Page 2 of Unorthodox
Christopher London operates businesses like mine. And like me, he knows how to manipulate people. But I know how to read them. It was a necessity growing up with a father like I had. Back in Pretoria, South Africa, not reading my father’s moods could, quite literally, get me or my brother killed.
So, I know Christopher isn’t fucking around when he says, “She ran.”
I hear Dante shift on his feet at my back. He’s also got an itchy trigger finger, but his patience is better than mine.Just barely.
I glance for a second at the cop, and find the fucker is finally paying attention to us now. He must know this isn’t going to go so well.
“She ran?” I repeat, weighing my options as Christopher works out how best to explain this shit to me.Did she run, or did he tell her to leave?
Christopher nods once. “She ran,” he says again. “Last night.”
“Did she know I was coming for her?”
Another nod. “Of course. I wasn’t going to throw my own daughter in the trunk of my car without an explanation.” For some reason, I don’t quite believe that.
I smile at him, running my tongue over my teeth. That playing card is going to break apart in my fucking fingers if this dipshit doesn’t say something that isn’t completely stupid at some point in this conversation. I don’t say a word, waiting for him to do just that.
“I wasn’t thinking.” His voice is calm. He doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t ball his hands into fists. Doesn’t twitch.
But it’s in his eyes.
The fear.
That’s where it always is.
The eyes can’t fucking hide the truth. And the truth is? Everyone is at least a little bit afraid of me.
In Christopher’s case, and now Addison’s, by extension, they have fucking reason to be.
I nod my head, looking down at my shoes, thinking about all the places this girl could be. She’s the daughter of a crime boss, and obviously, if Christopher is telling the truth about her being a runner, she’s not stupid.
But the last thing on earth I have time for is chasing after a teenage girl who will become nothing more than a whore to grovel at the feet of powerful men.
“Give me something,” I warn Christopher, meeting his gaze once more. “Give me an idea of where she might be. Because if you don’t, when I find her, I won’t keep her.” Not that I ever planned to do that. A blonde American could fetch a fucking fortune. If she’s still intact, even more. “I’ll fucking kill her.”
Christopher’s eyes widen, and he swallows, his throat bobbing. He knows my threat is real.
“She’s with my son,” he finally whispers, and the way he says it, I know he just gave her up. Interesting, how men will turn against their own children in the interest of saving themselves a little pain.
There is no moral code in my world.
Christopher London is a walking, talking example of that.
And so am I.
“Danik?” I ask him.
Christopher’s face goes pale. There may not be a moral code in organized crime, but if there was something close, it’d be that sons are far more important than daughters will ever be. I’d personally never risk what Christopher is going through right now.
I will never fucking have kids. They’re only pawns to be used against you.
I’ve spent a long, long time half-hoping my brother never turns up, for that reason alone. He could be leverage.
Pushing thoughts of Oliver aside, I focus on the fuck in front of me. “I know where your son lives. Off the coast?” I smile at Christopher, then turn my back on him, head to the driver’s side of my black Maserati, parked two spots down from his Mercedes. “I’ll pay Danik a visit.”
I get into the car, start it up and roll down my window. Dante still stands at the hood of the car, hands on the rifle slung across his chest.
“If he’s not there, and she’s not there, I’ll still find them. And I promise you, Christopher, when I do, I’ll put a bullet in their skulls.” I give him a smile, watching his face turn beet red, a vein bulging in his temple. “Tell yourwifeI said hello.”
