Page 97 of The Villain

On the heels of my determination rose anger. No, not anger. Not an out-of-control rage. Butwrath. My blood simmered with burning indignation that someone thought they could take away the man who belonged to me. I didn’t spend ten years in the filthy gutters of the Detroit crime world to roll over for some poser.

This was my fault. My fault we were at the beach. My fault we went to that stupid store instead of getting in our SUV. My fault that Cian was distracted and had been more worried about me than about protecting himself. So I wouldn’t just get us out of this. I’dendthis.

I glanced at the clock on the dashboard of the car to see it was nearly four in the morning. It’d been almost two by the time I’d woken up from my drug-induced sleep, and another hour before we’d left the basement of the rundown house and stopped to grab snacks along the way.

I tossed a water bottle to Ryan. “Give him a drink.”

Ryan fumbled the bottle in his hands. “Give… what?”

I’d learned from Cian not to repeat myself, so I didn’t.

From behind me, I heard the water bottle crinkle. The squeak of the leather seats. Then Ryan spoke again in a hesitant voice. “I’m not taking his gag out. O'Shea might be low-level, but I’ve heard what he can do. He’ll bite my fingers off.”

Cian was probably dying for a drink after being tased, drugged, and gagged. I needed him to be alert for what was to come. With a sigh, I squeezed between the passenger and driverseat, snatched the bottle from a surprised Ryan, and sat next to Cian.

The billboard lights from outside the car cast long shadows over his sharp features. He didn’t look at me. His eyes remained forward, locked on the back of Ryan’s head. My fingers trembled as I lifted them to his face. Up close, I could smell his sweat. Hear his breathing. Feel the heat coming off his skin in waves. I lowered the gag from his mouth, careful not to touch his lips. Because if I did, I would crack. I held the water bottle to his mouth, and his gaze shifted downward. He drank half of it in big gulps. The mouth of his lion tattoo opened and closed in the simulation of a roar as his throat worked.

My lion king.

I ached to whisper in his ear. To tell him that I was in control now, and he could trust me. Did he think I was betraying him? But I didn’t dare make any assurances. Mick glanced at me a few times in the rearview mirror as he drove down the Jersey turnpike. Ryan didn’t turn his head, but he was only a foot away. Even over the engine of the van, he’d hear me if I dared to speak.

Cian drank the rest of the water, and as I pulled the gag back in place, I let my fingers brush the hinge of his jaw. He closed his Irish eyes, hiding them from me. Another minute in his presence, and I would lose it. So I returned to my seat next to Mick as he continued to drive. He seemed to be mulling something as his fingers tapped the steering wheel.

Finally, he said, “How’d you get mixed up with the O'Shea’s anyway?”

I wasn’t going to give him details. I shrugged. “Just a temporary thing.”

Mick chuckled. “I knew you’d find a way back if you were still alive.” He slapped his hand on the wheel with a quiet whoop of triumph. “I knew it.”

“Tell me what we’re walking into.” I said as I unwrapped a granola bar.

“Bianchi’s old school and likes to do business from his office at his club.” Mick explained that patrons would be cleared out by the time we got there, as our ETA was five in the morning, just before dawn. An empty club was what I needed. I was used to working in the shadows.

By the time we pulled up to Club Diane in Newark, I was able to rein in my nerves and tunnel my vision to the task at hand. We pulled into an alley in the back of the club, and as we exited the car, the smell of the nearby dumpster made me wrinkle my nose. A rat scurried across my path. Ryan hauled Cian out of the back seat in the clumsiest manner possible, which irritated the shit out of me.

Mick had dressed up for this. He wore a suit without a tie and expensive cufflinks. He donned the smug expression of a man who thought today was his day, that he held the ticket to his good fortune. He had no idea.

I didn’t hate Mick. He hadn’t betrayed me. But he had deserted me when everything went south. At this stage in my life, I didn’t blame him. I would have done the same thing. But now he’d threatened Cian, and any loyalty I’d felt toward Mick for the many years he’d worked for me evaporated.

Mick knocked on the back door of the club, and it opened to reveal a massive man wearing a tight black T-shirt with a gun on his hip. He sneered at Cian as we walked in, and I stood between them. Just in case. No one was taking a cheap shot as long as I was alive. The guard stopped us before we could enter farther and searched us for weapons. He took the gun and a knife off me, and a few guns each off Ryan and Mick. He then stowed them in a safe that locked with a keypad. “Boss’s orders. You can get them back when you leave.”

I had suspected we’d have our weapons taken, so I nodded to Ryan and Mick that it was fine as we were led farther into the club.

Cian walked with confident strides, his head held high, but with a slight hitch in his step that let me know his thigh hurt where Ryan had kicked him. If I had my way, Ryan would take a bullet tohisthigh as payback.

We strode down a back hall, and I could hear the distant, low pulse of music from the bowels of the club. We took a set of stairs to the second floor, walked down another hallway, and finally stood in front of a nondescript wooden door.

Mick knocked again, a series of three distinct raps. The world seemed to slow. My breathing rasped in my ears. Cian shifted his weight at my side. I narrowed my focus to my surroundings. One friendly, two hostile. The door swung open, and I strode inside.

TWENTY-SIX

Devlin

Paolo Bianchi was a small man, and that was saying something because I wasn’t blessed in the stature department myself. He stood maybe five-seven and had thin gray hair that he combed over to cover a receding hairline. He had likely been handsome when he was younger, but he had to be pushing seventy now, and a hard life showed in every line of his face.

A half-empty bottle of bourbon sat on his desk next to a tumbler of the amber liquid. On an ashtray, a thin plume of smoke rose from a cigar. The room was hazy with it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ryan shove Cian into a chair in the corner behind me. In front of me was Paolo, standing behind his desk with two men behind him armed with visible firearms. That upped the hostiles to five. I didn’t count anyone outside this room. That was a problem for future Devlin.