Page 78 of Filthy Devil

Jerking my chin in his direction, I clear my throat. He knows exactly who the fuck I am. I don’t say a single fucking word, though. I don’t have anything to say, and he’s lucky that I don’t already have my gun out and I’m not filling his body with lead. Because honest to fuck, I’m about fucking sick of this shit in general.

“I’m here because we want to strike a deal.”

“We?” I ask.

He hums, moving forward a few more steps, getting much closer than I fucking like before he continues.

“We,” he confirms.

I almost laugh in his face but then decide against it. He thinks he is, without a doubt, telling me something fucking special. Nothing about him or what he has to say to me means shit. If he disappeared from the earth, if he vanished in front of me right this second, I wouldn’t give the slightest fuck.

“The Southern Mafia,” he says.

I knew that was exactly who he was. So I don’t act surprised, mainly because I’m not. But I wanted to hear him say it to me. I wanted to hear it come out of his mouth. I had to fucking hear it.

I take half of a step toward him, then I stop. Keeping my arms over my chest, I place my feet wide as I begin to speak. And when I do, it’s a wonder that he doesn’t kill me where I stand because I do not hold back. Not in the goddamn slightest.

“You’re here, saying that shit to me like it’s supposed to mean something. I don’t give a fucking shit about you or the Southern Mafia. In fact, I should fucking kill you where you stand. I don’t give a fuck about you or your organization. Get in your little fucking car and drive right the hell out of town.”

He doesn’t even flinch at my words. Instead, his lips curve up into a smirk. “I thought you might say something like that,” he says with a laugh.

“And you came anyway?” I ask. “Why didn’t you come to my clubhouse?”

I know as well as he does that the clubhouse is burned the fuck down, but I want to hear him say it. Because his organization is the goddamn group that did it. I want to hear him say it. I want to hear the fucking words come out of his mouth. I feel like I’m owed at least that much.

But he doesn’t.

He pins me with a single look, then shifts his gaze to the side and clears his throat. “The leaders of Southern Mafia have changed. We are not the ones who initiated it, so I think it’s time we settle whatever this is so we can all go on with our lives.”

“No,” I say.

“No?”

“Exactly that. Nope.”

He has the audacity to appear surprised by my words. I don’t give a fuck. Seriously, I don’t give an ounce of a fuck. Not the slightest one.

“Get in your fucking car, drive away, and pretend I don’t fucking exist.”

“The target on her head will not go away unless this is dealt with, Nashville.”

He uses my full name, and I can’t deny that it pisses me off. I hate that he knows it, let alone uses it. I press my lips together as I watch him. He’s completely fucking serious, and I know it should be scary, but it doesn’t frighten me in the slightest.

These pencil-dicked motherfuckers can shove it up their asses.

“Soon, there won’t be any of you left, so it won’t fucking matter,” I snap.

He stares at me for a moment, blinking a few times, then clears his throat. “You think that, and I probably would, too. But know that even if you think we’re gone, we aren’t, and whoever is left will come for her.”

“Why?” I demand. “Why James?”

“It’s past anything other than principle at this point, Nashville.”

His words send a chill down my spine, but I don’t let him see that. Instead, I stare at him with the blankest expression that I can muster, then I speak.

“Forgive me if I don’t trust your deals. The Southern Mafia has not proven themselves trustworthy when it comes to deals with the Dark Horse. So unless you have anything else to add, I’m going to let my club continue to pummel the absolute shit out of you all.”

He doesn’t say anything right away, but then something happens. I hear the front door open and close behind me. My heart starts beating rapidly, and I watch as his gaze shifts from mine and flicks over my shoulder.

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