Chapter 15
fifteen
This is ridiculous.
Stupid.
Certifiable.
Groaning, I sweep my untamed curls into my signature messy bun and take a step back from the bathroom mirror. Tilting my head, I survey the outfit, wondering what is missing.
Ah.
My gun.
Using the new holster Bailey bought me, I secure my weapon at the small of my back, shifting my oversized knitted cardigan to cover it.
There. Perfection.
“Is that what you’re wearing?”
Great. Just what I need. An appearance by a Tim Gunn wannabe.
“Is there something wrong with what I’m wearing?” I quirk an eyebrow at him through the mirror.
“No.” Vas drags the word out, his voice pitching slightly with his lie. “Just seems a bit… casual is all.”
I turn to face him. “You said it was a date,” I point a manicured finger at him. “Is this not a date outfit?”
“It’s a business date,” is his rebuttal.
“Well, I don’t want to sit all night in business attire.”
“Your top is too low.”
Looking down, I take in the soft, silken tank top I am wearing. It is white and fringed with a lace sweetheart neckline that prevents me from showing any cleavage unless I am leaning over. I’ve tucked it into my black jeans and paired it all with black ankle booties and a red wine cardigan.
I think it looks cute.
“My top is fine, dad.” I roll my eyes. “Why are you suddenly so fussy, anyway? You’re the one who set this up.”
The corner of Vas’s lip twitches. “I’m beginning to regret that.”
“Whatever.” I dab a small amount of perfume to my neck and the inside of my wrists. “Too late to cancel now.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
Sighing, I slam the perfume bottle down on the bathroom counter. “What is your problem, Vasily?” I demand angrily. “You’re the one who told me this was important. Now you’re acting like a scorned lover.”
Vas scoffs.
“I am sick and tired of your bipolar, shit attitude,” I tell him. “It’s giving me whiplash.”
“Ava…”
I hold up a hand to stop him.
“Stop,” I snarl. “The only time you say my name recently is when you’re about to make up some fucking excuse on why you can’t tell me something or to apologize. I’m done, Vasily. You’re relieved of your duty. My father and Igor can take it from here.”
“You need to understand…”
“I am tired of you telling me that!” Brushing past him, I pick up the small satchel from the couch. Purses of any size aren’t my thing, but I want to be sure I have my phone and money easily accessible in case something goes wrong.
Which, it always does.
“The only thing I need to understand is that you don’t trust me,” I snarl. “And I don’t want a sovietnik who doesn’t trust me. Want to keep your spot? Then man up and tell me what the hell you’ve been hiding. Show me that you think more of me than just Matthias’s widow who’s in over her head.”
Crickets.
Well, that is slightly heartbreaking. Vas is one of the only friends I have. Or thought I had, anyway. It appears I put more stock in that friendship than he ever does. To him I will never be anyone other than a mafia widow. Someone he can’t trust to keep the secrets he is holding onto.
“Okay then.” Turning, I stalk out the door of the hotel room before he can see the tears gathering in my eyes and the broken shards of my soul.
“Moving those assets around was pertinent to keeping the Saudi Prince safe,” the man pontificates. “He was so grateful he gave me one of his diamond encrusted turbans. The Portland Museum was honored to have us add it to their collection of course…”
Jesus. Is this guy for real?
Conrad O’Neill, or Crunchy Jr. as I refer to him in my head, hasn’t shut his useless trap since I sat down for dinner.
Vasily doesn’t have to worry about me memorizing facts about our company.
This asshat doesn’t care what I know about Arctic Security.
He is more interested in telling me how wealthy he is and how many people owe him a debt.
I wonder if it is bad manners to slit his throat before the appetizers come.
“Good evening.” The waiter approaches with a smile. “Have we decided on our orders yet?”
Pushing back a laugh, I smile and nod. The poor man has been trying to take our order for the last ten minutes but each time he is ignored in favor of another boring tale of how Crunchy Jr. saved everything from disaster.
The man should write a book.
If he hasn’t already.
“Yes.” Conrad barely gives the waiter his attention. “I’ll have the sixteen-ounce ribeye, rare, with potatoes and asparagus. Also, a glass of your best red.”
“Very well sir,” the waiter acknowledges before turning to me. “And…”
“She’ll have the house salad with light dressing and a white wine.”
Poor man. The waiter’s gaze shifts nervously between the two of us as he scribbles down our order. Well, Crunchy Jr’s order. It sure as hell isn’t mine.
“I can order for myself, thank you.” I put on my best Kendra smile. Fake and plastic. “I’ll have the Bourbon Chicken and Shrimp with fondant potatoes, please. And your best top shelf whiskey.”
Conrad sneers. I catch the look out of the corner of my eye. If he thinks I am the same level of bimbo as his previous dinner dates, he is sorely mistaken.
It doesn’t take long for the waiter to come back with our order seeing as how the entire restaurant is nearly full of Sulley’s men.
“Don’t you think you should have something lighter?” he asks, taking a sip of his wine as I tuck into my dinner. The man hasn’t shut up about my eating habits for the entire time it took the waiter to bring out our food.
“Well.” I smirk, taking a sip of my glass of whiskey, eyeing his bloody steak. “If you don’t have to watch your figure, why should I?”
Oh, he doesn’t like it when a woman fights back.
If looks could kill.
“You’re rather hostile for someone who needs to do business with my company,” he sneers. “I was rather surprised at the dinner offer, honestly. Had I realized I was meeting with the company whore instead of the CEO, I would have suggested we skip dinner and go straight to my hotel room.”
Vas says I can’t kill him.
Vas says I can’t kill him.
“Oh honey.” My laugh is low, sensual, and full of the promise to do bad things. “I’m no one’s whore. I am the CEO. Maybe you should have paid attention when they told you my name.”
That has him slack jawed and silent for a moment.
“Yeah.” I wrinkle my nose at him and smile. “Should have thought about that before popping off at the mouth. And as for my company’s need to do business with yours? There is no need. In fact, from the look of things, you need my company more than I need yours.”
“We don’t…”
Holding up a hand, I interrupt him. “Now. Now. There’s no need to lie Mr. O’Neill,” I assure him, injecting as much condescension in my voice as I can. “Your shares are dropping and your investors aren’t happy with you overspending your budget every quarter.”
He goes to talk but I don’t give him the chance to rebut.
“Must have something to do with the fact that you’ve been doing some naughty side jobs.
” Taking a sip of my whiskey, I continue.
“I wonder what the FBI would think about the money you’ve been shunting through an illegal account that has been funding the Aryan Nation, a well-known domestic terrorist group. ”
His grip tightens on the wine glass in his hand, face turning a rather fetching shade of purple. Like Violet Beauregarde in Willy Wonka, just angrier.
“I mean,” I chuckle breathily. “If that isn’t enough, I’m also sure that the CIA and Interpol would be ever so interested in the many items you’ve acquired and moved for your clients.
Or how about the Department of Defense? Do they know you were helping Knightman Security move all that lost cash through the Middle Eastern ports?
That one took me a while to figure out, but I do have one of the best hackers in the business. ”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he hisses, but sweat beads down his immaculately botoxed forehead. “My company is perfectly above board.”
“And I’m Cindy Lu-Who,” I scoff. Wiping his mouth on a white linen napkin, he throws it down on the table in a huff and goes to stand. I am not finished with him yet.
His high-pitched scream is music to my ears as my steak knife slides like butter through the middle of his hand, embedding itself into the wooden table beneath the silken cloth. People stare, but that doesn’t matter. Let them see what happens when you cross a Dashkov.
“Did I say you were dismissed?”
“Fucking psycho bitch,” he spits angrily, tears rolling down his face.
“Heard worse,” I admit casually. Leaning in, I whisper, “But we’re not here to discuss me. We’re here to discuss you and your sick fuck of a father who started your little company with the blood money he got from suppressing my mother’s case.”
“That’s what this is about?” he asks incredulously. I swat his hand away when he goes for the handle of the knife that is still buried in the table. “Get over yourself. It was a long time ago and from what I heard; the whore deserved it.”
He pales, eyes widening in fear when he sees the fury of storm clouds etched across my face. I tsk, shaking my head in mock remorsefulness.
“Wrong thing to say, Crunchy Jr.,” I scold him. The restaurant is silent, all eyes still on us. No one moves. Or breathes. Not that it matters if they do. The only people in this restaurant that aren’t Sully’s or mine are the staff and they’ve been well compensated for their trauma.
I mean time.
Circling the table, I let my fingers graze over the soft tablecloth before clutching the hilt of the knife. Conrad hisses at the contact, the serrated edges digging further into his skin.
“I was hoping you were nothing like your pig of a father.” Disappointment colors my tone and I tsk again. “Luckily, my hopes weren’t too high. I do hate to be disappointed. Now.” I twist the knife slightly and the man howls. “One of your clients caught my attention and I want to know who owns it.”
Silence.
Conrad’s teeth clench together, lips turning up in what I suppose he thinks is a snarl, but it is more of a grimace. He isn’t going to tell me without a little more motivation.
“Okay then.” Grabbing the other steak knife on the table, I embed it into his other hand.
He wails and curses and cries, but it doesn’t matter.
“Sorry about that. Some people were complaining that I go for the kneecaps too often, so I thought I’d try something different.
But don’t worry. A little bit of surgery and you might regain some use sooner or later. Who. Is. The. Owner?”
“I don’t…” he swallows back the pain and sobs. “There wasn’t a name attached, but I’ve seen him. Older man. Irish with a cane. He was my father’s first client.”
Seamus. Or whoever the hell is pretending to be him.
“Why wasn’t there a name?”
“Guy didn’t want anything traced back to him,” Conrad tells me breathlessly. “We kept him anonymous.”
“What about…” Movement at the door to the restaurant catches my attention. It is subtle and no one else in the room appears to have caught it.
Blue eyes beneath a wide-brimmed hat burn into my soul, the hatred bubbling up around me at the smug smile that is shot my way.
Kenzi is here.
Then, before I can blink, she is gone.