Chapter 25 – Lily
LILY
I’ve slept, showered, and am situated on a stool at Vetrel’s Bar halfway across town. The smell of expensive cigars infiltrates my senses, and I hope it doesn’t leave a permanent stench on my leather jacket. It’s my favorite. It was Violet’s favorite.
I opted to approach Frederick Vetrel on his own turf.
Hoping to get him alone and “encourage” him to stop screwing over his tenants.
Given my intel, Freddy here has a type. Brunette.
Southern. Ditzy. And most of all, easy. All it takes is a miniskirt, a wig, a pair of pink bedazzled cowboy boots, and I’m his dream girl.
Oh, and a shirt with a neckline deeper than the Mariana Trench.
The burner from Aster rings in my bag, and I roll my eyes, digging it out and bringing it to my ear.
“Horny hotline, how may I be of service to you tonight?” I say in a sweet Southern accent.
“Fuck, Lily,” Aster chokes. “What persona did you choose? Dolly Parton?”
“I don’t recall the queen of Nashville running a late-night phone service for the criminally curious.” An unabashed grin spreads across my face. “Do you?”
“Funny.” A heavy breath comes through the line. “I don’t like this.”
“I’m sorry if the service isn’t up to par.”
“Lily, I’m serious. You know what I mean.”
I force away the chill from his warning. “Do I?”
“You’re sitting in a bar, surrounded by some of the most ruthless men in the city,” he says as if I need a reminder.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re worried about me.” My tone is teasing, but the truth in the words makes my chest tighten. Is he?
“You shouldn’t be in there alone.” You shouldn’t have challenged me.
“Well, if you hadn’t gone and pissed him off, you wouldn’t have to hide that pretty face of yours,” I drawl, and I’ll admit, the accent is kind of fun.
“You think my face is pretty?”
I bite my cheek to fight a smile. “Of course that’s the only part you pay attention to.”
“I didn’t particularly care for the rest of the sentence.”
“What are you doing tonight?” I ask, hoping to get the attention off me.
“Reorganizing the sock drawer.”
I gnaw on my lower lip. “Yours or mine?”
“Yours, obviously.” A thrill runs through me at the thought.
Him secretly in my bedroom. Waiting for me.
Inappropriate fantasies flicker through my mind.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spot a few security guards coming down the hallway, and I’m grateful for the reprieve from daydreams that need to remain just that.
“Well, I’m gonna have to let you go, honey. I got balls to handle.”
“Lily!”
“Bye, darlin’,” I say, ending the call, unable to fight the giggle erupting out of me as I toss the burner back in my tote.
“Now, isn’t that a lovely laugh,” a sultry voice with a British accent says behind me, and I take a calming breath, turning to find the target.
He has piercing gray eyes that meet mine, dark black hair perfectly tousled, and a well-groomed salt-and-pepper beard.
He’s surprisingly handsome. And terrifying.
“Why, thank you, sir,” I say, committing to the bit.
“Frederick Vetrel.” He extends a hand and captures mine, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. “But you can just call me Vetrel.”
“Daisy Mae,” I reply, with a sweet smile, fighting a gag. That was the best name I could think of? Seriously?
“What brings you to Cleosville, Daisy?” Vetrel asks.
“That obvious?”
“Afraid so.” He grins, snakey eyes dropping down my frame.
“Damn.” I kick out a boot, and his gaze falls between my legs. Men are truly so predictable. “I really thought cowboy boots had made their way to the city. I was assured I’d fit right in.”
He huffs a laugh. “I find it hard to believe a woman like you would fit in anywhere.”
“Is that so?” I ask with a cocked brow.
He takes a strand of the brown wig and twirls it around his finger. Please don’t tug on it. “You’re far too beautiful to blend in.”
“I don’t know.” If I weren’t aware he’s one of the most dangerous men on the East Coast, I might find his flirting charming. Then again, I may or may not be having wet dreams about a serial killer, so my judgment is not to be trusted. “I thought I was blending in pretty well tonight.”
He laughs, scratching his kempt beard. “Every bloke in this bar’s had his eyes on you since you walked in.”
“Well, if that’s true…” My eyes wander the room before finding his again. “How come I’ve been sitting here alone so long?”
His grin is wicked. “Because they know the most beautiful women are reserved for me.” I grit my teeth at his words.
Reserved for him. As if women are property.
As if his mere existence gives him entitlement to what’s between my legs.
And if I weren’t already disgusted by this absolute buffoon of a man, the misogyny would do it for me.
“Sorry I left you waiting, love. I had some business to attend to.”
“You came just in time.” I reach out and rest my hand on his arm. He beams with pride, and I can tell my answer pleased him. “So, I’m assumin’ this is your place, then?”
“Is it to your standard, Ms. Mae?” I can’t believe this idiot is truly falling for this ditzy cowgirl act.
Retrieving my glass off the bar, I say, “I’ve had better whiskeys, but it’s fine.”
“Fine?” He purses his lips, eyes falling to my barely drunk liquor, then returning to mine. “I’ve got a splendid bottle of Macallan M Black in my office.” His eyes dance with desire. “Care to share a private drink?”
“How could I say no to a scotch twice my age?” I say, smiling coyly, and given the lust in his expression, I’d say that answer also pleased him. He, too, looks to be about twice my age.
Vetrel extends a hand, and I take it, sliding off the bar stool. His fingers find my waist, dipping under the hem of my shirt, and I remind myself this will all be over soon as he ushers me through the bar and down a hallway where two security guards are lingering.
The plan is simple. Get in. Threaten this piece of shit to leave his tenants alone. And get out. No detours. And definitely no hanky-panky.
“Come back in thirty,” he tells them, and they share a look before disappearing without another word.
He turns a key in the door to his office, a sickening victorious grin on his face as if he’s already won. I’ll admit, sometimes being underestimated does work in your favor. I’m sure this guy has no clue this ditzy cowgirl is about to kick his fish and chips ass.
He ushers me in, and I take the opportunity to case the room as the door clicks shut behind us.
Windows: three.
Cameras: zero.
Weapons: none visible, but there is a fireplace poker that could be of use if necessary. I noticed a pistol clipped to his belt under his suit jacket, so leaving him time to get to that weapon is absolutely not an option.
My eyes catch on the art above his fireplace: a skull encrusted with stones and a knife sticking out of the top, the handle of which is also bejeweled. The style reminds me of Isla’s, but the stones shine more realistically, unlike the plastic bedazzled ones on the taxidermy animals.
“See something that catches your eye, Daisy?” he asks, sliding a hand around my waist as I analyze the piece.
I came here for Amara, but maybe I’ll find some other answers along the way.
A warm breath fans across my neck, and he kisses softly, forcing chills down my spine.
I have to physically restrain myself from jerking away.
“That’s an interesting art piece.” I gesture to the skull, and he lifts his head, looking at it. Thankfully.
“Worth every penny.” He brushes the hair off my shoulder, fingertips dancing against the skin, and I fight repulsion.
“I just… love how art speaks to you. You know? Like, what does this piece say to you?” I hold my breath, hoping my line of questioning isn’t too obvious. But what I’ve come to discover with men is they’re typically so vain, they can’t skip an opportunity to talk about themselves.
“It means don’t fuck with the Vetrel family.” He sucks on the skin between my neck and shoulder. That’s definitely going to leave a mark.
“You know…” I purse my lips, nodding. “I love that. I’ve been growing my art collection since I was a kid. Always looking for something unique. Where did you get it?”
He pauses, exhaling in a huff as he lifts his lips from my skin. Thank goodness! “It was a gift. And the artist is probably a bit… out of your price range.”
His hands trace my arms as I turn to face him. I should get a damn Oscar for the performance I’m putting on, although my patience is wearing thin. “Are you saying I look cheap, Mr. Vetrel?”
“Now, don’t put words in my mouth, darling. We’re having such a nice evening,” he says, and I step towards him, the alcohol on his breath so close I can almost taste it.
“You know, my daddy taught me two very important lessons in life.” I nudge the hem of my skirt up slightly, hiding my hand under and wrapping my fingers around a cool metal handle. “Firstly, never assume you know how many zeros somebody has in their bank account.”
He drags a thumb across my jaw, eyes boring into mine. “And second?”
The corner of my mouth curves upward. “Never underestimate a woman.”
At the last syllable, I unsheathe the dagger attached to my thigh and knee him in the groin, and he keels forward. I grab his hair in one hand and bring the blade to his throat with the other. He throws an elbow, hitting me in the jaw, and I wince.
“The fuck?!” he shouts as I grab his shoulder, throwing my body around him, and put him in a chokehold. He somersaults forward, slamming my back against a glass table, and it shatters beneath me.
“Oww,” I groan, scrambling out of the frame, ignoring the small shards that have wedged themselves in my skin. He reaches for his waistband, and I cock my arm, hurling my dagger. It slices through the air and lands directly in his shoulder.