He looks at me.
Liquid sprays abruptly from his mouth in a huge geyser, as if he’s just been punched hard in the gut. He stares at me, frozen and gaping, soda dripping from his chin.
Sloane stops and turns to me, smug. “You owe me two boxes of Twizzlers.”
Cheeks burning, I mutter, “Give me a break. That wasn’t a positive reaction. The poor man got such a fright, he nearly choked to death.”
“What you don’t know about men could fill all thirty-two volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica.”
“They have that online now, Grandma.”
“Theory’s the same. You know jack shit about men. Let’s go eat.”
“Can you give me a sec? I need a moment alone to mentally prepare myself for my forthcoming public humiliation.”
Without waiting for her permission, I stalk off in the other direction, toward a set of open glass doors that lead to an outdoor patio.
I keep my gaze averted from Spider, who’s still standing right where he was when I turned him into a pillar of stone in a tight black suit, and walk outside into the balmy evening air, vowing to myself that I won’t let Sloane see me cry.
I’ve cried because of that heartless wench too many damn times in my life already.
7
Mal
She emerges onto the patio in a burst of angry energy I feel all the way from where I’m sitting, fifteen hundred yards away.
Lying in wait, rather. Inside the same abandoned church belfry I scouted two days ago, when I arrived on the island.
It offers an excellent east-west view of the property. From this vantage point, I can see both the front and back of the estate. With a swing of my rifle’s muzzle to the left or right, my sights can be on Declan’s skull in either his driveway or his backyard.
Right now, they’re on the woman stalking back and forth across the patio.
Her hair is platinum blonde, cut to jaw length, sleek and swinging. Her clinging black cocktail dress is almost nonexistent. And she doesn’t seem to be comfortable in the spiky heels she’s wearing.
Several times as she spins to go the other direction, an ankle wobbles, and she has to throw out an arm to regain her balance.
She’s young, slim, and extremely awkward.
Something about her is fascinating. I can’t look away.
Because of the hair and the dress, it takes me a while to recognize her. But then I note the glasses she’s wearing and suck in a breath. It comes out in a furious hiss.
Poor baby. He wasn’t satisfied with her simply being a whore.
He wanted her to look like one, too.
Clearly, she’s upset about it. Or about something else he did to her.
Something much worse than a wardrobe change.
Anger boils in the pit of my stomach. That son of a bitch.
I knew he was ruthless when he killed all the leaders of the various American families. With the exception of Kazimir, which isn’t surprising. He’s notoriously hard to kill. Hundreds of men have died trying.
But to bring a girl from the streets to your home to fuck in front of your woman, then tart her up and parade her around so everyone can plainly see her humiliation…
That’s beyond ruthless.
It’s sick.
My anger grows hotter as I continue to watch the girl. She stops pacing and leans against the curved stone balustrade of the patio, folding her arms over her chest and turning her face up to the full moon like she’s trying to draw strength from its glow.
Dragging deep breaths into her lungs, she closes her eyes.
After a moment, she bows her head, as if in prayer.
Furious, I decide that I won’t kill him in front of her. She looks fragile enough already. She doesn’t need more trauma.
I’ll wait until he’s finished with her and she leaves, then I’ll put a bullet in his brain.
Mikhail would understand. He had a soft spot for girls like this. Abused, defenseless girls. A delay of a few hours or days won’t make a difference in the end.
I’ll still get what I’m coming for: my enemy’s blood.
Shoulders slumped, the girl pushes away from the balustrade and reluctantly returns inside. A few minutes later, a group exits the front door.
Declan and his woman are there, along with the girl and half a dozen bodyguards. They pile into a trio of SUVs and pull out of the driveway.
I watch the red glow of the vehicles’ tail lights, wrestling with myself.
Then I climb down out of the belfry and hop onto the motorcycle waiting outside the old church doors, knowing that what I’m about to do is both stupid and dangerous.
And also that my dead brother would approve.