The plan hadbeen simple.
But like all simple plans, it quickly become complicated. And then, it became downright deadly.
The barrel of a pistol in his lower back told Devil he’d found Paul Wilmore in the instant before the bastard’s growl was in his ear.
“Fine day to die, Winter.”
Icy dread slid through him.
Fucking hell.
This was not the way he had intended to cross paths with Wilmore. The bastard was supposed to have been within his private rooms, bedding one of his harlots. Obviously that bit of information had been wrong.
“Wilmore,” he bit out. “Coward’s way, is it?”
“Smart way, the way I sees it. End an enemy before ’e ends me.”
“I didn’t come here to kill you,” he gritted. Not entirely true. “If I wanted you dead, I’d have sent Blade to do the job, and you’d be bleeding on the floor as we speak.”
Also not complete truth. Blade was no stranger to killing. However, Devil wanted to be the one to defend Evie. To make certain she was safe. He had to do that for her, because he could never have her for himself.
“You’ll pardon me for not believin’ a word you say, Winter,” Wilmore spat.
Devil did not blame him. Wilmore was no fool, even if he was reckless and ruthless. Else he would not have been capable of scraping and clawing his way up in the East End to where he was now, flush enough with power that he dared to torment the two most powerful families in the rookeries.
Devil inclined his head, aware his position was precarious at best. Jasper Sutton was no solid ally, and although he had promised the aid of his men, Devil did not entirely trust him. And whilst he had sent Davy back to The Devil’s Spawn with an order to tell Blade and Dom what was unfolding, he was not certain the rascal would not find another tempting pocket to pick on his way home. Devil ought to have gone back to the hell himself to fetch his brothers, but Sutton had wanted to move on Wilmore immediately and Devil had not wanted his sometime nemesis to allow Wilmore to tip them the Dublin packet.
“You don’t have to believe me, Wilmore,” he said calmly now, taking care to remain immobile as his mind whirled and madly plotted a means of saving himself. “But I would appreciate it if you hear me speak before putting a ball in my back.”
“Less trouble to kill you now,” Wilmore returned.
Also an excellent point, but Devil wasn’t about to admit that.
“If you kill me, the Winters will have their vengeance,” he tried next, for this, too, was truth. His siblings were loyal. They were family. They were all they had. And they would—every last one of them, from Dom to Gen and Gavin or Demon and Blade—give up their lives to save one another. “There will be nowhere for you to hide that they will not find you and destroy you. Is that what you want, Wilmore? Dead men can’t get rich.”
The man’s pause was telling.
He was contemplating Devil’s words. Weighing his choices.
“What the fuck are you doin’ in my ’ell?” Wilmore spat.
“What the fuck were you doing having your men shoot at my brother’s sister-in-law?” he countered.
How odd it seemed to refer to Evie in such bland terms. As if she had no relation to him, as if he scarcely knew her. When, in truth, he knew her. He knew her lips beneath his, her sweet curves, her scent, her taste, how to make her come undone.
He bit his already abused lower lip hard enough to draw forth more blood. An excellent distraction. He could not afford to be weak in this moment. He had to be strong and firm, to deflect and defend.
“Sister-in-law?” Wilmore asked then.
“Lady Evangeline Saltisford,” he elaborated. “Daughter to the Duke of Linross. One of your lackeys shot at her once, nearly wounding Viscount Denton. And on the second try, he shot Lady Evangeline herself.”
“Fuck.”
Wilmore’s low curse said more than any other response could have.
Understanding dawned on Devil. “You never intended anyone to be shot, did you? I am going to step away from your weapon and turn to face you at the count of five.”
“You can count to five, can you?” Wilmore taunted. “Thought you was a simpleton.”
