does. But if the news is true, and the Stuarts are licking their wounds after this shootout, we’ll see what happens in London. Nothing like a power vacuum to fuck shit up.”
“The Stuarts are still going to be around.” Though from what I’ve heard, they’ve also had some trouble in Dublin, thanks to the O’Connell’s. “They’re just not going to be expanding anytime soon. You think Cade will get into bigger stuff?”
“His dad and uncle are adamant they’re just into ‘Weed and Tweed’ as they call it. But if they end up missing one day all I’m saying is we know who to point the finger at.”
Except if someone points the finger at Cade, they put themselves at risk.
“Cade is a psycho with ambitions is what you’re saying.”
“You and I are fucked up, but we’ve got some sense of morals.”
I snort out a laugh.
Ciaran doubles down, though. “There’s a reason you put on that mask, Trevino. You went after New York like you’d seen the blight and wanted to destroy it.”
Because I had.
“Cade is the fucking blight.”
“I don’t suppose the Irish want to take a swing at him?”
It’d be helpful, considering they’re a lot closer to London than I am.
Ciaran lets out a gruff laugh. “I’d love to take the fucker out, but it’s not worth the trouble. But then again I’m not Mr. Bodyguard.”
The inside of Isolde’s fridge is organized. The entire place is a stark contrast from Ren’s.
The door swings shut, cutting off the cooler air. I’m back in near darkness again.
“You ever heard of Cade putting out hits for people?”
Ciaran doesn’t answer right away. “No. He does that shit himself. And has fun.”
Maybe he’s not interested in crossing an ocean to get to Isolde. But he’s certainly put people after her.
A bullet is tame, though. Easier than the messy gore Cade seems to like.
“You hear of anyone pissing him off?” I ask.
“Other than this client of yours?” There’s a curious note in his response. “No. What he do?”
I debate for a second. “She.”
Seconds tick by. At first, I think the delay comes from shock. When his voice comes through, it’s worse than that.
“As you could probably tell from the earlier story, he’s a raging misogynist.”
“Is that right?” I joke, though, I’m feeling a distinct lack of humor.
So is Ciaran. “Tris, I don’t think a woman has ever truly pissed him off before.”
It makes sense. Cade plays with men, but women are true toys. Delicate creatures easily twisted and destroyed in his hands.
Cade’s rage will only compound. Not only did Isolde escape him, but she’s also a woman.
“Looks like Cade will join Marissa’s grave one day.”
Ciaran’s laughter is muted, but it breaks some of the tension. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”
“Thanks.” It’s the closest we’ll ever admit to being good friends.
He ends the call, but I can’t help wondering about the Irish bastard. He’s protective of women, thanks to the woman who raised him, but I’m taken aback by how hushed he was at times during the conversation.
The O’Connells are good at recon. In analyzing and forming tactical plans. If he thinks it’s better not to tangle with Cade, that’s all I need to know.
Unfortunately, it’s going to happen anyway.
There’s no point in wandering around aimlessly in Isolde’s apartment anymore. It’s late, and I’m exhausted. I check the front lock out of habit as I pass the door. The untouched air of the first bedroom tells me it’s for guests.
Since I knew the job with Ren was done tonight, I’d already packed my bag.
I stop digging around in the duffel when a crash echoes from the bathroom. I cleared every inch of this place when I first got here, so unless Cade snuck up the drain pipes, I’m not worried about an attack.
I am, however, incredibly aware Isolde took a hit tonight.
Tyler might have checked her out, but she held herself funny all night. She’s forcing herself to act like everything’s okay, but I’m going to be really pissed if she drowns in the shower because she passed out.
“Isolde?” I call out. A faint, funny noise comes from the bathroom. I drop the T-shirt in my hand. I’m outside the bathroom door in two strides. “Isolde?”
I knock on the door a few more times. The noise is getting worse, the skin on the back of my neck pricking.
“Isolde, answer me or I’m opening the fucking door.”
I’m not about to tell Ren I accidentally let Isolde die in the shower of all places.
It takes nothing to push the door open, barging my way in.
Steam dampens my face, my reflection in the mirror hazy thanks to the fog. My attention doesn’t linger on the mirror, though. It immediately hones in on the clear, plastic shower curtain that does nothing to hide Isolde’s naked figure.
I will never admit this, but I’m not sure which one of us yelps—me or her.
“What the fuck?” she screeches. She’s hunched over, barely standing.
“What’s wrong?” Is she bleeding again? I take a step forward, eyeing the curves of her naked body.
“Fuck off!” she shouts, grabbing a towel despite the running water.
I slam the bathroom door shut behind me.