All of it calculated. All of it a performance.
Jesus Christ, I say, taking a few steps back.
And last night.
Last night, she made me a fucking meal. Candles. Colcannon. My favorite whiskey.
Then she got on her knees and sucked my dick until I could barely think straight.
She wore me out. Softened me up.
Made me tired, made me weak.
She made me careless.
And while I was at that warehouse this morning, while I was dealing with detectives and paperwork and the fucking ruins of my property, she was running.
I pace the room and kick a lamp over.
The warehouse.
They burned it to get me out of the house.
To pull me away from her. To give her an opening.
She probably knew.
She probably fucking told them.
God damn it. I let her sleep in my bed.
My stomach twists, bile rising in my throat.
I slam my palm against the wall, the impact sending a jolt of pain up my arm.
But how the fuck did she get past my men?
There are guards at every exit. Cameras on every corner of the property.
Someone let her leave.
Someone's going to fucking die for this.
I spin on my heel and storm out of the room, my footsteps echoing down the hall.
"TOMMY!"
I find him at the top of the stairs, mid-conversation with one of the other men.
He straightens when he sees me coming.
"Boss."
I grab him by the collar and shove him against the wall.
"Lock down the house," I say. "Pull all security tapes. Fucking find her."
His eyes go wide. "Who?"
