Chapter 33 Augusto
Augusto
Erin and Paige are asleep when I peer through the door to their room. This is the time for me to leave. If I wait until Erin wakes up, she’ll ask questions, and I don’t have answers for her yet.
All I know is an audience is likely to be waiting for me at the lodge—the other men involved in the deal, maybe even the staff. They’ll want to know why I’ve fucked up their plans, why my men haven’t released the goods, why I haven’t had a bullet put into my head yet.
I pause at the threshold of the bedroom anyway.
Paige is curled into Erin’s side, her arms tucked into the space between them. Erin’s hand is tangled in her daughter’s hair, protecting her even in unconsciousness.
Something inside my chest warms at the sight of them both and I step silently into the room.
Erin’s breathing is uneven. It’s from a trifecta of exhaustion, shock, and adrenaline withdrawal.
She’s had the day from hell, yet she wears it like a damned beauty queen.
Fresh hatred for her dead husband flows through me, curling my fists.
How could any man take a woman this spirited, this beautiful, and want to break her with his bare hands?
I temper my own breathing and flex my fingers. There’s a lock of hair covering one eye. I reach out before I can stop myself and smooth it away with my forefinger.
“I’ll be back,” I promise. “You rest, my angel. No one can hurt you here.”
Behind me, Arrow shifts in the hallway.
His voice is flat. “You’re really going back,” he states.
I turn to face him. “Yes.”
“They’re still there though, right? The brokers, the financiers, the contractors. They’re gonna know everything’s fucked for them now. They’re gonna want blood, Augie.”
I step out of the room and close the door softly behind me. “All the more reason to conclude the matter personally.”
Arrow follows me down the hall to where my coat hangs in the closet. “You could send a message instead.”
“I am sending one,” I reply, pulling on my coat. “In person.”
“They’ll kill you. At least let me come with you.”
“And have you killed too? Just one more attempted murder will do for now.”
He exhales slowly and I can tell I’m trying his patience.
“I want you here, on the estate. Keep an eye on the perimeter, make sure there are no stray mongrels loitering about in the trees.”
“I will. And you—try not to bleed out before you get back.”
I allow myself the smallest flicker of dry amusement. “I will do my best.”
Then I open the door to the less-safe outside, and leave.
The retreat looms out of the darkness like it’s been waiting for me.
The lights in the lobby, dining room, business suites and some of the bedrooms are still on. The volume of parked cars has thinned but it’s clear some of the guests are still here. They haven’t taken off after discovering the organizer of the whole dirty deal is dead.
That means they have a score to settle. With me.
I step out of Arrow’s car into the silent night.
The gravel crunches underfoot, sounding much louder than it did the first time I walked this path.
Perhaps because I’d managed to tune out all sound then to focus on the scent of Erin, the words that unwittingly came out of her mouth, the way her hips swayed as we climbed the steps.
She didn’t believe she belonged here. And fuck, now I agree. She belongs somewhere far, far better than this shithole.
My pulse thumps against my temple as I approach the front door. It’s already open, giving me a glimpse of the lobby that is as cool and hard as the Glock in my waistband. It’s no longer masquerading as a place designed to relax.
The smiles are gone, and so is the laughter.
Three men are standing near the reception desk, their eyes trained on me as I enter. The Brit, the Floridian and one of the Turks. Two more linger by the bar—sweaty Todd and a man I haven’t seen before.
All of them look like they’re about to bay for blood.
“Zanotti,” says Miles in greeting.
Not King, I note. Word spreads fast.
“You took your time.”
“I had some personal matters to attend to,” I reply, evenly.
His gaze sharpens. “You killed the middleman.”
“I killed two of them,” I say, not skipping a beat.
“Why?” Miles asks, shaking his head like he can’t comprehend the audacity.
“The first was about to kill his own daughter. The second tried to garrote me with a fucking bootlace. I suppose any of you gentlemen would have done the same.”
The man I don’t recognize coughs into his hand.
“You’ve stalled transit,” the Brit says bluntly. “It seems this deal can’t go ahead without your involvement. Clearance at the port has already been delayed. Our shipment is sitting idle. If it’s delayed for much longer, it will attract the attention of authorities and none of us want that.”
“Our shipment?” I say, mildly.
He breathes out a tense breath. “The shipment.”
I walk further into the lobby, watching as they adjust their positions in accordance with the approaching threat. If I didn’t know already, I’d be able to tell right now which ones are hardened criminals and which ones are pretending.
“The goods are currently secured in a port under my operational jurisdiction,” I say. “Which means they move when I authorize them. Not before.”
“And if you don’t?” the Brit asks.
I stop and face him. “Then they don’t move at all.”
His jaw tightens. “You are aware of the financial implications.”
“I am aware of the human implications,” I reply. “Which, in my opinion, outweigh the financial ones considerably.”
The Floridian near the bar shifts slightly and I notice his hand drifting too close to his jacket.
I don’t even look at him when I speak.
“If you wrap your hand around that weapon, you won’t live to take another breath.”
He freezes.
Miles exhales sharply. “This was a coordinated agreement. You don’t get to unilaterally dismantle it because the orchestrator was compromised.”
“I’m not dismantling it,” I correct. “I’m redirecting it.”
His attention sharpens immediately.
“To where?” he asks.
“To a dead end,” I reply.
A wave of realization flows through the room and I can almost feel the heckles on these men rising.
That wasn’t the answer they’d hoped for.
I’ve just told them I’m squashing the deal—it’s never going to happen.
Whatever time, money and ego they’ve invested in this deal is about to evaporate like a hot spring on a winter’s day.
“You’re burning the deal?” the Brit grits out.
I turn to him. “I’m neutralizing it.”
“What about the buyers?” he says, his voice erring on the edge of desperation. “If they don’t get what they’ve paid for, they’ll come after us. They’ll come after you.”
“So give them their money back.”
The Floridian steps forward. “We can’t do that.”
“Why?” I frown. “Don’t tell me you spent it already.”
His face pales so I take that as a yes.
“We’ll tell them it was you,” Todd says, in a slightly shaky voice.
“In that case, we’ll deliver them the goods, in the terribly unusable state they are currently in. Then, they’ll be after you.”
“What?” he asks.
“Oh, didn’t your middleman tell you?”
I swipe open my phone and pull up the photographs I doctored earlier, then I flip the screen around.
“They’re useless. Whoever packaged them was careless to say the least.”
The pictures show the rifles and grenades badly packaged, dented, parts missing. A mess.
“What about the sellers?” he asks, his voice pitched with nerves.
“They’ll receive a lesson in operational risk.”
A long, tense silence follows.
“You realize you’re about to make some serious enemies,” Miles says quietly.
“I already have enemies,” I reply. “What I’m offering is containment.”
“What do you mean exactly?”
I see him before anyone else does. The Floridian who tried to reach for his gun earlier does so again. But he’s a rookie and I’ve been at this for forty years.
“You son of a—”
My own gun whips out and sends a bullet through his skull before he can finish his sentence.
“If I don’t release the goods, they come after me. But I’ll be expecting them. I take the risk, not you,” I continue without missing a beat.
Todd sways against the bar.
Minutes pass as the men exchange glances, attempting to communicate wordlessly.
“I don’t believe that photograph is real,” the Brit says, eventually. “I think the goods are fine. You just don’t want the heat that might come your way once our partners have the firearms in their possession.
Ah shit. Rumbled.
“This deal is making us extremely rich, Zanotti. We’re not just going to let some Italian fucking asshole ruin that for us. If you don’t release the goods, we’ll—”
My eyes turn on him whip fast. “You’ll what?”
Miles steps forward. “Use leverage.”
I arch a brow but my blood is thickening fast. I want to kill this motherfucker if he’s thinking what I think he’s thinking.
“Where’s your ‘wife’ Zanotti?”
There it is.
I step right up to him, close enough that I can smell the fear rolling off him like rain.
“Why do you want to know?”
He purses his lips. Swallows. “Because she might come in useful.”
Thunderous rage rattles my skull but I force calm into my words. “If anyone in this room dares to find my ‘wife’ useful, they will discover that I am far less patient when my personal interests are threatened than when my commercial ones are.”
Some of these men have never killed another.
Yet, they’ve all seen how fast I can fire a gun and how many dead bodies I can step over without a second glance. I won’t hesitate to put bullets in them all if one person dares to mention Erin again.
And they all know that a man who has something to profit from is dangerous, but a man who has something to lose is deadly.
“And Morozov?” Miles asks.
I straighten my spine. “If Morozov arrives, he’ll be informed of the same terms.”
It’s a bold claim. I’m not a don but I’ve just made it crystal clear I will challenge a Pakhan.
My conviction is convincing. Miles exhales slowly. “Fine. We’ll step back.”
The Brit hesitates.
I say nothing. Seconds pass like minutes.
Then he swallows. “We… reassess involvement.”
I lift my chin, then I drop my voice to the temperature of Russia’s coldest winter.
“Any attempt to locate, threaten, or exploit my wife, or anyone connected to her, will be deemed a hostile act.”
No one says a word, because the implication is clear.
War will break out.
And war, unlike business, does not guarantee profit.
I straighten my cuffs, the conversation already concluded in my mind.
As I turn toward the exit, I hear it. The rustle of jackets, the shuffle of feet, the intakes of breath. In one smooth movement, I draw the gun from my waistband, spin around and fire at one after the other.
Pop, pop, pop, pop.
Four bodies drop to the ground.
Not one regret.
I’ve been in this business a long time and have met hundreds of men like them. Too green, too greedy, too blinded by the allure of dirty riches.
And they never fucking learn.