Page 7 of Savage Hearts
“So. This Irish bastard. Where is he?”
“I’ll give you his last known address, but he’s cleared out since then. At the moment, he’s a ghost.”
I don’t offer that my contact inside the FBI has no idea where Declan went, either. Or that I’m keeping Declan’s former boss, Diego, hostage in one of my warehouses near the docks.
There’s no need to show every card in my hand.
That stubborn bastard Diego has so far refused to disclose any useful information, anyway. But if anyone’s going to get it out of him, it’ll be me.
I’ll be damned if I’ll hand my captive over to this arrogant out-of-towner.
Malek says, “Not a problem. Just give me whatever you have. I’ll find him.”
I don’t doubt that. He looks like he’d burn down every city on the face of the earth to locate Declan if he had to.
There’s nothing more single-minded than a man out for blood.
We discuss a few more details that might be helpful in his search before I broach what I know will be a delicate subject.
“He’s got a woman with him. Under no circumstances can she be harmed.”
I watch him carefully for his reaction. He says nothing, but in his silence, I sense dissent.
“It’s nonnegotiable. If she gets even a scratch, you’re dead.”
He knits his brows together. “Since when does the dreaded Reaper care about collateral damage?”
I hesitate, knowing exactly how bad what I’m going to say will sound. “She’s family.”
He digests that in unmoving silence for about thirty seconds, then repeats slowly, “Family.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Uncomplicate it for me.”
I ignore the urge to pull the Glock out of the top drawer of the desk and blow a nice big hole through his skull and pour us more vodka instead.
“My woman’s tight with Declan’s.”
One of his dark brows forms a distinctly disbelieving arch.
I’d like to rip that eyebrow clean off and stuff it down his throat.
Fuck, this prick’s annoying.
Through gritted teeth, I say, “They were childhood friends. Obviously, it predates our present situation.”
Malek pauses to drink his vodka before answering. “Inconvenient.”
“You have no idea.”
“What if it looks like an accident?”
“If the Irishman’s woman doesn’t live to an advanced old age, no matter the cause, I’ll be held responsible.”
We stare at each other. He says, “By your woman.”
“Yes.”
