Something snaps inside. A soft pop of sound, and then I’m slammed by a wall of emotion, blinded by a thick red haze.
I shove the others out of the way to get to my target. I want nothing more than to see this Nazi fuck bleed and hurt. I hurl my fists at him, pounding and beating him in a mad rage. Blood spurts, bones crunch, and my temples pound and throb with every punch I land, fury burning through my veins. I grind my boot into his throat, crushing his Adam’s apple. Then I drop to my knees, grab his balls and dick and viciously twist them, trying to pull them from his body.
Somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind, I process the howls and pleas before he goes limp. It takes someone else—Cal—to drag me off him. I snarl as he yanks me off the guy. The fucker tried to kill Molly. He hasn’t suffered enough.
I pull away from my brother andgrab the fuck’s head, slamming it into the side of the washing machine over and over until the white metal is streaked with blood. Then when he tries to speak, I hold his head against it.
“If you aren’t looking for an appointment with the fucking Devil,” I growl, “I suggest you tell me who hired you.”
“Johann…Schultz…”
This time two of my brothers haul me off him and send me tumbling across the basement.
“Calm the fuck down,” Seamus grunts into my ear. “I get it, I do. We all do.”
“You don’t.” My head spins. “I need?—”
“You need to speak to this Schultz.” Torin glances at Roark. “And this prick?”
“After we check with Schultz, he’s roadkill. Just a run-of-the mill ex-militaryshit who got ousted dishonorably. When we call, do what you need to.” Roark looks at me. “Let’s go talk with Schultz.”
I follow him out. He throws some wet wipes my way in the car as he drives. It’s about ten or fifteen minutes before he speaks again. “I know Schultz. He’s the go-to people use to take care of issues when they don’t want things traced back to them and they don’t want to owe organized crime for any favors.”
I wipe the last of the blood off. Organized crime uses Roark, too. Those who hire him will be untraceable. Anyone we meet in person will be a third party and…
I frown. “Why are we going to him?”
“We’re not. I’ve already met with him. Here.” He pulls a photo out of his glove box. “That your girl?”
“She’s not…” The words die on my lips.
Marlowe.
At the truck graveyard.
Fuck.
“She’s a client.” I stick to those words.
He slants me a look. He drives in silence for a while until he finally pulls into a side street near a strip of restaurants and bars on the Upper West Side. “Yeah, well, he had something to say about that. According to the story I heard, she works for someone, maybe the dead cop. You know how deadly rumors can be.”
Fuck, I know how bad they can be.
“There’s more. Some drugs that were there for a drop went missing.”
A cold bolt of horror races through me. “Drugs?”
“Not yours. Two mill in heroin.”
“Who was doing the drop?”
“That was a family affair. But someone named Mario seems to have been involved. Schultz just mentioned Mario’s brother’s looking for him after the drop went south.”
Mario.
The mysterious fucking Mario.
“Mario who?”
