“Don’t,” Ares says to someone I can’t see, his voice sharp enough to cut steel. “Don’t pretend you didn’t know what he was doing, Lourdes.”
LourdesSinclair. The assistant.
Her breath hitches. “Just like I’m supposed to pretend you didn’t kill him.” She thinkshekilled her husband.
How arrogant. Taking the credit for my hit so he can get laid. Is he keeping her quiet withhisdick inhermouth?
There’s a loud thud. Maybe she set her purse down too hard. Maybe she hit him with her purse. I hope she did.
“I told you. If I saw one more bruise on your face, I would end him.”
I edge close enough to see through the gap, just a sliver. Lourdes stands by his desk, chin high but trembling. Blackdress. High heels. Red eyes. Still wearing her wedding ring.
“And you think this fixes it?” She tosses papers on his desk.
“Yes,” Ares hisses. “It’s for your protection. Black thinks you had David killed. He’ll send his men to kill you.”
Elias Black… Fuck, this is getting complicated.
Silence blares again in the office. One heartbeat. Then Two. When Lourdes finally speaks, her voice sounds smaller. “I can’t do this, Ares.”
In what looks like an expensive suit, but the jacket unbuttoned, his hands rest on the edge of the desk, knuckles white. Every muscle in Ares’s body is braced like he’s fighting himself not to touch her.
I step away from the office door before they see me and go to the men’s room to splash water on the back of my neck.
By the time I get back a few minutes later, the woman is sitting at her desk. Her eyes reach mine, and her jaw trembles. Does she know me? Or do I remind her of her husband?
“Ares is expecting me,” I say, low and calm.
“Go right in,” she says, her voice different. Lighter, a little ditsy even. Like she’s playing the role of an airhead assistant.
That’s not who I heard putting Ares Zervas in his place a few minutes ago. But fuck him, I have my own problems.
Ares waves me into his office like nothing is wrong. The air is scrubbed clean of whatever just happened. His brothers are in there now, and a new kind of tension thickens enough to drown in.
Looking at Ares, Atlas, and Ambrose, I get why Troi Keller, the former Irish don, wanted to slaughter the Zervas brothers for a decade. Smug, rich, and entitled.
The Irish are rough around the edges, hands callused, and souls of stubborn grit. We drink our whiskey in crowded pubs where the floor is sticky, and the drunken laughter is too loud.
The Greeks are a different breed. You can smell their superiority before they open their mouths. Our worlds were never supposed to meet. Theirs is polished and ours is scuffed with dirt. Then Griffin, a brutal Irishman if there ever was one, married Ava Zervas, their sister.
Perhaps in life, opposites attract more fiercely. Maybe love is better when you have to burn and ache for it.
What I ache for is not to have to deal with fucking Ares Zervas. But I’m anchored to this ocean liner at the moment because I killed his assistant’s husband. For him.
Ares sits there with a smile as cold as ice, his cologne a hit of spice and leather. He’s got dark brown hair and grayish-violet eyes that flick over me with the cold precision of a hungry hawk.
Ambrose leans against a column while Atlas hovers near the window.
These fuckers need to get laid. Not Ares, apparently, he’s shagging his assistant.
“Rhys,” Ares purrs, steepling his fingers. “You cut your hair?”
The moment Fallon said she didn’t like it, neither did I. I cut it the next day.
“It was getting to be a nuisance.” I shove my hands into my coat pockets and glance around, noting exits, shadows, and security cams. “Why am I here?”
“Because you’re useful.” Ares grins.
