Page 122 of Diamond In The Rough

I’m walking away, Tiia, and I’m never coming back. I suggest you free yourself and leave, because Felix knows what you are, too. And he’s not above letting his soldiers fuck a whore before they slice her throat open.

“No.” I swallow the painful lump in my throat and force myself to stare at the TV. “It means nothing, except, perhaps, that he didn’t want the heat that would come with killing a badge.”

“Joseph Wilkes has become a household name in the past year,” the news reporter reads, checking her notes as she sits behind a massive, bean-shaped desk inside a studio somewhere in the city. My heart thuds, painful and breathtaking in all the worst ways. “A transplant from Nottingham, England, the authorities have had the daunting task of controlling what may already be uncontrollable floodwaters now that Wilkes has his foothold in the city flailing for leadership. It’s no secret New York has a long and rich history of criminal enterprise and an underbelly unlike most others.” The reporter looks at her colleague on her left, “The last thing we need, now that things have started to calm down, is another family moving in and stirring up a hornet’s nest of trouble, right, Rick?”

“Right you are,” Rick agrees, overly enthusiastic and excited to talk on things he really has no clue about. “With Emilio Pastore now dead and buried, Tony Mancino’s empire dissolved for the entire city’s viewing pleasure, and Timothy Malone’s alleged, albeit, not formally confirmed demise, it seemed New York was destined for clearer skies. I had hopes for the end of New York’s criminal cartels. But where there’s money to be made, I suppose, there is always someone running in to take his share.”

“He’s a tool.” I nestle back and allow my eyes to droop. Not close. But… rest. “Dude literally has no clue what he’s talking about.”

“Why do you think the Malones have yet to confirm their father’s death?” Jazzy reaches across and fingers the hem of my shorts. “He’s dead, right?”

“Yeah.” I squish my cheek up in the palm of my hand, creating wrinkles and stretching my skin. An action I’ll regret when I’m older. When age catches up and lines my face. “And I suppose they simply consider it no one else’s business.” I shrug. Just one short, sharp lift of my shoulder to explain my lack of interest in this conversation. “The Malones don’t share information with people outside of their tidy circle.”

“Mr. Wilkes is wanted for questioning in relation to a string of deaths in Harlem,” the reporter continues. “His specialty, according to our sources, seems to be sex workers.”

“His specialty is buying and selling women,” Jazzy grumbles. “And he doesn’t mind if they’re underage.”

“Doesn’t mind,” I scoff. “Seems he prefers them that way.”

“Our producers have reached out to Mr. Wilkes in search of a statement. But to date, no reply has been received.”

I roll my eyes and grab the television remote, turning the volume down before I send myself crazy. I don’t want to hear about them anymore. I don’t want to know about them. If I had a magic wand and the ability to go back in time and never step foot in that mafia world, I would.

“I strongly doubt Mr. Wilkes is going to make a statement on his guilt on such a delicate matter,” Jazzy drawls, turning on the couch and resting her elbow on the back cushion. “Or any other man mentioned in that report.”

“I’m done talking about it.” I toss the remote down and push off the couch, groaning when every limb, every muscle and bone and tendon, protests the movement after hours and hours of sitting. “And I’m especially done thinking about it.”

I glance over when my apartment door opens. No knock. No hesitation. I’m given no indication or warning that my space is to be invaded—more than it already is—but when Roscoe crosses the threshold carrying a bag of Chinese food and a bottle of wine, my heart gives a painful knock that surely bruises the inside of my chest.

My eyes burn and fresh tears well up, making me look and feel foolish. But it’s not his presence that hurts most of all. It’s not the gentleness in his expression, or the way he crosses my tiny apartment and sets his things down, freeing his hands before finally tugging me into his arms and crushing me to his chest.

No.

None of that breaks my heart nearly as effectively as the second pair of eyes that stare into mine before the door swings shut. The pair in the hall, the guard who waits outside my door, unobtrusive, but formidable enough to keep everyone but these two away.

Stovic.

The giant, terrifying, watchful guard that came from the Malone home and has now taken up residence outside mine.

He doesn’t speak to me. I never speak to him. Like a concrete gargoyle built outside an ancient cathedral, he simply exists. And if tradition rings true, he guards my home, warding off evil even if his presence sends my brain into a tailspin every time our eyes lock.

“Why is he here?” I sob against Roscoe’s chest when he presses his hand to the back of my hair. “Why did he send him here?”

“I don’t know, Ipo.” He kisses the top of my head, his hot air bathing my scalp. “He won’t leave, no matter what I say. I’ve tried.”

“I start to feel okay again, and then I remember. I see him out there. And it hurts all over again.”

I want to stop feeling. I want to find my numb again, because I’m afraid if I don’t, I won’t survive this new reality where the villain has my heart.

26

MICAH

GARGOYLES AND GEHENNA

“Feds are in the house.” I glance out from the second story of CeCe’s club as a couple of plain clothed agents walk through our doors and try to act like they belong. They’re easy to spot. So very simple to pick out in a crowd of hundreds.

I have a near perfect success rate at spotting the badges in any given space.

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