Page 45 of Remy

I wouldn’t have thought it possible but she stiffens further—a stunning marble statue that radiates terror.

I eat up the space between us until my mouth is poised near her ear. “And the doctor?” I drawl. “Do you think he’ll corroborate your story? Or would he maintain that you seemed undaunted by my presence as you sat quietly at your father’s bedside? That you freely accepted my ride home and left with me without duress?”

“You bastard.” She places a hand to my chest, pushing, digging her nails through my shirt and penetrating my skin. God, it feels good.

“I’m merely giving you clarity.” She still smells divine. Ripe strawberries and vanilla. I bet between her thighs tastes just as sweet. “If tonight’s events are discovered, you’re screwed. Not only by the authorities, but my family. I’m trying to keep you alive. Remember that the next time you think about defying me.”

Her rigidity loosens, her shoulders slumping in defeat. The pointy teeth of guilt sink deeper.

“The good news is you can rail on me all you like in private.” I loosen my hold. “In fact, I encourage it.”

I crave her hatred as much as hemorrhoids, but reverse psychology and all that.

She takes the bait, slamming her mouth shut. She wiggles from my hold, daring to give me the slightest glare before turning and starting for the parking lot.

She was never meant to learn about the arrangement. It was Carlo’s one stipulation. He even crafted specific guidelines after the first time we almost got caught so that the disposal of whatever we saw fit was only to be done early at night, leaving enough time for the retort to cool, and only while he was on-call.

But I fucked up.

Miguel’s kill had been done in the heat of the moment. I’d had brain matter and skull fragments to dispose of. And with the growing rivalry between us and the Mexican cartel, keeping a mutilated body on hand wasn’t ideal.

So I took liberties.

There wasn’t much Carlo could do when I showed up at his doorstep with blood on my hands and a fresh kill in the replica funeral van.

He’d switched the after-hours number to his phone instead of Hugo’s to make sure we weren’t disturbed. I guess he’d prayed the retort would cool in time.

I’d assumed it had.

Then Salvatore gave the order to get rid of Javier and the game started all over again, except this time Carlo hadn’t answered my knock on his door.

My men located the actual Pelosi funeral home pick-up van via the GPS tracker I planted months ago for circumstances just like this. They kept watch on the female employee’s townhouse and were told to cause a diversion if she got a call-out.

I’d thought I’d been in a prime position to use the retort.

The staff parking lot had been empty.

The place was quiet.

Then my men had shouted my moniker, Ollie’s terrified eyes had met mine, and I’d known my choices had just ruined the life of someone entirely undeserving of the threat her knowledge would bring.

We make it to my car in silence. She climbs into the passenger seat without protest.

I drive onto the Baltimore streets faster than necessary.

There’s no music. No playlist. Only the grate of asphalt and honk of horns from the bustling Saturday morning traffic which is going to make the journey across the city ten times longer than it needs to be.

I check my cell at a red light.

Two missed calls. Five texts. All from Salvatore.

Shit.

I’m not surprised he didn’t appreciate the message I sent earlier about needing a night to blow off steam. It wasn’t the best diversion from the mistakes I’ve made. But I’d just thrown a man in an oversized kiln and ordered the most stunning and frighteningly scared woman to dispose of his body.

I only get another five miles down the road when Salvatore alights on the car’s display screen with the option to connect the incoming call.

Fuck.

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