Page 26 of A Game So Reckless

I don’t look up as Rowan enters my office and makes that announcement. I’m too busy sitting with my elbows on my knees contemplating the small puddles on the floor surrounding my boots. Made it all the way back and still haven’t changed out of my soaked boots and jeans.

“Who was he?”

“Don’t know,” I answer blithely, finally raising my gaze to find Rowan standing between the two dark green armchairs of my office.

“Alright,” Rowan says evenly, not even batting an eye at my non-answer.

He’s used to my various violent whims by now. He should be, considering he’s known me since I was a homeless scrapper on the streets of Dublin. Twenty years, the two of us go back.

“So what’d he do, then? And why the fuck are you all wet?”

Rowan sits in one of the leather armchairs, his meaty bulk filling it. The man is built like a fucking bull. If the bull was on steroids, that is. His tattooed biceps bulge as he crosses his arms over his barrel-like chest. His long red hair is out of his face, tied in a ponytail at the back.

It makes me think of another ponytail from tonight. A thick, warm, fragrant one that I wrapped all the way around my knuckles while two angry eyes stared me down.

What do you want from me?

“I fell into a siren’s trap.”

“Uh huh,” Rowan says noncommittally, leaning back and making the old, worn leather creak in complaint. “Thought sirens didn’t let men go.”

“Since when are you such a goddamn mythology expert?” I snap. I’m on edge. I have been since I saw her tonight.

I have been since that rooftop two fucking weeks ago.

“You’re the one who brought it up,” Rowan reminds me. “Alright. Sirens aside, is there anything I need to know about tonight? About the man Tommy and I got rid of?” Rowan’s blue eyes regard me for a moment. “Couldn’t help but notice there was a big Italian shindig going down at that venue tonight. Dario Fabbri’s funeral. And I also couldn’t help but notice that the dead guy’s dick was hanging out.”

I run my tongue along my teeth, blood heating with rage all over again when I think about that man’s eyes on Valentina’s body. I remember the way he started jerking off to her in the darkness, and I want to kill him all over again.

Maybe I should have gone back to deal with the body myself. Maybe chopping him up might help this writhing, angry, fuckingthinginside me find some peace. Or at least find somewhere else to fucking go.

“He was looking at something.”

“Looking at something?”

“Something that belongs to me.”

Rowan uncrosses his arms to rub at his jaw, his calloused fingertips stroking his close-cropped ginger beard as he stares at me. Finally, he drops his hand and bluntly asks, “Wanna tell me what belongs to you in the heart of Sicilian territory? Something so important this guy got his throat cut just for looking at it?”

I heave myself out of the chair at my desk and head for the small bar cart in the corner of my office. My boots squelch wetly as I walk. Taking a glass tumbler, I slosh whiskey into it. I don’t offer Rowan one. He doesn’t drink. Never has.

I take a sip, savouring the hot burn of liquor gliding down my throat.

“It’s not somethingthat belongs to you, is it?” Rowan suddenly asks in a low voice from behind me. “It’s someone.”

I don’t reply. I take another sip of my drink at stare blankly ahead at the wall while my brain swirls with images of black hair, black dresses, black lace.

“So it was two men lured by a siren tonight,” he goes on. “And only one made it out alive.”

I down the rest of my drink and put down the empty glass so hard it makes bottles and spoons rattle.

“I’m going to go out on a limb and guess this siren is Sicilian.” A pause. “Is this somebody that you’re fucking?”

There’s no judgement in his voice, but there is wariness. I’m not sure our relations have been any worse with the Italians in this town than they are right now. Fucking the wrong woman could mean war.

Fucking Valentina Titone?

It could mean annihilation.

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