I shake my head, trying not to smile. “You’re a walking STDwith great hair.”
“And dimples,” he adds, flashing both. “Don’t forget the dimples.”
I snort. “Please. Dimples are just hollow holes on a handsome face. Doesn’t mean I want to trip into one.”
Bronx clutches his chest like I hurt him. “Straight through the heart, Mrs. Viacava.”
I shake my head and pour a mug of coffee. “Maybe that’ll stop the talking long enough for the caffeine to kick in.”
Bronx throws his head back and laughs, a deep rumble that tells me he enjoys being scandalous far too much for anyone’s sanity.
But as the echo of it fades, his expression slips from lighthearted to serious.
Without another word, he slides a manila folder across the marble countertop toward me, fingers tapping once on the top like he’s waking the words beneath it.
“All right, Livvie,” he says. “Time to get caught up on the details.”
I flip the folder open and leaf through the contents, expecting to read intel. Instead, I find photographs. Brutal images. Grainy, high-resolution shots of corpses, their faces distorted, throats slit, blood pooled like ink around bodies crumpled in unnatural shapes.
One has a message smeared across the wall in the background, painted in something dark and wet that looks too fresh to be paint.
One king falls. The rest follow.
My stomach tightens, but I don’t flinch.
There’s a close-up shot of a severed head. A high-ranking associate from one of the old families. I recognize him from my father’s parties, which means he’s a family ally.
I stare at the image, bile rising in the back of my throat.
Bronx leans in a little, tapping the edge of the photo. “They’re not just making threats anymore, Liv. They’re making moves.”
I look up at him, my pulse pounding when he mutters, almost to himself, “Always said that guy had the palate of a raccoon and the class of a frat boy.”
I blink. “What?”
Bronx shrugs, deadpan. “He enjoyed shit cognac and underpaid whores. Honestly, if the Red Tribunal hadn’t hacked his head off, syphilis or alcohol poisoning probably would’ve done the job.”
It shouldn’t make me laugh. But damn, this guy and his banter. I should hate him, too. However, a surprised, choked giggle bubbles out before I can stop it. “You’ve no soul.”
Bronx grins, smug as hell. “What? I grieve in my own way.”
I shake my head, lips twitching. “You’re emotionally unwell.”
“Thanks.” He raises his coffee mug, gesturing a fake toast. “It’s taken years of practice, baby.”
And then my skin tingles from my scalp to my toes. The walls close in and the belly-flipping scent of Kingston’s cologne wraps around me. I sense his presence before I even see him.
Kingston moves in behind me without speaking.
The man justarrives.
His eyes flick to the folder, then to Bronx, then to me, holding my gaze for a beat before strolling past us, straight to the built-in espresso machine. However, the tension in his shouldersgives him away.
He says nothing, but his silence speaks volumes.
“Told her she should read the file,” Bronx says. “Thought it was a good idea for the lady of the house to know what shit we’re stepping in.”
Kingston doesn’t look at him. “She doesn’t need you deciding what’s good for her.”
