Page 9 of Bloodlust

"Cam—"

"Night, Frankie," I mutter as the elevator doors close before he can continue his lecture.

Everything he's saying I already know. I know that I'm skating on thin ice with the fuckers on The Council. I know that only fifty-five percent of them have any confidence in me. I know that I royally fucked up by losing my shit on Chanel Counter Karen.

I know all of this.

But I also know that there is no one else more qualified to take this role. My father made sure of that. He kept the minute details of our business dealings secret for this reason. Suppliers. Dealers. Numbers. Locations. Payroll. Enforcers. Everything. I know it all. I know thisorganization better than any of those denture-wearing bastards. They might not like me, but they sure as fuck need to respect me. I fund their hookers, their vacations, and their livelihoods. I give them millions.

The elevator doors open into my apartment, and I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the scent of corruption and wealth. They get millions, but I get so much more.

"Pinto?" I call out, kicking off my chunky black heels. I place my clutch on the console table before heading down the starlit hall. "Pinto?"

The lethargic pitter-patter of claws on hardwood sounds around me, and I smile as Pinto slowly walks toward me. I drop down to my knees, wrapping my arms around my blue-eyed babe and kissing his patchy light grey fur.

"How are you feeling, my little bean? Did you have a good day?" I scratch behind his ears. Pinto wags his tail back and forth. He's energetic today. That's good. I hope it lasts. "Did you miss me?" Pinto licks my face. "Oh, you did! I missed you too?—"

A distant clatter echoes, and I snap my head up, my body tensing as I hold up a finger. Pinto sits still, following my command. I slowly rise up, my hand reaching for the gun strapped to the garter on my thigh.

"Stay," I whisper, tiptoeing further into my apartment as I grip the pistol, all my senses on high alert. Someone's here. I can feel it. I take a few more steps into my living room, sucking in a quiet breath.

I cansmellit.

With both hands firmly planted on the pistol, I whiparound the corner and point the gun into my kitchen, narrowing my eyes at the open refrigerator door, the silhouette of a man standing behind it.

"Move, and I'll blow your fucking head off," I state. "Who sent you?"

"These chicken nuggets taste like ass," the man mumbles, turning around with a container of food in his hands. "Seriously, it tastes like blended cardboard."

Oh, for fuck's sake. Is this a joke?

I lower the gun, irritation spiking as Leo closes the fridge and flicks on the lights. He takes another bite of the nuggets, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his suit. Typical. He left New York with zero respect for designers, and he's come back with no respect for food.

"You broke into my house?" I ask, examining his smug face. He might be five years older, but he looks exactly the same. A snake draped in couture and covered in tough guy tats. Fake-ass little bitch. "What are you doing here?"

"Aw, come on, Mils," he says with a cocky smirk, striding toward me. "Is that any way to greet an old friend?" He looks down at me, his dark eyes scanning my face. He's not going to find what he's looking for. He's not going to find a friend. He squints at me, adding, "Christ, you're lookin' a bit rough, kid." He reaches into his breast pocket and hands me a handkerchief. "Wild night out, huh?"

"Get out," I sneer, smacking his hand away as Pinto runs up to us. I glare at my dog. He still remembers Leo's scent. I can't blame him. I do too. "Right now."

"No," he says with a playful grin.

"You either leave on your own accord—" I regrip the gun and point it at his chest, "—or in a body bag. You decide."

"Still dramatic as always," Leo sighs, tilting his head to the side as he peers down at the cocked pistol. "At least you're holding it properly." He looks up, tossing me a wink. "Guess you learned a few things while I was away."

"Leo, I'm serious," I state, grinding my teeth. "Get out of my house."

"Come on, you can't still be mad at me, Mils," he says, pinching his brown brows into a frown. As if he actually cares. So fake. Always so fucking fake. "Let me take you to dinner."

"I'm not hungry," I grunt, lowering the gun. Exhaustion washes over me. The past twenty-four hours have drained all my energy. There's nothing left. No will to argue. Fight. I point to the front door. "Leave, Leo."

"I think I'm in the mood for Greek," Leo muses, ignoring me as he plops down on an armchair and hikes his ankle over his thigh. He pulls out his cell phone, tapping away. "I hear Kaliopi's has impeccable lamb." He looks up. "You in?"

I close my eyes, calming myself down. He's the same. Still insufferable. Still obnoxious. Still arrogant beyond belief.

"I don't eat meat, remember?" I walk to the bar and pour myself a glass of whiskey. I down it in one shot, the amber liquid burning my throat and sedating me, just for a moment so I can calmly ask, "What are you doing here, Leo?The truth."

I already know the truth. The reason he's here. The reason he came back to New York.

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