17. Ares
Ares
The following Tuesday, Rhys Quinlan, a scrappy, dangerous, six-foot, four-inch, long-haired Irishman, struts into my office.
Tapping a finger on my cheek, I wait for Quinlan Empire’s lead assassin to sit his ass in one of the upholstered chairs across from my desk.
“I need someone killed,” I say, avoiding any attempt to disguise this as a friendly catch-up meeting.
“Who?” he asks.
Rhys Quinlan is not only an assassin for his cousin Griffin, my brother-in-law, he’s a former security analyst for the Irish government.
“Someone who thinks he can sell drugs and guns out of my club,” I say, planting a lie to keep my motives hidden.
If Quinlan thinks I’m just protecting my business interests, he’s likely to carry it out with no questions asked.
“Why not take him out yourself, Zervas?” Quinlan asks me. “We know you’re quite lethal.”
“I don’t ask your cousin Griffin who should do the killing in your empire.” I lean forward in my chair. “Or did you just get here?”
“Don’t you always keep at least seven guards around you?” he asks, and I’m impressed he’s been paying attention.
“Guards guard. That’s what they do,” I inform him.
“Is this man a regular at your club?” The assassin sits back, looking mildly interested in the details. “Any patterns I can rely on? I can’t exactly sit in your club every night waiting for him to show up.”
“Got better things to do? Like your neighbor?” I smile and lean back, waiting for a reaction.
I did not get here yesterday. I did my homework on Quinlan’s weaknesses, should this blow up in my face.
“How do you know about—”
“I know everything about you, Quinlan,” I admit with a grin. “Let me be the bearer of bad news. It’s all your family talks about behind your back. Fuck the woman already.”
That’s an exaggeration. I’m not around the Quinlans enough to know what they talk about all the time. I’d heard Rhys’s brother Trace Quinlan, the Empire’s enforcer, mention the nosy neighbor to Shane.
“Because, unlike this man you want iced,” Quinlan snaps back at me, “I have honor, and I respect a woman’s boundaries.”
“When a woman is worth it, you’ll do anything, trust me,” I say, low and fierce. “Now, can you help me with my problem?”
“Got a name? And did you run his credit card from your club’s bar bill?”
“It’s a fake identity,” I lie to throw Quinlan off and keep up the ruse that Sinclair is just some scumbag customer. “The card was real enough for me to get paid for my liquor, but that was it. I smell Bratva. Their fingerprints aren’t subtle.”
Quinlan visibly bristles at the mention of the Bratva, which I threw in there to force the seriousness of my problem.
“It could also be Albanian rogues,” I add wryly to stir a reaction from him.
He stands up so fast that the chair tips back behind him. “The Albanians are under Raina and her father’s control. Raina Quinlan.”
“Do not mistake Valdrin Sokolov’s quiet compliance for peace, lad,” I name-drop the new head of the Albanian brotherhood to remind the Quinlans I’ve not been asleep at the wheel.
“That’s exactly what it is,” he defends, sitting back down.
I back off, recognizing that their allegiance to Sokolov through Connor Quinlan’s marriage is just as valid as mine is to Griffin through his marriage to my sister.
I’ve focused on rebuilding the strength of my house with government contracts that are a hotbed of corruption through money laundering.
While the Quinlans helped finance the U.N.
project, only Shane, their cyber mastermind, has kept up with me.
The rest of those Irish hooligans have engaged in old-school neighborhood shakedown warfare to keep their territory in line.
“Where am I doing this?” Quinlan asks, controlling his outburst.
“The back room of my club works for getting rid of problems.” I stand up to signal we’re almost over. “I’ll watch him, send him women to keep him company, and to make sure he comes back often. Gives you time to clear your schedule.”
And time for me to make sure the Bratva connection is severed and no one can take Lourdes.
“I’ll need to bring my trackers.” Quinlan throws me a curveball.
“I’d rather this stay between you and me, Quinlan.” I stand up. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
“We’re family, Ares.” He stands as well, bringing himself eye level with me. “Families do each other favors. And don’t keep secrets.”
I grind my molars again. “I’d rather write a check.”
“Am I just dragging him into your back room and shooting him in the head?”
“You can have a little more fun than that.” I want to see Sinclair suffer.
“I don’t do this for fucking fun,” he barks.
I wonder what has him so wound up. No, I don’t care.
“Congratulations. You’re the first assassin with a conscience.” I twirl my prized pen from a presidential signing I bought at an auction. “Just eliminate the prick cleanly.”
“That happens to be my specialty.” Rhys Quinlan leaves in a stomp of Irish temper.
The door to my office shuts, and I wait a beat before activating the shades covering my windowed walls to reopen, giving me a view of the rest of the floor.
I watch Lourdes, replaying the decision I’ve just made with a clarity that feels like I’ve crossed into another realm.
When she thinks I don’t notice, she looks lost in her thoughts, planning something. She’ll stir a cup of tea until the string has completely wrapped around the spoon stem. Or she studies her phone longer than usual before slipping it into her bag.
She performs her proposal reviews and accompanies me to meetings where she holds her head high. But she assesses everyone in the room with more scrutiny.
I notice small clothing adjustments: sleeves tugged lower, skirts looser, jackets staying on longer. I’m left with the distinct impression that she is counting down to an exit.
For a while, I believed we were getting close, but now I’m not so sure. Having her at a distance leaves a hollow ache in my chest. Before I think about what I’ll say to her, I’m up and moving.
“You’re quiet today,” I say, standing in the doorway of the private kitchen.
“I feel a cold coming on,” she starts. “But if my sneezing becomes an issue—”
“Nothing you do is an issue.” I cut her off by bludgeoning the professional boundaries of a boss. Towering over her, I whisper, “Not with me. And it shouldn’t be with anyone else.”
I’d rather her here, sick with me, than under the same roof as that piece of human garbage.
For a fraction of a second, I consider telling her my plan for her husband. My plan for her. But the knowledge of her husband’s imminent demise could backfire.
Instead, I lift my hand and touch her face. I brush my thumb along her cheek and see part of the bruise she failed to cover up.
Rage ignites in my veins.
Her pulse jumps beneath my thumb. I can feel it. Something inside me stretches thin and feral. But she pulls my hand away.
“This is unacceptable,” I murmur, my voice lowering. “I told you, one more bruise. I will find him and warn him. You represent me. I cannot have—”
“I can handle my husband,” she snaps.
I fucking hate it when someone interrupts me. But when she does it…
Fuck, it gets me hard.
I have Quinlan on the job, but I should find her husband myself and slit his throat for laying a hand on Lourdes’s face after I specifically warned him.
I’m already going to end him.
I do not share women I want.
I lay a hand on her shoulder, the firmness jolting a thrill to me. “Trust me.”
“I’ll be fine,” she insists.
I study her a moment longer, then lower my head. “You already are,” I reply. “I wouldn’t want you if you weren’t strong enough to survive this.”
I don’t wait for a response. I return to my office, closing the door with deliberate calm. I’m already thinking three moves ahead, wondering whether she’ll hate me when she realizes I removed the cage she never knew she was inside.
And how she’s going to feel when she’s put inside another one.