Page 109 of Princess of Vengeance

I nod. “A couple of my old crew have come back. It’ll be interesting to see how many are still loyal to me and how many were just sticking around because they felt like they owed it to my father.”

“Loyalty,” Malcolm says, rolling the word on his tongue like he’s saying the word for the first time. “Such a rare commodity these days.”

“It’s earned,” I reply, knowing the conversation is veering into dangerous territory but unable to keep a slight edge from my voice. “I learned that lesson from my father.”

“Remember that lesson when you’re rebuilding.” He pauses. “The Enigma name carries weight. Use it wisely.”

“I intend to,” I say, thinking how I’ve already begun to use it against him. “It’s slow, but it’s happening.”

The conversation lulls, and I see an opportunity to get information I desperately need.

“Did you manage to set up that meeting with Ronan?” I ask, keeping my tone as casual as possible. “For Elliot’s votum?”

He nods. “It’s arranged for tomorrow at The Vault. Seven o’clock.”

“The hookah lounge downtown?” I ask, as if confirming something I vaguely recall.

“Yes. They have private rooms in the back. Suitable for… discreet conversations.”

I file that information away, memorizing it like my life depends on it—because it does. The Vault is an upscale hookah den in the heart of Detroit, known for its private rooms and discretion. Perfect for criminal dealings. Even better for an ambush.

“What’s he like?” I ask, and this time I don’t have to fake my mild curiosity. “Ronan, I mean. I’ve never dealt with anyone from New York before.”

Malcolm leans back against his pillows. “He’s quite particular. He runs his operation with his two brothers, and they’ve built an impressive empire in a relatively short time.”

“Brothers? Are they older? Younger?”

“Twins, from what I understand. Younger than Ronan.” He adjusts his position, seemingly pleased with how attentive I’m being. “The three of them were hitmen originally—the best money could buy, apparently.”

“So they went from killing for others to building an empire where others kill for them. That takes more ambition than the run-of-the-mill hired gun has, in my experience.”

“Indeed. But they’ve been remarkably successful. In less than five years, they’ve established control over a considerable chunk of Manhattan’s underground business.”

“Impressive,” I say, wondering if any of this information will come in handy when it comes time to convince Ronan to stay away from his meeting with Malcolm.

“Elliot may find him difficult to deal with,” he continues, grimacing as if he’s just tasted something sour. “Ronan doesn’t operate the way most of us do. He’s hard to read. Unpredictable. He and his brothers have their own moral code they adhere to, regardless of anything else—including potential profit.”

Coming from Malcolm, that’s almost funny. Of course someone with actual principles would irritate him. I’ve seen firsthand how he manipulates and entraps people into his service, then bends and breaks whatever rules don’t suit him at the moment.

“Sounds like they have boundaries,” I observe. “That’s rare in this world.”

“Boundaries are just obstacles to profit,” Malcolm counters. “But they’ve managed to succeed despite their limitations. I suppose there’s something to be said for that.”

“Maybe there’s more profit in having principles than you think,” I suggest, unable to resist the small dig at him.

His eyes harden. “Principles are luxuries, Quinn. Power is the only currency that truly matters. Anyway, let’s not talk about this anymore.”

His expression changes, his eyes darkening as he reaches out and slides his hand around my waist to pull me closer. My body goes instantly rigid as I start to panic.

“Come here.” His voice drops to a tone that he probably thinks is seductive, but only makes my stomach turn. “I’ve been patient enough, don’t you think? It’s time you fulfilled your wifely duties.”

I place my hand against his chest, creating distance without making it obvious that his touch repulses me.

“I’m really not feeling well tonight,” I say, trying to sound disappointed rather than revolted as I force my features into an apologetic expression. “I think it was something I ate earlier. My stomach has been off all evening.”

His fingers tighten on my waist. “You seemed fine five seconds ago.”

“It comes and goes,” I lie. “I didn’t want to mention it and ruin the mood, but…”

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