Page 27 of Violent Things
“I’m more of an email kind of guy these days.”
“Good to know. I’ll make sure to forward you the details of our arrangement in a message once our conversation is over, then. Does that suit you?”
“And what arrangement might that be? I already told Theo, I’m not working for anyone else anymore.” I don’t like this guy’s tone of voice. I sure as fuck don’t like how he’s ruining my post-orgasm glow. Sloane’s watching me with wide eyes, clearly able to hear what’s being said. There’s a time not too long ago when I would have left the room, but not anymore. I don’t hide anything from her these days. She knows all about the fights, the underground gambling and the occasional gun deal that goes down at the fighting gym I run. She knows me, knows who I am, and knows I will never live on the straight and narrow like other, normal people. She can handle fights and dirty money so long as I’m not getting hurt. And she can handle the guns so long as I don’t get my ass shot.
I doubt very much she’d handle me going out on task for the Barber of Brooklyn, though.
“Zeth, you and I both know this sedentary life you’re leading isn’t what you were built for. You’re a cutthroat, just like I am. I’m coming for Seattle. You must have known someone would eventually. I’m laying out my cards here and now. New York is where the throne of my empire rests. I can’t be in two places at once. I need someone to run my west coast operations, and I want that someone to be you.”
“I have no interest in being your understudy, Roberto. Absolutely no fucking interest whatsoever.” The guy is crazy if he thinks I’m putting myself into yet another position like I was in with Charlie. You don’t climb out from underneath the shit heap only to voluntarily climb back under again.
“I can understand your reluctance, Zeth, I really can. But you are a very dangerous individual. If I place someone else in charge over there, I wouldn’t be able to allow a man like you to be operating in the same district. It wouldn’t be smart business.”
“I’m not operating. I run a few fights and broker a few deals. You don’t need to concern yourself with what I’m doing, Roberto. I’m none of your fucking business.”
“And what about the lovely young Ms. Romera? Will she end up being my business? I fear she will if we can’t find a way to make both of us happy right now.”
Sloane sits up, clearly having heard her name. She looks mildly concerned, which makes my blood boil. Who does this guy think he fucking is, threatening her to get his own way? I won’t allow it. I will burn down his whole fucking New York empire before I let that happen. “You don’t say her name. You don’teversay her name,” I growl.
“Don’t forget who you’re talking to right now, boy. I’m bigger and I’m badder than Charlie Holsan ever was. When I offer someone a title within my organization, they fucking jump,” he spits. “And this isn’t just any old title. I’m offering to make you the motherfucking king of the west coast. You’d be answerable to no one but me. You need to think about this for a couple of hours, Zeth. Bear in mind, I don’t make these kinds of calls personally very often. It’s unlikely I’ll be making another one. You should also bear in mind that I amnotsomeone to be fucked with.”
I laugh, and it feels raw in my throat. Caustic, poisonous laughter that gives away what I think of his threats before I can put my thoughts into words. “I vowed after Charlie that I would never be answerable to anyone ever again. And I won’t. I don’t want to be the king of the west coast or anywhere else for that matter. And somethingyoushould bear in mind, Roberto? Iama dangerous individual. And people don’t usually live to tell the tale after fucking withmeeither.”
Chapter Thirteen
Mason
Wanda wouldn’t let me take Millie to school this morning. Said I’d terrify the poor kid if I showed up bloodied and bruised the way I am. I don’t know what she thinks I’m going to do between now and the end of the day to fix the problem—as far as I know, cuts and scrapes take a little longer than an afternoon to heal—but there you go. She sent me on my way, and a part of me felt guilty about heading straight to work. I felt even guiltier when I realized I was singing in the car.
Mac nearly drops his coffee when he sees me. “Holy fucking hell, boy, what happened to your face?”
“Fought at French’s,” I mumble through my split lip. No point in lying to him. Mac knows everything, has his finger in so many pies. Wouldn’t surprise me if he actually made some money off my ass last night somehow.
“So you’ll fight in a stinking basement but you won’t earn three times the money driving a car across the city for me, is that it?” he says.
“Pretty much.”
“Well, whatever. I hope the other guy looks worse, I guess. Though, I don’t see howthatwould be possible.”
The morning goes fast. I can’t wait to head over to the gym after work and train. I need to stretch out my muscles, make sure I don’t completely lock up. If I want to fight again in six days, I have to make sure my whole body isn’t completely jacked from not doing anything with it.
I spend the day working on Kaya’s beater of a car. The old Chevy is fucked, needs scrapping entirely, but I just do what I’m told and go about fixing the damn thing. Late in the afternoon, when I jump in to turn the engine over, the interior smells just like she did yesterday—like flowers and jasmine. My dick stirs in my pants at the scent. So fucking inappropriate. I’m not supposed to be thinking about her let alone fantasizing what it would be like to be on top of her, to feel like I’m wrapping myself around her, slowly pushing myself deeper and deeper inside of her.
I have to sit in the car for an extra five minutes before my hard on eventually goes away.
Mac, the asshole, keeps me back half an hour to finish up a rushed job that comes in late. That cuts into my gym time before I need to collect Millie, but whatever. Something is better than nothing. I’m jogging across the street, gym bag in hand, when a sleek black Audi rolls up out the front of the gym. The window buzzes down and a stern looking woman with bright blonde hair and cold blue eyes is staring straight at me. For a moment I think she’s about to ask for directions out of this sketchy part of town—people get lost here all the time—but then she does something that makes my stomach drop through the floor. She pulls out a badge.
“Agent Lowell,” she says. “DEA. You’re Mason Reeves, right? Got time to have a little chat?”
A million things immediately flash through my head, paralysing me. I manage to keep my face a mask of calm, however. “Not really. I kind of have somewhere I need to be.”
“That’s a pity. See my colleague here was just telling me that we should come over to your place, investigate a tip off we had.”
“What kind of tip off?”
“Apparently, you’re involved in a little drug running for your boss there.” Agent Lowell gestures to Mac, who is just pulling down the roller shutter on the building behind me. Mac sees Lowell and his eyes go wide. Slowly, carefully, he lifts his right hand and flips her off. “Awww. Mac remembers me,” Agent Lowell says, smiling.
“I don’t run drugs for him. I work on the cars, and then I go home. End of story.”
