“If he keeps pushing, yeah. But we need more time.”
“Don’t have it. I need to know more about the Tribunal’s work.”
He narrows his eyes. “What exactly do you think you’ll find?”
“Proof.”
“Of what?”
“That Livvie was sent to kill me.”
The room goes still.
Bronx leans forward, voice low. “So you do think she was involved. And the hit originated with the Tribunal.”
“It makes sense. I haven’t killed Cormac. Why wouldn’t they go to her to set it up? They told me they’d kill me if I didn’t deliver.”
He nods slowly. “And now Roman’s sniffing around again. Maybe it’s bigger than you. Maybe the Tribunal is playing you both against each other to destroy both families.”
“I don’t know what those fucking assholes are planning. Dad doesn’t know shit, either. I know there are all kinds of rules about not sharing information with nonmembers, but I just think he’s in the dark. And now she’s sneaking off and meeting with Cormac's top enforcer. And the way she looks at me, as if she’s debating whether to fuck me or stab me, hasn’t gone unnoticed.”
“Definitely sounds like love,” he deadpans.
I slant him a glare.
Bronx walks over and refills my glass. “You said you’d handle her. What does that mean now?”
“It means I watch. I wait. And if she’s planning to do what I think she is…” My voice trails off and I take another sip of whiskey, letting the burn sizzle the sides of my throat.
“You do what needs doing.”
I stare into the glass. The amber liquid reflects a man I barely recognize right now. I have somuch blood staining my skin that I’ll never be able to scrub it clean. But none of it ever came from someone I crave more than anyone.
“She’s not just sex,” I admit, voice low. “She’s fucking under my skin.”
Bronx watches me carefully. “Then you’re already screwed. Literally. Figuratively.”
I’ve been screwed since the second I heard her say ‘I do.’
Remembering her words from earlier… she feels something. She admitted to it.
Is that her conflict? Is it me?
He walks to the wall and taps into the surveillance system. Roman’s face fills the screen. He’s walking into a bar in Midtown, talking to someone out of the camera’s view.
“That’s from twenty minutes ago,” Bronx says. “You want me to send a team to pick the prick up?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I want to deal with him myself.”
Bronx taps a pen against the desk. “You need information that he might have. You go near him right now, you’ll either start a war or put a bullet in the wrong guy.”
“Maybe he deserves both.”
“And maybe you need to pull your head out of your wife’s thighs long enough to think like the guy who’s about to take over this city.”
