“Ah, ah.” Grafton waggled a finger at her. “Remember what I said about arrogant, mouthy bitches?”
Sonya’s eyes hardened right along with her jaw. She wanted to come back at Grafton, but bit her tongue. Angel was surprised he didn’t see blood seeping from the corners of her mouth.
“The woman should have stayed in Somalia.” Grafton continued with his tale. “But after a few years, she missed her son. At least that was the excuse she gave when she showed up at his boarding school. It didn’t take me long to work out the real reason she’d travelled to England, however. She planned to blackmail me into providing her with a monthly stipend.”
A snarl shaped his lips into something hideous. “She had the gall to threaten to go to the press with evidence she’d collected of some…uh…let’s call it less-than-aboveboard business I’d done in Africa.”
He paused, drawing out the suspense, snapping a glance first at Angel, then at Sonya. When he was satisfied they were on tenterhooks, he licked his lips. “I took her to a hotel, raped her, strangled her, and had her dead body tossed into the Thames.”
Sonya winced so hard Angel was surprised she didn’t strain a facial muscle.
The warning buzzer that had been sounding in his head since the first night he met Grafton turned into a high-pitched shriek of alarm. Why the hell was Grafton telling them this, revealing this? Did he want to impress upon Sonya what he did to women he called “arrogant” and “mouthy”? Was he trying to impress upon Angel how much of a true motherfucker he was?
Or is there another reason? What, exactly, is his angle?
“Oh.” Grafton looked pleased with himself as he settled back in his chair. “And one more thing…I made my son watch the whole of it.”
Sonya gasped. Angel’s gorge rose.
“Why would you do that?” Sonya’s voice was hoarse.
“Two reasons. First, because he needed to know how to handle women like his bitch of a mother. And two, he needed to know how to handle me. He needed to know what kind of man his father was.”
As good as Angel was at hiding his emotions, that’s how bad Sonya was in that moment. Revulsion wallpapered her pretty face. If the muscles working in her jaw were any indication, she once again bit her tongue. Hard.
Grafton’s eyes crinkled at the corners. He loved that he’d shocked them. Repulsed them. He thought he’d gained power from his abhorrent little tale. But the truth was, he’d only gotten one step closer to his ultimate downfall.
He doesn’t know it yet, Angel thought with satisfaction, but I’m about to burn his whole world to the ground.
Chapter 8
“What do you suppose the population of this godforsaken country is?” Rusty asked.
Colby “Ace” Ventura turned his attention away from the alley and back door of the café where Angel said the drop was supposed to go down and glanced over at Rusty Parker. The redheaded behemoth was a former marine, former cod fisherman, and current honorary member of Black Knights Inc.—the latter due to a bizarre and complicated set of circumstances.
Oh, and Rusty was also a pain in Ace’s ass.
“Who cares?” Ace asked him. “If everything goes right, we’ll be out of here in a few hours.”
Rusty gifted him with a scathing look. It was pretty much Rusty’s go-to expression where Ace was concerned. Probably because Ace was vocal in his disapproval of Rusty’s insistence on staying in the closet. Although, admittedly, lack of approval didn’t translate into lack of desire. The chemistry that bubbled between them was as palpable now as it’d been the first time Ace met Rusty, when Rusty had sauntered toward him in fisherman’s bibs and a ribbed sweater that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and the powerful muscles in his arms and—
Son of a shit eater! Ace folded up the memory of that day and tidily packed it away in the mental lockbox where he kept all the other things he chose not to remember. Like the conversion therapy his father had sent him to before he’d gotten old enough to leave home, join the Navy, and never look back.
“I’m just making conversation.” Rusty’s expression broadcast how quickly Ace’s irritable retort had pissed him off.
Good. Nowadays, Ace pretty much lived in Pissedoffville so he appreciated the company, even if that company happened to be the reason for his bad mood.
The truth was, Ace hated being led around by his dick, and anytime Rusty was within ten feet of him, the little head in his pants tried to take over for the big one sitting at the end of his neck. But mostly he hated wanting Rusty. Because wanting Rusty felt like “been there, done that.”
The memory of Ace’s dead husband appeared in his mind’s eye. Glen Brogan, Air Force major and closeted homosexual, had been the love of Ace’s life.
During the days of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, Glen had claimed keeping their relationship on the down low was a matter of keeping their jobs. But that hadn’t explained why, in the end, when Glen had been lying in a hospital, dying from the wounds he’d sustained after being shot down, he hadn’t told his family the truth. It hadn’t explained why Glen had let Ace stand out in that hospital hallway like a nobody while he breathed his last because only “family” had been allowed in the room.
Once more turning his attention to the trash-strewn alley, Ace silently repeated the mantra he’d come up with when Rusty admitted he wasn’t out. Never again. Never again will I live in the dark.
“I think it’s about the size of Maryland,” Ozzie piped up from the back seat, reminding Ace that he and Rusty weren’t alone.
