Page 95 of Broken Dreams

Not yet anyway.

Hudson, you fucked around and found out. Prepare to lose everything you’ve ever worked for. It’ll be my pleasure to take your business, house, and finally your life. I’m not taking any prisoners.

CHAPTER 20

CHRISTIAN

Every lead has been a dead end. I’m currently sitting in a club in Minneapolis, gazing down at a glass of rich brown Irish whiskey, contemplating my life’s failures. I never said it was a healthy pastime, but I’m at a stalemate on finding Makayla and Linus.

There’s no chatter about two gorgeous new omegas in the area, and I’ve been trolling everything from dive bars to this new club run by a mafia boss. I don’t do much work in Minnesota ever since a pack moved from Chicago almost a year ago to begin moving weapons.

I have this feeling that I’m doomed. How can I fix my massive fuck up if I can’t find them to apologize?

Though, an apology is worthless without the action behind it.

“Hey, that drink probably will taste better if you’re not staring at it,” Ambrose says, causing me to glance up at him. He’s the manager of this club and a couple of others that’ll be opening soon.

People talk when they drink, and I have no problems eavesdropping on those with loose lips. It’s how I also now know that he was an enforcer who enjoys getting creative with his kills. The shudder one of the alphas had as he whispered about “Penis Picasso” almost had me cupping my knot with a wince.

I should get the fuck out of here, butel chismeis just too good. I can thank my dear, departed mother for the love of gossip.

“I have to drive,” I say dully, glancing back at my drink. I haven’t even had a sip, the lighter shades simply remind me of Linus’ hair. Fuck, I’m pathetic.

“If you can’t handle a glass of whiskey and still have use of all of your faculties, then you have a problem,” Ambrose says, towering over me as he crosses his arms over his chest.

His dark hair is tied back in a man bun, but it doesn’t look messy somehow when paired with the nice suit he’s wearing. I’m waxing poetic on everything, I really don’t need to drink. I’m a mess all by myself.

The sounds of a well known singer who sings all about that fills my mind, and I decide I’m fucking losing it. I’ve completely cracked while pining, if I’m thinking about Celine Dion.

“Perhaps,” I mutter, not wanting to get in a fight with the locals. I have two guns hidden on my body, three knives strapped to my chest, and a garrote wrapped around my belt.

I’m loaded up for war, but just because I’m prepared for it, doesn’t mean that I need to go looking for trouble. It’s one of the things most of the hotheads who buy from me don’t understand.

“You look like you lost something,” he says shrewdly. “I think I should tell you that if it’s in my city, then it’ll probably stay lost. You look like a douchebag.”

A bark of laughter surprises me as it comes from my mouth, and I shake my head.

“You ever fuck up so badly you don’t think you can come back from it?” I ask, my ankle crossing over my knee as I’m forced to look up at his towering body. I’m not so weak willed that I feel the need to be on the same level as him.

I am perfectly fine in my chair, waiting him out until he gets bored and leaves me to my thoughts.

His almost-black gaze stays on me, no hints of what’s going on in his mind present. The man doesn’t even blink.

“Well, it sucks,” I mutter, finally taking a small sip of my whiskey. The flavor of caramel and smokiness coats my tongue as I swallow, finding myself enjoying it. It’s not tequila, but this is an Irish club. It seemed silly to order it. “I lost what I’m looking for through inaction, and now I’m paying for it.”

“Maybe you should take care of your toys,” Ambrose says. “Anything can wither and die if you ignore it long enough.”

Even though he’s an emotionless mountain of an alpha, I can’t help but think he may understand me. Yet, I’m not about to sing kumbaya with him anytime soon, I’m not that crazy.

“Good advice,” I murmur. “If I could find them, then I can make it right. Otherwise, it’s just another regret.”

“Some things can’t be fixed,” he says with a shrug. “Cerenity Quinn is known to take omegas who are running away from their pasts. If your agenda is to hurt people, then I should warn you that she and her pack will fuck you up and no one will ever know where you’re buried, because you’ll be the shite the pigs excrete. Got me?”

And there’s the psychopath. Nice to meet you.

“Got it,” I agree.

“We don’t waste whiskey around here. Slam it down before you leave,” he grunts.

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