Page 121 of Remy

No. Jesus Goddamn Christ.

I clench my fists as Russo and Valenti stare at me through the windows of the van parked across the street, waiting for me to pull my shit together so we can hurry up and dispose of the evidence.

Me

You mess with my head, Ollie… but for some reason I don’t want you to stop.

I hit send before I can think too long about it, the delivered status turning to read in less than thirty seconds.

This time I wait, leaning against the outside of the building like I did the night she was attacked, while my men handle the disposal.

She reverses in to a spot across the opposite side of the lot, her car idling as she stares at me through the windshield, her wavy hair framing a hypnotizing face.

My dick stirs without my consent. My fucking limbs thrum.

I have to get closer. I need to talk to her.

Lorenzo and safety be damned.

I push from the wall and stride toward her but before I’m halfway across the lot she takes off, driving into the night with my goddamn fucking sanity.

Two days later I’m still reeling, my head distracted, my thoughts in the gutter as I enter my penthouse apartment early in the evening to a mass of Flynn’s shoes scattered haphazardly in the foyer.

“Welcome home, boss,” he calls from another room.

I scowl, hating how he refers to me in a business sense after months of us living under the same roof. “Hey.” I dump my wallet and keys on the entry table and stroll into my open living area, the illuminated city skyline blinking its lights in the background.

“You’re home early for a Monday.” Flynn sits on my leather sofa, arms spread along the backrest, legs crossed and casual. “Do you want to join the party?”

Three white lines of powder sit on the glass coffee table, the display of drugs an obvious attempt to rile me.

All these months and I’m yet to raise my voice to this little fucker. But tonight might be the night.

The thought of him out on the streets buying coke, let alone touching it and spreading it into lines, has my animosity pulsing.

“Where’d you get that shit?” I keep my tone level. Measured.

His mouth kicks with a sardonic smirk. He’s trying to get in trouble. To push me. To see if I’ll push back, shoving him through the front doors, never to return.

The sad part is I get the psychology of it. The kid has a good thing here, but he doesn’t think it’ll last. He’s trying to end it on his terms before it gets stolen from him.

He pulls this shit all the time. Pretends to be a rebel. Flirts with breaking the law. Attempts to get under my skin.

He even did a deep dive on Ollie after her stint at the club. He tried to taunt me with his underhanded knowledge of all things Olivia Pelosi. The little fucker then proceeded to print hundreds of online photos and plastered them over my bedroom wall.

The joke was on him though because I loved that shit. The kid constructed a shrine to my obsession without me having to lift a finger.

He shrugs, running a bank card along the outside of the white powder. “Here and there. I made more friends. They gave me a discount.”

“Is that right?” I fail at keeping the snarl from my voice.

His lips kick higher.

Fucking masochist.

I clench my jaw, count to ten, and drag in a deep breath through my nose.

Do I smell baby powder?

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