Chapter 4
Chapter Four
LUKA
Are they actually fighting about today’s date? Look at the fucking phone, I think. But again, the nervousness. Except for her, the nubile prostitute and her holier-than-thou scorn, so above it all, like she alone doesn’t have a dark side.
Say what you will about the other people at this table; at least they know they have dark sides. They know they’re capable of doing monstrous things when monstrous things need doing. You have to respect that.
There’s a dusting of freckles over her nose that she tried to conceal with makeup. So many little secrets waiting to be uncovered.
Her lips are formed into a rosebud of judgment, a configuration that makes her top lip plump out. It comes to me that her top lip is too large to fit exactly with her bottom lip; it has more volume, I suppose you could say, an imperfection that is fucking hot.
I imagine those lips around my cock as I fist her hair. This girl on her high horse transformed into a beautiful little beggar, tears of need bleeding down her cheeks as she begs me to use her in whatever way I see fit, greedy for my cock, pleading for my touch, desperate for my next command.
I force my mind back to the situation at the table. Orton’s drawing people out with careful questions.
My being here is the culmination of months, if not years, of hell, and I’m analyzing her lips?
No.
Everything is riding on obtaining the information I need. There are more people who need killing. It’s everything.
She takes a sip of her drink through her straw and licks her lips—just the inseam.
The guys reply to Orton, still wary of what my presence here means for them.
I can hardly blame them for feeling that way. I showed up out of nowhere, sliced up their leader in the grizzliest way possible, and declared myself king. I’d be wary, too. But that’s the Albanian clan life for you.
I feel her gaze burning. She’s studying my tattoo—again. A lot of people look at the tattoo, but it’s different with her.
“Got something to say?”
She sits up ramrod straight. “Excuse me?”
“My tattoo.” I hold out my arm. “Did you have a good look?”
Her eyes widen. “No—I mean yes. I guess.”
“And? Conclusions?”
“Uh... it’s an interesting design.”
Dardan feels the need to insert an opinion here. “It’s an eagle,” he explains to her. “The symbol of Albania. It’s on the flag.”
“Oh! The flag? Cool!” She gives Dardan a big, bright, fake smile.
Dardan puffs up. The best way to manage a man like Dardan is to puff him up, and she seems to know that.
She definitely knows more than she’s saying. At a table full of people trying to shine the spotlight on themselves—how smart or badass or attractive they are or how much info they have. But this one? She’s hiding her light under a barrel with the ferocity of a badger.
“No,” I break in. “You have something to say. You’re going to say it.”
She turns to me in shock. I note with some satisfaction that those freckles are more pronounced now.
“I didn’t have anything to say. I just didn’t think that’s what your tattoo was, that’s all.”
“What did you think it was?”
“An interesting design.”
“You really are one of the worst liars I’ve ever met. Don’t do it again.”
“W-what?”
“You said, ‘I didn’t think that’s what it was,’ which implies you thought it was something other than the eagle from our flag. And now you’re going to tell me what that something would be.”
Her gaze flares hot.
Dark enjoyment pulses through my veins.
I raise my brows. “Well?”
People have fallen silent. Everybody watches her. Maybe they think I’m going to kill her. Dardan frowns. He doesn’t like his whore talking to me.
“Well, I thought it might be Arianiti’s eagle. Just... whatever?—”
“Excuse me?”
“Arianiti’s eagle. He’s a prince from... some old history book.”
I narrow my eyes. It’s a very obscure thing to know. “What else?”
She furrows her brow. “What do you mean, ‘What else?’”
“When a person uses the phrase ‘what else’ in the way that I just did, it’s a request for elaboration.”
She raises her chin, taking offense now, and, God, there’s that scorn. Something dark and wicked swells inside me .
“ And I like old books. I like to read them.”
“Old books.” There’s more where that came from, and apparently, I just can’t stop myself. I raise my brows, waiting.
“I have a memory for random old things,” she adds.
“Random old things,” I say.
“Yes.”
I’m about to go at her harder when I feel Orton’s gaze on me.
We’re here for a reason, and it’s not antagonizing some little hooker.
“I still remember the score in the third inning of the final game of the World Series when I was ten,” one of the other hookers offers.
“I remember my address from when I was four,” Gianni says.
Dardan’s hooker has fixed her gaze on the breadbasket.
She hates us with the fury of a thousand suns—she really does. I hated criminals once. I can barely remember what that was like.
“Any questions about the upcoming operations?” Orton asks, getting us back on track. “Ask now, or you all have my number.”
People nod. There’s logistical chat, but Ghost has something to say—it’s obvious from the way he cranes his neck forward.
I raise my brows at him.
“Mr. Zogaj—” Ghost begins.
“Luka,” I say.
“Luka,” Ghost whispers like he’s summoning the dark lord instead of just saying my fucking name.
I sit back and steeple my hands. Here it is, I think. What everyone wants to ask. What did my brother do to deserve what I did to him? It’s the million-dollar question.
“Speak up,” Orton says.
Ghost straightens. “The men are just curious about the beef with your brother.”
“And you’re curious, too,” I say.
Ghost gives a half-shrug. “It’s just that... nobody knows what he did...” To deserve such a terrible death, he means .
Ghost asking the hard questions. I make a mental note: This guy is leadership material.
“You want the story,” I say. “You want to avoid the same fate.”
Ghost nods.
Expectant gazes fix on me.
When there’s some gruesome violence seemingly out of nowhere, people want to know why. It’s a hardwired human instinct and the reason people turn their heads when they pass an accident.
What did they do to make it happen?
“Do you know what loyalty is?” I ask Ghost.
He punches his fist to his heart, a distinctly Albanian gesture.
“That’s right,” I say. “Be loyal, be straight with me, be forthcoming, and I’ll make you a fucking prince. Cross me, hide information from me, and you’ll see just how dark a man can go.”
Ghost nods.
It’s too late for the men I’m hunting—I’ll kill them no matter what they do—but for everyone else in the clan, it’s true. Don’t give me a reason to kill you, and I won’t kill you. Simple.
The two men I’m hunting aren’t here at the table. Orton and I are pretty sure of that. A couple of them are just too young, and the rest we’ve ruled out, but they may know something that leads me to them.
Not that I can ask them outright; nobody needs to know why Orton, Storm, and I have come to town. Nobody needs to know our intention.
Never show your hand. Ever.
The little hooker sits there, secretly raging on in her personal little maelstrom. What is it now? Has she realized she’s shown too much of herself?
That scorn, though. And the tattoo thing. And how much she clearly hates us. But it’s more than that. There’s a primness to her like she’s truly innocent.
Innocence .
Please .
Everybody has their price, and everybody has their breaking point. Every innocent person is capable of taking a hacksaw and cutting out the soft parts of themselves.
You cut and cut until there’s nothing left but cold, hard bone, merciless as the moon.