“That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”
“Harsh? Three of my guys are dead.”
“I don’t see how that’s her fault.”
“They were after her!”
“But you knew that, didn’t you? You knew the Russians wanted her, and you used that to your advantage.”
“I helped her,” he says, his back straightening, a hint of anger in his voice. “She had nowhere to go, no one to turn to, so I took pity on her. I gave her a job. I gave her a place to live. And look where it got me. I’m fucked. I should’ve turned the little bitch over to Aristov the second I realized who she was. She’s not worth the trouble. He can have her.”
“I beg to differ,” I say. “He wants her, he’s going to have to go through me first.”
“You?” His expression flickers with surprise before he lets out another laugh. “She got you, huh? Charmed the pants right off of you, did she? Got you thinking she’s some damsel in distress that you can save? You know nothing about her. You want my advice? Wash your hands of it. Toss her out on his front porch, be done with the bitch.”
Before he can say another word, I spring out of the seat, grabbing him by the hair on the back of his head and slamming his face against the top of the desk. BAM. He cries out, blood spewing out onto the paperwork, streaming from his busted nose. Yanking his head back up, I whip out the gun from my waistband, pointing it at his neck, pressing right where the carotid is.
His men react, drawing their weapons once more, shouting, panicked, their hands shaking hard.
Makes me wonder if they’ve ever shot anyone.
“They got their guns back out, Georgie,” I say. “Are we using them this time? Because I’m not opposed to pulling the trigger if that’s where we’re going with this. Just say the word and I’ll blow this artery apart.”
He swallows thickly, raising his hands up as if in surrender, his voice again strained as he says, “Put down the guns.”
Nobody moves.
“Uh-oh, they’re not listening.”
“Drop the fucking guns,” Amello growls. “Get out of here! All of you! Leave us!”
It takes them a moment before they lower their weapons and retreat from the office, backing up into the club, leaving us alone. Amello glares at me, blood streaked all over his face, his eyes glassy. He’s scared, yeah, but he’s furious, too. I think he might be the kind to cry when he’s angry, because he looks damn close to boo-hoo’ing.
“You owe me a couch, Georgie,” I say, letting go of him. “I came here to collect.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“A couch,” I say. “My couch. You see, it got fucked up when I blew holes in that incompetent little asshole you sent to kill me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t.” I pull the gun away, backing up a step, but I keep it trained on him, just in case… just in case I decide to blow his head off for the hell of it. “You owe me a couch, so my guys will be here in about three minutes to collect.”
He winces, clutching the bridge of his nose.
“Nothing to say? Speak now or forever shut your mouth.”
Nothing.
The door to the club opens on the three-minute mark, noise filtering in, familiar voices greeting my ears. My men are here. Amello grows even tenser, his shoulders squaring as he holds his head up. His men are outnumbered now, so I know they’re not going to try shit.
“So, nice talk,” I say, lowering my gun, aiming it at the floor. “My condolences on your club, but it wasn’t her fault. It was yours. Maybe if you weren’t so fucking weak, Georgie, people wouldn’t do this shit to you all the time.”
I turn, walking to the doorway, glancing at my guys. Amello’s men are still lurking, off to the side, watching.
“Which one, boss?” Seven asks, looking around.
I point to a black leather couch nearby, one with gold accents. “That one will work.”
A few of my guys pick it up, moving it out to a truck outside, one of their personal vehicles, I’m guessing. I don’t know the specifics. I don’t micromanage shit. I just give the orders. It’s up to them to figure out the rest.
Seven lingers, playing my shadow as usual.
I’m about to tuck my gun back into my waistband when I hear a voice behind me in the office, Amello muttering under his breath, “Bitch is lucky I didn’t turn her over to them sooner.”
Uh-oh.
I turn to the side, aiming the gun back into the office, but I don’t even look, because frankly, it wouldn’t matter. Shooting blindly, it’s kind of like Russian Roulette. If the bullets all miss him, well, hell, guess it’s his lucky day.
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
I unload the gun, bullet after bullet, pulling the trigger in rapid succession until it does nothing but click.
CLICK.
CLICK.
CLICK.
His men react, going for weapons, but my men are around, so well, they punk out, as expected. Seven draws his gun as the others rush in, the group locked in a showdown as I slowly turn the rest of the way around.
“Aw, look at that…” Amello’s slumped in his chair with a hole in his face, damn near right between his eyes. Couldn’t have been more perfect if I tried. “Bullseye.”
I slide my gun in my waistband, turning back to the others, zeroing in on Amello’s men. “You’ve got two choices, fellas. Either man-up and pull the trigger or put the guns down and get out of here. You’ve got about, oh, thirty seconds before I decide whether you live or die, so choose quickly.” I glance at my watch. “Tick… tick… tick…”
They run. I’m not surprised. Scatter like cockroaches when a light flicks on. My guys, they leave once the others flee, all except Seven, who waits for me to go before him.
“How’d you get here, boss?” Seven asks when we step outside. “Do you need a ride?”
“No, Scarlet’s…” I look around, up and down the block. She’s not here. The BMW isn’t parked where it had been, some piece of shit Honda now there, and it doesn’t take a genius to riddle this one out. The woman took off in my car. Goddamn it, Scarlet. “Actually, make that a yes.”
I’ve been told a time or two that I spiral.
Zero to sixty in the blink of an eye.
One second, I’m perfectly fine, laughing, smiling. The next, I’ve got my hands around someone’s throat, choking the life out of them.
There’s probably a name for whatever’s wrong with me, but I’ve got no interest in a diagnosis. I don’t need treatment. Until people stop being ignorant, I’m going to keep on getting pissed. No little mood-stabilizing pill can stop that from happening.
But still, sometimes, I can feel it. I feel myself spiraling hard, and falling far, making mountains out of molehills that even I struggle to climb.
And today? I’m feeling it.
My hands shake.
I can hardly see straight.
Shaky fingers reach down, picking up a puzzle piece, and I try it in a few places before giving up, moving to another, and another, and yet a-fucking-nother, before finally snapping one in. Adrenaline still surges through my veins, not yet faded. I’m trying to calm down, focusing on my puzzle in the dim library, and it’s helping a bit to keep me from lashing out but it’s doing a shit job of clearing my mind of all the chaos.
“Boss?” Seven calls out, tapping on the doorframe from out in the hallway. “Your gun.”
I glance at him. He cleaned it for me, reloading the thing. I’ve come to trust him a lot, I realize. If he makes a mistake, next time I pull that trigger something might not happen, and where’s the fun in that?
I hold my hand out. “Give it here.”
He steps into the library, approaching, slipping the gun into my palm. I grip it tightly, not putting it away yet, just feeling it in my hand.
“The guys switched the couches out,” Seven says. “What do you want to be done with the old one?”
“Just throw it out by the curb.”