His voice is flat. “You’re really going back,” he states.
I turn to face him. “Yes.”
“They’re still there though, right? The brokers, the financiers, the contractors. They’re gonna know everything’s fucked for them now. They’re gonna want blood, Augie.”
I step out of the room and close the door softly behind me. “All the more reason to conclude the matter personally.”
Arrow follows me down the hall to where my coat hangs in the closet. “You could send a message instead.”
“I am sending one,” I reply, pulling on my coat. “In person.”
“They’ll kill you. At least let me come with you.”
“And have you killed too? Just one more attempted murder will do for now.”
He exhales slowly and I can tell I’m trying his patience.
“I want you here, on the estate. Keep an eye on the perimeter, make sure there are no stray mongrels loitering about in the trees.”
“I will. And you—try not to bleed out before you get back.”
I allow myself the smallest flicker of dry amusement. “I will do my best.”
Then I open the door to the less-safe outside, and leave.
The retreat looms out of the darkness like it’s been waiting for me.
The lights in the lobby, dining room, business suites and some of the bedrooms are still on. The volume of parked cars has thinned but it’s clear some of the guests are still here. They haven’t taken off after discovering the organizer of the whole dirty deal is dead.
That means they have a score to settle. With me.
I step out of Arrow’s car into the silent night. The gravel crunches underfoot, sounding much louder than it did the first time I walked this path. Perhaps because I’d managed to tune out all sound then to focus on the scent of Erin, the words that unwittingly came out of her mouth, the way her hips swayed as we climbed the steps.
She didn’t believe she belonged here. And fuck, now I agree. She belongs somewhere far, far better than this shithole.
My pulse thumps against my temple as I approach the front door. It’s already open, giving me a glimpse of the lobby that is as cool and hard as the Glock in my waistband. It’s no longer masquerading as a place designed to relax.
The smiles are gone, and so is the laughter.
Three men are standing near the reception desk, their eyes trained on me as I enter. The Brit, the Floridian and one of the Turks. Two more linger by the bar—sweaty Todd and a man I haven’t seen before.
All of them look like they’re about to bay for blood.
“Zanotti,” says Miles in greeting.
NotKing, I note. Word spreads fast.
“You took your time.”
“I had some personal matters to attend to,” I reply, evenly.
His gaze sharpens. “You killed the middleman.”
“I killed two of them,” I say, not skipping a beat.
“Why?” Miles asks, shaking his head like he can’t comprehend the audacity.
“The first was about to kill his own daughter. The second tried to garrote me with a fucking bootlace. I suppose any of you gentlemen would have done the same.”
