“There are cameras,” Rock says, sounding almost bored.
Killian makes a single rumble, low and soft, but a quick glance tells me if there were cameras, he’s taken care of them already. “I would expect nothing less.”
The words land just right, both men pulling up a little straighter. Angel looks back at Rock, some silent communication passing between them. Then Angel swings his gaze to me, taking another step forward. “It’s an inconvenient time for…this.”
“Your convenience is not much of a factor for me,” I answer with a shrug.
He grimaces. “Too true.”
I know Angel’s reputation. He is the brains behind the Sinclair brothers, but he’s also known for his ruthlessness.
Honestly, this is far more of a negotiation than I anticipated. I don’t know the angle they’re hoping to work and I’m not asking. I hold all the cards here.
I’ve got the kind of legitimate company that could bury the Sinclair brothers.
“Kill him,” Vigo slurs. “Weak piece of shit deserves to die the way he fights.”
“He let you win,” Angel tells his uncle, his voice dripping with disdain.
“He didn’t let me win,” Vigo stumbles again, away from Rock, and this time, Rock lets him go. “I kicked his ass because he’s weak and pathetic. Hiding in his big building. Fucking my wife.”
My teeth gnash together. “You mean my wife.”
Angel’s chin pulls back, his nostrils flaring and his lip curling into a sneer. “Tale as old as time.”
“Giulia’s a hot enough piece of ass for it,” Rock answers. It’s like we’re discussing Sunday dinner, not killing their uncle.
“Careful,” I growl out.
“No one needs to be careful of you,” Vigo stumbles toward me, tripping on his own feet as his arm swings wildly in the air. “You’re the young, weak Smith, that his brothers let play Monopoly.”
Gotta be honest, it’s a good insult, and a week ago, it would have landed with deadly accuracy.
But not this time. He stumbles within my reach and I whip out, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him forward.
That’s when the blast of a gun fills the night. I duck, my arm still around Vigo’s neck, and he goes down with me, but he doesn’t recover.
He hits the ground like a sack of potatoes, unmoving where he lands.
My head whips up, Angel’s arm extended, a pistol in his grip. “What the fuck?” I yell.
“You’re welcome,” he answers, dropping his arm. “Though, as I mentioned, the timing is inconvenient. Perhaps you’d consider some recompense.”
“For a job I was about to do myself?”
“One might consider this a gift for a potential future partnership.” He looks into the shadows. “Killian, perhaps you’d like to return my uncle’s gloves.”
I look back at my brother who steps into the light, grimacing. “Saw me, did you?”
“No. Rock saw you. He has your same gift. A number of them, in fact. He surmises that you intended to make Vigo’s death look like a suicide. You want our uncle dead, that’s one thing. Pain in the ass, but we can live with it. But suicide? That we can’t abide. You understand, of course.”
Killian pulls off the black leather gloves, revealing surgical gloves underneath. I watch my brother as he checks Vigo’s pulse and then grabs one of his hands, curling the fingers to stuff the hand in the glove.
He does the same to the other.
Then he takes a pistol from Vigo’s pocket, placing it in the man’s hand.
He twists the man’s arm back, pointing the hand with the gun toward the building. “Anyone left inside?”
