Page 116 of From Rome, With Hate

I pull back slightly. “Deal?”

His eyes spark, and my heart grows a million times over for the man I vowed to spend the rest of eternity with years ago.

“Deal.” He growls, pressing his whole hand against me. “Now, stop talking, Lark, and sing for me and only me.”

And I do.

EPILOGUE

RHYS

Four Months Earlier

It’s late, and this place smells like rotting fish.

I swore I’d never return, but here I am. The warehouse by the docks is just as I remember it: cold, damp, and stained with the permanent smell of rotting fish.

Pressing the tip of my blade to my fingertip, I twist it as I eye the asshole in front of me. My men tied him to a chair, and they must have injected him with enough drugs to nearly kill him because it’s been an hour since I’ve received the call.

I take my time rolling up my sleeves, then check the time on my slate black, diamond- encrusted watch.

Fuck.

My patience is near non-existent at this point. After slowly walking toward him, I lean down until my face is in line with his.

“Rise and shine, you eegit,” I tease.

He groans with his chin pressed to his chest.

“Hey, fucker.” I bark louder this time and slap my hand to his cheek.

Blood pours from his open mouth, a long thick drip of crimson, syrupy liquid staining his bare chest. He groans, lazily rolling his head side to side. “Wh…?” he croaks.

“Time to wake up.” I fist his hair, yanking his head up.

His face is beat to shit. His left eye is split, while the other is swollen black and blue. A stream of blood pours from his nose, covering his already bloody mouth. He smells like utter ass and rotting fish.

He attempts to pry his eyes open, looking at me through tiny narrow slits. “W-Who…” He pants heavily. “Who are you?”

I sneer, delighted to know he’s finally talking. Now we can get this shit over with.

“I’m your worst nightmare,” I drawl, tilting my head.

As if it’s suddenly dawning on him, his head snaps in all directions. He’s looking around and thrashing against his chair. When he realizes he can’t break free, he turns his attention back to me.

“You’re Rhys O’Connell.”

“Ding, ding, ding.” I give him a devilish grin and stand. I wave my hand in the air. “Lachlan, give this asshole a prize.”

His eyes move over my shoulder, to my right-hand man and second in command.

“Don’t fucking look at him,” I warn the asshole in the chair. “You’re dealing with me.”

His face pales. Well, the parts that aren’t bruised and bloodied, anyway.

“I’d ask you if you know why you’re here, in this unfortunate predicament, but I think you already have an idea.” I lower my face to his level again. This time I nod toward Lachlan.

Lachlan follows my silent order and closes the distance to the man in the chair. The other men I have waiting in the shadows surround the man in the chair. One cuts the man’s left arm free from its tie, the others quickly grab it, holding it out in front of him, between us.