Page 24 of Diamond In The Rough

“No thank?—”

“I already know you deal in antiques. And your dinner implies that you like mushrooms.”

“I hate mushrooms, actually. But I order fancy meals that contain them, since they’re good for me, and I can safely assume that, prepared at such an upscale restaurant, they’ll taste as good as they’re gonna get. And again, I never told you about my work, so the fact you know what I do fills me with confidence.”

His lips curl into a grin friendlier than the last. “I’m certain you understand my interest in you, Ms. Hale. Or, more accurately, your interest in my family. And since we’re talking specifics, you should know that I know Roscoe’s cousin isn’t a cop at all. Roscoe has seven cousins, including two step-cousins. Three work in manufacturing, one in retail, one in hotel management, and the last, mall security.” He stops, entirely too pleased with himself. “I make a point to know about those who come knocking on my door. Perhaps that sufficiently explains how I know of your job, as well?”

“Do you run background checks on every single person you meet inside your club?” I sit back in my chair and fold my arms, refusing to eat. To obey Micah’s order to do so would be to accept defeat. “And those you don’t meet,” I amend, thinking of Roscoe. “You literally didn’t even cross paths with him, and yet, you’ve familiarized yourself with his extended family.”

“I take pride in protecting my own family from those who intend to horn in and cause disruption. Maybe I’m wrong about you. Maybe you really were just a clueless woman, stupidly wandering alone at night last month?—”

Offended, I narrow my eyes.

“But then again, maybe you’re a Wilkes soldier. It would be foolish of me to accept your explanation at face value. We’ve dealt with beautiful women all our lives, Tiia. Pretty quickly, a man learns to look past the packaging.”

“Do you realize how insane you sound?” I lick my dry lips and wish for a glass of water. Or juice. Anything except the wine, since I wouldn’t feel right sipping on something I don’t plan to pay for. “I’m just a woman who was walking on a street, amongst hundreds of others who were doing the same that night. We talked for two minutes, and now you’re foisting all your family drama into my lap and messing with my gnocchi. That sounds like unresolved trauma to me, and something you should discuss with your therapist. In the meantime, probably stay away from innocent women. Save them from becoming your rehabilitation coach.”

“Think you’re pretty fuckin’ smart, don’t you?” He grabs a glass of water from his side of the table and slams it down by my plate. “You think humor and a pretty face will deter me? I’m trying to help you understand you are not the first to try this shtick with us, Tiia Hale. And I doubt you’ll be the last. So why don’t we save ourselves time and energy? Tell me everything I want to know about Wilkes’ intentions, and I’ll let you leave.” He lifts his left hand, flicking it away. “Don’t, and I’ll have to slit your fuckin’ throat on your way out the door.”

“M-my throat?” My palms break out in a nervous sweat. My stomach flip-flopping when my consciousness catches up to the fact I might not survive this dinner I never consented to attending.

He’s the fricken mafia!

And for whatever reason, he’s latched on and labeled me the enemy.

“How much is he paying you?” Micah demands.

“I don’t know who Joseph Wilkes is. I’ve never in my life spoken to someone with that name.”

“What’s your role in his plans?” he presses. “When you got close enough to us, what’s your mission?”

I firm my lips and swallow the lump of dread settled in my throat. “I don’t know who Joseph Wilkes is. I’ve never in my life spoken to someone with that name.”

“How did he find you?” Micah snarls, his tone biting enough to make me jump. “What has he offered you that’s valuable enough to entice you to step into danger?”

“I don’t know who?—”

“Tiia!” He shuts me down with a single, venomous word. “I don’t want to hurt you. Believe it or not, I don’t get off on terrorizing random women I encounter in the street.”

“And yet,” I huff, “here you are, threatening a woman you literally don’t know. You intercepted me, Micah. You dragged me into your club, and decided to question me. Personally, I’d just like to get back to my life and forget we ever met.”

He points in my direction, his stare burning with murder and impatience. “If you don’t?—”

“What happened to your hand?” I soften my voice, but stare intently at the mutilation he works hard to shield from the world.

Micah Malone makes a habit of keeping it concealed. His image in newspapers is always the same: if he’s walking, his hands are in his pockets. Sitting at the table, hands in his lap.

Harassing a woman in a club? Hands by his side, shrouded in darkness.

But I see the wound now. The ugly stitching left behind, and the still-pink flesh, tender after what can only be described as surgery under fire. His middle finger is gone—as in completely and utterly amputated. But the resulting scars prove this wasn’t something done inside a reputable hospital by a skilled surgeon.

“Who hurt you?” My voice trembles as he lowers his hand and places it in his lap. “It looks really sore. And kind of fresh.”

“Stovic?” Micah’s entire body seems to deflate. His chest shrinks and his chin drops, almost touching the point between his collarbones. “Escort her back to her table, please.”

“Let’s go, ma’am.” My guard wraps his meaty palm around my bicep and pulls me up, my thighs hitting the table and causing the silverware to rattle once more. “It’s time to leave.”

“No.” I twist in his hold and attempt to find Micah’s eyes again. It’s dumb, really, considering I wanted nothing but escape mere minutes ago. “I’m not ready to?—”

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