Heavy footsteps jolt me from my thoughts and I pull my gaze away from Livvie, meeting the angry one of Roman whatever the fuck. My lips pull into a tight line and I slide out of the booth to face him.
“You just can’t seem to keep the fuck away from what’s mine, can you,” I say, a statement, not a question. “Stop showing up where you don’t belong.”
Roman’s about a head shorter than me but he glares like we’re eye to eye.
“That attack at the gala? It wasn’t just a random hit. It was a message. For you, asshole,” he growls.
I slam him against thepaneled wall, locking him into position with my forearm against his throat. The music stops. People stare, holding their breath for what comes next. Livvie gasps and jumps out of her seat. “You need to get the hell out of here now.”
“Maybe you need to ask yourself why I’m needed,” Roman sputters. “There are reasons, Kingston.”
Rage bubbles in my veins, scorching every cell.
“I don’t give a shit what your reasons are. Go back to your boss and tell him I’m in charge. Not him. Not you. Whatever you think you know is bullshit. And if you think about coming near my wife again, it won’t be my arm pressed against your throat. It’ll be a blade slicing through it.”
We leave the jazz club, my vision a blur of red the whole ride back home because of that asshole. Livvie doesn’t even try to speak to me while we’re in the back of the truck. Just before the driver pulls into the private garage, my cell phone pings with a message. Dropping my eyes to the screen, my entire body tenses.
I clutch the phone tight in my hand.
It’s a summons. From the Red Tribunal. An address and a time, exactly an hour and a half from now. I text Bronx and tell him to get his ass over to my place immediately, if not sooner.
I stalk out of the elevator once we’re back in the penthouse, shrug off my jacket, and head directly to the bar. I pour myself a glass of bourbon, down it, then hurl the glass against a wall.
“What is it?”Livvie finally asks. “Who texted you?”
I gulp down another shot and just as I’m about to answer, the elevator doors open and Bronx barrels into the foyer.
“What the fuck is going on?” he says.
“I need to go out to Long Island,” I say, clenching the highball glass in my hand. “The Red Tribunal wants me to appear before them. Tonight.”
“Okay, so lemme get the guys together—” Bronx starts.
“No. I’m not bringing an entourage with me. That’ll make me look weak as fuck and that’s not how I play. If they want me, they’ll get me.” I turn to Livvie and capture her chin in my hand. “Don’t trust anybody,” I growl. “And don’t fucking leave this penthouse. No matter what happens.”
I slant Bronx a look. “Stay with her. Don’t let anyone in here.”
“This is stupid,” Bronx grumbles. “You should at least take me with you. We can fuck ’em up together. United front and all that shit.”
“It’s more important for you to stay here.” I shoot a pointed look at Livvie.
“I can protect myself,” Livvie says. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
I lift an eyebrow. “You really wanna go there, princess? It’s because of me you’re alive right now. I wanna keep you that way. So don’t fucking leave.”
She rolls her eyes. “Uh-huh, totally not surprisingat all.”
I grab a .22mm and stick it into the waistband of my pants. Then I hold out my hand to Bronx. “Give me your keys.”
Bronx grits his teeth and drops the keys to his Audi R8 into my outstretched hand. “Watch the fucking paint job.”
Forty-five minutes later, Ipull off the Seaford-Oyster Bay Expressway. I weave through darkened neighborhoods of huge estate homes until I come to a gated mansion set so far back from the road, I can't even make it out. I lower my window and stab the button next to the intercom.
Nobody answers but the black wrought iron gates creak open. With my pulse hammering a hole into the side of my neck, I shift and press my foot on the gas, following the driveway all the way to the house beyond a thick wall of trees. The place is dark, save for a few lights on the ground floor.
The front door opens before I have a chance to knock and a man in a dark suit wordlessly leads me toward a large drawing room where three other men sit. Watching. Waiting.
He makes a quick introduction, pointing at the men from left to right. “Conor Gallivan, Carlo Rossi, Giovanni Fiorentino.”
