Page 225 of Remy

Fuck. I down the remainder of the liquid and squeeze the tumbler tight, my grip threatening to shatter glass.

“Here.” I shove the tumbler at Russo’s chest and pull out my cell.

Me

You’re becoming quite the black widow. What’s his name and how do you think he’d prefer to die?

My gaze remains riveted on her as she breaks away from the embrace to retrieve her cell from her clutch. She smiles as she focuses on the screen.

Fucking smiles.

I inch backward into one of the bouncer alcoves as she raises her gaze and scans the club, not finding me. Then she’s tapping out a reply, the buzz of my cell coming seconds later.

Olivia

Was attempting to find a taker for the V-card. Do you think he’s the one?

Jealousy punches through me. So does an electric thrill.

She wants to play.

Game on, Ollie.

She scans the crowd again, and then hesitantly returns her attention to the man whose life is shortening by the minute.

Me

I don’t know, Pyro. Ask if he’s willing to die for the cause and see what he says.

While you’re at it, I’d appreciate a height and weight guesstimation so I don’t have to waste time during disposal.

She checks her phone again, the laughter on her face doing things to me that the guy quickly eviscerates when he leans too close and says something in her ear.

I shove my clenched fists into my pockets. “Take care of him.”

Russo and Valenti shoot me questioning looks.

“Permanently?” Valenti asks.

I gnash my molars.

She’d hate me for the death sentence.

Would the animosity last forever? Maybe not.

But would it delay our forthcoming gratification? Undoubtably.

“No.” I growl. “Bring him to me.”

“Sure thing.” Valenti approaches the dance floor, entering the slew of gyrating bodies to make his way to the man who’ll soon learn a valuable lesson, while Russo remains at my side.

Ollie stiffens, but keeps swaying as Valenti leans into her dance partner, saying something in his ear that has the man jerking back theatrically to clasp a hand to his chest.

I scowl, not expecting the dramatic response.

Valenti shoots me a glance, whatever silent message he’s trying to convey across the room not hitting its mark as he makes his way back toward me with the guy in question following a step behind.

It isn’t until they’re a few feet away that I see what he’s wearing—a skin-tight, fishnet tank top with equally tight baby-pink shorts.

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