Page 149 of Desperate Actions

It’s after three o’clock in the morning when I finally pull into the driveway, my body thrumming with exhaustion and frustration.

The night has been a complete waste—fruitless hours spent at the Den, the pounding bass of the DJ’s set still rattling around in my skull like a hammer on metal. I spent the bulk of my time conducting interviews with the club’s current staff, pushing for answers Angel Fury’s team had somehow overlooked.

Most of them were either too scared or too clueless to be of any real help.

And then there was the bartender.

Stella Vargas.

The pushy, overly familiar woman who seemed to think offering up information required her to offer herself in the process.

Fucking hell.

Even now, I can still hear the over-the-top wannabe sultry lilt of her voice slinking into my ears like poison.

“Mr. Fury said I should tell you everything I know,” she had murmured, a slow smirk tilting her lips as she leaned in too damn close, pressing her too-long nails into my forearm. “How about you come to my place for a nightcap after close, and we get down to our discussion?”

Her perfume had been thick and cloying, clinging to the air like cheap whiskey.

It took everything in me not to rip her hands off my body and throw her across the bar.

But I don’t hit women. Ever.

Instead, I’d pinned her with a glare so sharp it could’ve cut through concrete.

“I don’t know what Mr. Fury told you,” I said, my voice low, controlled, “but I know he didn’t mean for you to proposition his son-in-law, Miss Vargas. Now take your fucking hands off me and don’t ever touch me again.”

Her eyes had gone wide with something close to panic, her grip loosening instantly.

“O-okay. Sorry, Mr. Ramirez.”

“Did you have anything to do with the robbery?” I demanded.

She shook her head so hard her earrings swung.

“N-no. I swear I didn’t.”

That’s what they all fucking said. But I knew someone was lying.

Someone was always lying.

Now, as I step into my house—our house—the tension in my chest doesn’t ease. If anything, it coils tighter.

But then I hear voices drifting in from the kitchen.

I stop in my tracks, my head tilting toward the sound.

It’s her. My Pixie.

Her soft, sweet voice reaches me like a balm against my frayed nerves, but then I realize what she’s saying.

And my heart nearly fucking stops.

“I’ve loved him my whole life, Andrea.”

Holy. Fuck.

She loves me.

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