The dance is never-ending.With each spin, Hayami’s eyes land on me as I track her every movement.Javier tries to talk to her, but she doesn’t appear to respond, only gazes at me as if waiting for me to throw her a lifeline.
Eventually, Devall disappears with some of his cronies, and I take my chance just as Javier’s hand lowers to cup the curve of her ass.
I cut through the crowd like a scythe, pushing the dancers apart, already making up some bullshit excuse as to why I have to intervene.
But she’s way ahead of me.
As I reach them, hand on my gun, she dips her head towards Javier’s ear and says, “I’d move your hand if I were you, before he moves it for you.”And then she looks at me, Javier following her gaze to where I loom behind him, like the Grim Reaper ready to collect what’s mine.
“You heard her,” I growl.
He smiles at me, but I see the fear as he registers my scars, wonders what battle I fought and what testament it is that I’m still standing.
Needless to say, he doesn’t ask her to dance again, and neither does anyone else.
SEVEN
FENRIR
PRESENT
Devall’s officeis sickly hot, and it has nothing to do with the six bodies occupying the space.
We stand in a row, facing the gang lord, who sits behind his desk like a man about to press the launch button on the atomic bomb.Markus is all official, hands clasped behind his ramrod-straight back.Bastian Ford is tanned, with watery eyes that are preoccupied—like he’s counting down the days until his retirement.Willa appears exhausted, which is understandable—she has a tough job and a pregnant wife at home.
I’m not sure what I look like—other than my usual hostile self.
The only other person who’s sitting—no, hunched is probably a more accurate description—is Junko Devall, Barrett’s third wife.He brought her to Rothkor and married her after a business trip to Japan over twenty years ago.I imagine that once, she stood tall—her hair glossy black, eyes sharp and focused, skin as fresh as Hayami’s.
But here, now, she looks haunted.Her skin is a pallid grey.Her hands wring something invisible.Her eyes are cloudy, as if misted over to unsee the things she must have witnessed over the two decades of being married to a man like Barrett Devall.
And if that isn’t enough to add to her sorry state, there’s a hint of a dark shadow cocooning her—a shadow I know only too well.It looks like the Grim Reaper has nibbled at her.
Like mother, like daughter, they both carry the death mark.
Coincidence?No.
They both share the Devall surname, and some curses come with more than just a reputation.
“Markus, update me.”Devall steeples his fingers as the head of security steps forwards.
“Robert Castro is dead,” Markus replies, letting it land in the room before Devall picks it up.
“You sure?”
“Positive.He was shot yesterday, sniper style, from long range whilst entering the Kaleidoscope, one of his clubs down on Gorring Avenue.He was taken to a private hospital, where he died later on in the evening.”
Devall shifts his gaze for a second before firing it back at Markus.“And the sniper?”
Markus shakes his head.“No one has any idea.It appears to be a lone gunman, someone working on his own.But my sources are dry, and Callan has heard nothing through the grapevine.No one knows a thing, or if they do, they aren’t saying anything.”
Devall tuts.“Who the fuck would have the balls to take out Robert Castro?”
“That’s the million-dollar question, sir, and unfortunately, the Castros think they have the answer.”Markus waits a beat before continuing, the room hanging on his every word.“An email came through to one of your business accounts—the Amalfi bar you own on the southern side of town.Our IT guys are trying to trace the email, but there’s so much encryption it’s going to be nearly impossible to track.”
“I don’t give a fuck about the technicalities.”Devall slams his hand on his desk.“Robert Castro is dead, and you called in a code red, so what the fuck is going on?”
“The email was a direct threat, sir,” Markus says, then pauses.
