Page 9 of Savage Hearts
“I’ll be able to sleep better at night.”
Contempt in his tone, he says, “This is why men in our line of work should be alone, Kazimir. Women make you soft.” Before I can shoot him, he walks out the door and is gone.
On the desktop, my cell rings. The screen tells me it’s Sergey, a trusted member of my crew. I answer the call and wait for him to speak. When he does, his voice is tense.
“We have a situation.”
“Which is?”
“There’s a fire.” He pauses meaningfully. “At the warehouse.”
The warehouse I’m keeping Diego captive in, he means. “How bad is it?”
“I don’t know. I just got the call from the alarm company. I’m on my way now. Fire department’s already been dispatched.”
“Get there first and get him out. I want him alive, understood?”
“Da.”
“Call me when you’ve got him.”
Sergey murmurs an acknowledgment and disconnects, leaving me to ponder the thousand ways this could go wrong.
And if perhaps Malek was onto something when he said women make men like us soft.
The old me would’ve put a bullet in Diego’s head weeks ago. The old me also wouldn’t feel a twinge of regret if one of his enemies died in a fire. The old me, the person I was before I met Natalie, would find the thought of Diego screaming in agony as he burned alive highly amusing.
The new me? Not so much.
I mutter, “Fuck. Next thing you know, I’ll be running off to try to save Diego myself.”
I chuckle at that idea.
I pour myself more vodka.
Then I grab my keys and head to the warehouse, cursing this horrible new conscience I’ve grown since falling in love.
THREE
RILEY
When the cabin door opens, I blink against the bright light.
We’re at another airport, this one teeny-tiny compared to the one in San Francisco. There are a few outbuildings and a smattering of other private jets, but there’s only one main runway, and no commercial planes.
Wherever we are, it’s small and exclusive.
It’s also humid as hell. My hair’s up in a ponytail, but I can already feel it curling.
A sleek black Range Rover with tinted windows and shiny rims awaits on the runway. The driver steps out when he sees me at the top of the air stairs.
He’s wearing a black suit so tight around the crotch area, it’s almost pornographic.
Though, I suppose if I were packing that much heat between my legs, I’d get my suits tailored to show it off, too. Wowzers, this guy ishung.
Smiling, trying to maintain eye contact and not ogle his goodies,I approach this well-endowed specimen of manhood and stick out my hand.
“Hi. I’m Riley.”
