CHAPTER 19
AIDEN
The man on the floor in front of me howls in pain, but I let the knife in his ribs dig in a little deeper, savoring the way his body tightens. He doesn’t dare jerk away for fear it will cause the knife to sink into his flesh even more. I don’t usually resort to blades, but for this, I’m willing to make an exception.
“I promise, I don’t know who hired me. He just said to shoot the old man and follow the girl, I swear.”
I tap his cheek with my palm, but he barely seems to notice. It doesn’t surprise me. After hours of this, he must be growing weak and ignorant of most of the pain he’s in. “You know, I’m not sure I believe you. And what am I to tell Mrs. O’Connor about this? How is she supposed to feel safe at home when you nearly killed her, and you’re walking around scot-free?”
At this, he devolves into pitiful pleas, fat tears rolling down his grimy face. I sneer at him as I let him go, gravity sinking his body to the floor of the warehouse, and he crumples into a pile of bones at my feet. I’d kick him for good measure, but I don’t wantto get more blood on my shoes. Messy is more Eamon’s forte. The more blood, the better. My methods are more… clinical.
Cian may call me his hound, but I prefer a clean kill. A bullet to the brain. Enjoying it makes me feel too much like Cian, who prefers to draw it out. There’s nothing he loves better than watching the life slowly drain out of his victims’ eyes. As evidenced by the many, many years he’s enjoyed torturing me for the fun of it.
My phone rings. I flick a glance at Eamon, who covers the weeping man’s mouth with two hands. Eamon whispers something that makes him go white, but at seeing the name on the screen, I’m already turning away from the gruesome tableau.
“Catriona,” I answer, stepping farther away so she can’t overhear the man’s muffled whimpers. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Where are you? We’re supposed to leave for the charity gala in an hour.”
“I’m finishing up, and I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes. Did you see what I left for you on our bed?”
“I did,” she says dryly. “I hope you’re ready to go to bat for me against Mara. She was offended when I told her I wasn’t wearing what she picked out.”
“You let me handle her. I’ll see you soon.”
“If you aren’t here in twenty minutes, I’m leaving without you,” she says, then hangs up the phone.
“You’re so whipped it makes me sick,” Eamon says without rancor, as he ambles around me with a blade in his hand. He’s cleaning it meticulously with a cloth.
“I’ll make it even worse if we aren’t cleaned up and ready to leave in ten.” I shoot off a text to a cleanup crew who will get rid of the body.
Eamon chugs a bottle of water, then wipes his mouth. “I really thought he’d have more information. It was a bitch totrack the bastard down. He was damn near to Florida by the time King and I caught up with him. Spent most of his money on a fancy rental car.”
King is an American tracker and former hitman I lean on from time to time to chase down leads. His knowledge of the American criminal enterprise is extensive, but he doesn’t come cheap. After Catriona came so close to death when Broussard was shot, I hired him to help me find the person who did it. I didn’t buy the coincidence. In my life, there are no coincidences.
And it turned out I was right. Someone had hired him to follow Catriona.
Someone else is very interested in whatever secrets she’s keeping.
The man Eamon and I have been working over for the past forty-eight hours is a professional. Someonereallywanted Broussard taken out. The transaction took place online, anonymously, with payments made in untraceable crypto. He never even knew the name of the person who hired him. And after the torture we put him through, anyone would have caved. Hell, if I were at the receiving end of Eamon’s knife, I would have caved. But all this sorry sack could say was he was hired to take out the old man and shut the stupid bitch up. Naturally, he had to die for calling her a bitch.
“Nothing we can do about it now. You stay here and meet the cleaners to take care of this, then I’ll see you at the gala.”
He waves a disgruntled hand, and I leave, my thoughts turning from the dead man and dead-end to tonight. All these weeks of planning and tonight will finally be the culmination of the biggest gamble of my life. Cian will be obliged to grant me a seat at the table, and I have to be prepared for the revenge he metes out for forcing his hand.
When I get to the estate, Catriona is nowhere to be seen. I check my watch and see we have plenty of time to get to the galabefore we're considered late. The tux I’m wearing is waiting on a hanger by the front door—thank you, Mara—and I change in my study. I have time enough for a drink to settle my nerves, so I pour some whiskey and sip while I wait at the bottom of the stairs, one shoulder to the wall.
Heels click on marble. My head lifts, glass to my lips, whiskey sliding down my throat. Heat warms my chest as my gaze glides up the column of gold satin, the fabric sparkling under the light from the chandelier. Nude heels peek from the hem. The material glides around her legs, so thin I can see every part of her as though she were naked. It could be modest if it weren’t for that and the plunging neckline, which makes it very apparent she’s not wearing a bra. Whatever magic she’s used keeps her covered, but hints that if she shifted just right, I could see every inch of her tits.
Fuck, I’d give no small amount of money to see them. Taste them. It’s been so long, I don’t even remember what they looked like. The times I’d been with her hadn’t been enough to drink my fill.
Throat dry, I drain the rest of my drink and set the glass on a nearby table and move to the bottom step. Her hair is up in a twist off the back of her neck. I want to put my mouth there and kiss her until she squirms. Thin straps that I could rend in a second are all that’s keeping her dress from slipping off.
“You look incredible, darlin’,” I say, and take her hand to kiss the back.
“What’s gotten into you?”
“Can’t a man tell his wife she looks good enough to eat?”
