Page 51 of Diamond In The Rough

MICAH

A LITTLE BACKGROUND NEVER HURT ANYONE.

Three days after my visit with the inquisitive Tiia Hale, I push out of bed with a flurry of frustration, because she’s still on my mind. Her long, brown locks the first thing I see when I close my eyes. Her siren’s smile, burned into the backs of my eyelids.

Made more special because she so rarely offers a friendly expression.

She asks questions she would know the answers to if she had any affiliations with Wilkes or Pastore—or, well, anyone who exists within the confines of my world.

She’s inquisitive, but she understands the danger she dances with when we’re near.

She knows who I am. What I am. There’s no hiding that. But she forgets herself sometimes and notices another man’s blood on my skin. She demands to know about my wounds, and yet, trembles in fear when I look at her a certain way.

She’s a contradiction within herself. And that contradiction is what makes it damn near impossible for me to let her go.

If she could be forward about whoever she is, about whatever it is she wants, then I could make my moves accordingly. Take her. Or not. Hunger for her, or walk away. Knowledge is power. But she takes my power away by being… her.

Too soft for me to have.

Too hard for me to trust completely.

Striding to my closet with anger pulsing in my blood, I grab out a pair of jeans and stab my legs into the holes, tugging the denim up and working quickly to fix the button.

My missing finger still tries to move. To aid in a task it’s done for thirty-odd years. But pain lances up through my hand when nothing useful happens. Instead, the tip of what remains of my finger taps the steel zipper of my jeans, and that simple, brief contact sends electricity through the limb and into my gut, until nausea rears up and knocks at the base of my throat.

“Fuck.” I switch hands and finish fastening my jeans, then I tear a shirt from a metal hanger, the jangling of what’s left on the rod following me as I stalk back into my room and cross to the door.

I snag my phone on the way past, and my watch from the bedside table. Then, moving into the hall, I nod for Michaels, who stands guard. “Felix around?”

“On the patio, boss. He and Ms. Cannon are taking breakfast outside.”

“Alright.”

I slide my watch over my left hand, careful not to hit my wound, and jog down the stairs of our home. Which, I suppose is a mansion, by all definitions of the word. Too many floors. Too many bedrooms. Countless bathrooms. An industrial-sized kitchen, and a formal dining room that is so large, it could only be described as a ballroom.

“Felix?” I move from the third floor to the second, then from the second to the first. “Lix? What’s that chick’s number?”

“I’m a man in love now,” he calls back, totally at ease holding a discussion from one side of the house to the other. “I don’t know any other ‘that chicks’ anymore.”

“Pussy.” I step off the final stair and start toward the back of the house, where the hall leads to the kitchen, and the kitchen to the pool outside. “Christabelle knows you’re a former slut. And she hasn’t slit your throat yet, despite your shitty past.”

“It’s always an option, though.” Christabelle ambles across the kitchen when I enter, dunking a tea bag in a steaming mug of water. Her hair is already styled for the day. Her outfit, chic and sexy enough to rule a boardroom. “Felix and I maintain a tightrope between love and homicide.”

She makes a direct threat against the man I live to protect, yet I chuckle and keep walking. “Seems us Malones attract a certain type.”

“That other chick.” I stop in the doorway and look through, to my brother sitting at a small iron table, a breakfast spread already plated up, and a cup of coffee perched in his hand. “Ace. The one who hangs out with Michelle Mancino.”

At that, Felix glances up from his paper and regards me skeptically. “You want Sophia Solomon’s number? Pretty sure she’s married, bro.”

“I don’t wanna fuck her.” I head to the table and select a few grapes to nibble on. “She’s connected, and according to Archer, she’s a fuckin’ computer whiz. I want her to run a background check for me.”

“Call Harrison.” He lounges back in his chair, his eyes flickering past me when Christabelle stops in the doorway. “He’ll run your background, and we won’t risk annoying the most powerful fucking medusa in the country. Cordoza’s sweet on those girls, Micah.” He brings his attention back to me. “It’s not good for our health to piss off Cordoza. Especially right now, when we’re the last family standing, and Wilkes is making a dick of himself.”

“I’m not looking to piss her off. I want to ask her for a favor.”

Grinning, he shakes his head and picks up his coffee. “Owing powerful people favors is also bad for your health. Harrison is good at what he does. Ask him.”

“He’s decent,” I allow, tossing a grape into my mouth. “He’s not Ace.”

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