Page 41 of Stone

Bren looks fit to burst as he leans over the table to intimidate me, but I remain unfazed. When you’ve faced off with a cattle prod naked, you can face off with a giant of a man with bare knuckles.

Clearly, the subjects of trafficking and compounds are a sore spot for him, and maybe, just maybe, if I can give him something he wants, then they can give me something I want too.

Her.

My lip curls, and a growl emits from Bren’s throat as if pissed at my reaction. “I can tell you everything you need to know about them and where they are.” I smirk.

Personality sits forward. “I’m listening.”

“But you need to give me something first.”

“What is it you want?”

I lick my lips. If I open up to him and he refuses me, then he knows my weakness, but right now, what choice do I have?

His blue eyes search mine. “I need you to know something, Stone.”

I nod.

“We don’t need the compound locations.” My eyes dart to Bren’s, who looks fit to destroy his brother. “We don’t need them because all we need is you.”

I blink, and he continues on. “We thought we’d lost you. But now you’re found. What we want is to make you happy, so whatever you ask of us, we will do for you.”

Lies. All fucking lies.

I can trust no one.

“I know you don’t believe me. I know you feel let down and abandoned.”

What is this? Some fucking therapy? What kind of Mafia is this?

“You don’t know shit about how I feel,” I bite back.

“You’re right, I don’t. But we’ve been a family in mourning for years. Knowing we’re helping you—”

“Will ease your conscience?” I raise my eyebrow.

“We want to help,” he grits out.

I sit straighter and stare back at him. “Yeah? Then help me get what I want.”

His eyes never leave mine. “And what is it you want?”

“My girl back.”

“Done,” he says, with a confidence I don’t yet feel. All I know is, I’m closer to her now than I was before I walked into the gym, and I’ll take it.

I’m coming for you, Princess, and when I have you, nobody will take you from me again.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Stone

Three weeks later …

This is the place, according to Personality, otherwise known as Oscar, she comes to on the last Sunday of every month, with her husband at 2:00 p.m. That gives me twenty minutes to go inside and find a spot she won’t see me until I want her to.

The restaurant in Miami is the type she will have been brought up to dine in. She probably expects this standard now too, and I hate the thought of not being able to offer her what she wants and deserves. It’s for sure out of my comfort zone. Hell, having a meal with them was a luxury, let alone at some fine-ass palace-looking place that probably serves steak on bone china.

---