Kurt drove by the Love Heart Chapel. Yellow police tape fluttered near the front doors. He hadn’t arrived in Vegas in time to stop the wedding.
The fucking wedding.
But he’d given orders for the groom to be taken out. If you died right after the wedding, did it matter that you’d said the vows?
Only the groom hadn’t died. He had lived to escape and to, no doubt, fuck Delaney.
The limo cruised slowly past the chapel. The shooter hadn’t been caught yet. He would not be caught. At least not by the cops. Kurt had given orders for the bastard to be eliminated right after the screwup on the drive-by.
Simple instructions should be followed, after all. Kurt had ordered for the groom to be murdered.
You fucked up my wedding. I’ll fuck up yours.
His orders had not been carried out properly. Failure wasn’t tolerated. If you tolerated failure, then you looked too weak.
Kurt was not weak.
And, unfortunately, the man he now knew to be Nash Quinn was not dead.
But the shooter who didn’t get the job done is.
“Take me to my casino,” he ordered his driver. The privacy window was down so he could easily address his driver, Vino.
“Which one, sir?”
“The one in the building right next to my fucking bride.” Except, she wasn’t his bride, was she? Because she’d married Nash Quinn. “Bliss,” he gritted. “The Bliss Casino.”
Nash Quinn. He’d gotten intel on the man. Nash had a history with Delaney. The two had been hot and heavy years ago, only for the relationship to crash and burn. Nash should have stayed the hell away from Delaney after that moment. Had he?
No. The fucker had come running to take her away from Kurt. On our wedding day. Nash had spirited Delaney away, and when he’d taken her, he’d taken the entire inheritance that came along with her.
“Sir.” Vino cleared his throat. “Sir, I’d like to say again that I think this is a bad idea.”
“Don’t remember asking for your opinion.”
“Sir, we have intel that he’s CIA. You know this.”
Yeah, he fucking did. Because he had power and connections and knew people who would sell out their own mothers for the right payday. So when he’d started digging and trying to figure out who the hell the mystery man was who’d taken Delaney away, he’d reached out to his contacts with the Feds. And with the CIA. He’d had a few photos of the guy, shots of the bastard hauling Delaney over his shoulder as he’d run from the church with her in North Carolina. He’d gotten his contacts to run the photos through facial recognition and with Kurt’s CIA contact, he’d hit pay dirt. He called to tell me that Nash was a red flag. To tread carefully. And with that warning, I knew what was happening. I knew.
Delaney’s ex was a spook. A spook in love with Kurt’s bride.
With the right pressure, Kurt had been able to find out exactly where Nash Quinn had traveled. Nash and Delaney had boarded a public flight in Nashville, Tennessee, and they’d flown to Vegas.
Where Nash had scheduled a wedding. With my Delaney.
“It’s a trap, sir,” Vino told him. “He’s CIA. He married her deliberately, no doubt to bait you. You need to step away. Forget her. She’s not worth all that you could lose.”
“Pull over, would you?” Kurt asked him. Vino had been with him for years. Three years, to be exact. Vino wasn’t just a driver. He was a bodyguard when the need arose. Also, a fixer.
Vino had been in the church on the day of Kurt’s wedding. He’d been the one to pull out his gun, only to have it ripped from his fingers by Nash Quinn.
Vino drove off the road. The limo eased into the parking lot of a strip mall. The windows in the vehicle were tinted, giving them perfect privacy.
“Sir, you’re making the right decision by stopping this pursuit—” Vino’s words ended in a choked gasp. Maybe a gurgle.
Because Kurt had just leaned forward, and he’d driven his knife into Vino’s throat. “This is your fault,” Kurt whispered. “If you’d just shot the asshole when you had the opportunity, I’d still have Delaney. I’d have everything I needed by now.” He yanked the knife to the left.
Another gurgle.
