Page 44 of His Kingdom

“We were poor and fighting for survival. Not sure I’d classify that as good times,” I mutter under my breath.

“You three were poor. I was loaded,” Emmanuel says, pointing to himself. “Son of a cartel leader.”

“Remind me… what was it that happened to your father?” I ask Emmanuel.

His face doesn’t change. No emotion whatsoever. “He got what he deserved.”

“Right.” I suspect that he killed the old man himself. He’d be fucking stupid to admit that aloud to anyone, though, and Emmanuel is anything but stupid.

I put the key into the door and push it open before rushing into the room. Owen startles but doesn’t get up off the crappy plastic chair he’s sitting on. “Room’s occupied,” he calls out, his words slurred.

There’s an almost-empty bottle of vodka on the table in front of him. Perfect. The door behind me shuts, and Carlo and Sammie walk up to Owen. Grabbing him by each arm and dragging him onto the bed. The fucker doesn’t even fight. He has no sense of self-preservation.

“I got him.” Emmanuel replaces Sammie. “You get the shit.”

Sammie walks back over to the table, where he pulls out a rock and a spoon and prepares the syringe before handing it to me.

I refocus my attention on Owen as I kneel on the bed. He eyes the syringe, and something must finally register in his head. “What are you doing?” he asks.

“Sending you to hell. This is for Charlotte. You shouldn’t have put your filthy hands on her,” I reply.

“What the fuck? She’s my fucking fiancée, asshole!” he hisses, and the fact that he thinks he has some sort of claim on her has me seeing fucking red.

“Yeah, well, she belongs to me now,” I tell him as I push the needle into his outstretched arm. He thrashes around, trying to break free but he ain’t going anywhere with my guys on him. “See you in hell, motherfucker.”

I’m careful to keep the syringe hanging out of his arm as I watch the drugs take effect. Then I nod at Carlo and Emmanuel. I don’t need to wait around to watch the finale. No one can survive the amount of blow I pushed into the fucker’s system.

“Let’s go.” I head out the door without looking back.

ChapterTwenty-Two

Idon’t know how long I’ve been pacing up and down the living room before I hear the door open. I let Evie’s whole “he’s a mobster” thing get into my head. To the point I Googled Louie’s name and read through numerous news articles that suggest he isn’t just a mobster but the leader of the Las Vegas underworld.

It’s all speculation. Nothing has ever been proven. Which probably means it’s just rumors and conspiracy-theory bullshit, right?

He’s not a criminal. I’m not sleeping with a criminal. Although, I do see the irony if he was. I just ran from someone who works to uphold the law, right into the arms of someone who breaks it. Someone who profits on breaking it.

I haven’t known the man for long. A couple of days isn’t long. I get that. But when I look back to when I first met Owen, I don’t remember him being as attentive—or as nice. I do remember wondering why Louie’s knuckles were bruised, though. I never mentioned it because it’s really none of my business. I assumed he works out, boxes, or something. But what if they’re bruised because he uses those fists on someone else?

The sayingsometimes good people do bad thingscomes to mind. So what if Louie does some bad things? Does that automatically make him a bad person?

Holy shit, my mind is making up excuses for him before I even know if it’s true. Does that make me a bad person?

I turn to face Louie when he walks into the living room. My eyes rake up and down his body, searching for… blood splatters? I don’t know what, but I don’t see anything.

“Charlotte, you okay?” he asks me.

“Are you a mobster?” I blurt out.

Louie’s expression goes from one of shock to casual as can be. AnI don’t have a care in the worldsmirk on his face within seconds. “Why would you ask that?” He walks towards me.

“Nope. Stop.” My hand shoots up between us, and to my surprise, Louie actually pauses. He doesn’t say anything. Just stands there. We’re locked in a silent, staring contest for what seems like forever. He’s not going to answer my question. “Are you?” I ask again.

“Am I what, Charlotte?”

“A mobster,” I repeat. “My friend Evie Googled you. She’s coming here by the way, but that’s not the point. Are you a mobster? It’s a simple yes-or-no question, Louie. And where did you go just now? Did you do something to Owen?”

“You want a drink?” Louie offers casually, walking over to the bar cart on the opposite side of the room.

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