Page 41 of Choices

“No. I need the fish and some food.”

“Okay. You can head to the checkout. I’ll bag one up and bring it over.”

“Great.” Turning on my heel, I march to the registers and wait, drumming my foot impatiently as I listen to a customer in deep conversation about her poodle and how its shit gets stuck to the hair on its ass. Eventually, he arrives with my fish and a small tube of food.

Sixteen dollars and ninety-five cents later, the little gold blob is mine.

Tim doesn’t say anything when I get back to the car with my new fish in a clear plastic bag, but I feel his curious eyes stray in my direction. He drives slower, taking more care with corners than he did on the way here, and I tuck that away inside myWhy Tim is a Catchmental diary.

Back at the club, I don’t say bye, doubting he’ll reciprocate anyway, and head straight inside.

Ignoring the curious looks from brothers, I rush to my room, kicking the door open with my boot and using my hip to close it. I untie the band around the top of the bag and tip it upside down into the bowl. The little goldfish plops into the glass sphere,sending water splashing over the edge. It begins circling its new home, and my heart thuds against my chest.Welcome home.

CHAPTER 15

VOTING

CUTTER

Power emanates from everyone in the room, the atmosphere ripe with alpha ego and a sense of wariness—smart on both sides. We’ve been working with the Carnells for over four years, and have a good relationship, but in our world, things can turn bad in the blink of an eye. I’m living proof of that.

We hold a dark secret that, if it ever came to light, could shift this nice rapport into a deadly war.

“Getting the extra cargo in won’t be an issue, but it won’t be cheap to add another shipment in such a short period between the last one,” Pres informs Michael Senior at the head of the dining table, Michael Junior to his right, and their righthand man, Wescott, to his left.

We’re past trust issues, but it doesn’t keep the two security guards from standing at attention by the door or Jericho from bringing Grease and Monster along with Callan and me. More of a big dick display than anything else.

Instead of Senior’s office, we were brought into a dining room that could seat forty people. The long table is coveredin a cream tablecloth with flowers and candle centerpieces laid out every few feet down the middle. A giant chandelier dangles above, crystals dripping from it like icicles after a snowstorm. I half expect a maid to waltz in and start laying teacups out in front of us as a butler announces the late queen of England’s arrival. It’s pretentious.

I can’t fucking wait to get out of here. My boots have left mud prints on the cream rug beneath the table. Who the fuck decorates their dining room in white?A rich fuck who’s probably never used the room, that’s who.

Grease frowns at the large flower arrangement blocking his view, and I have to bite my fist to keep from laughing.

“Money’s not an issue. We’re expanding, and for that, we need product.” Senior’s gruff voice irritates me.

They don’t need to be in the drug game. They have more money than they’ll ever need. Hell, more than their kids’ kids’ kids will ever need. But there’s a demand, and if they’re not fulfilling it, someone else will. There’s big money in drugs. The Carnells won’t share that with an outsider.

“I heard you got approval for the new casino.” Pres pulls his lips into a smile, his brow raising, and his arms resting on the table, elbows and all. Everyone on this side of the room looks so out of place, it’s comical.

“It pays to know people in high places.” Michael Junior shrugs, amusement in his eyes.

“Or to be related to them,” Callan counters with a tip of his head. I chuckle. I like Michael but he’s never had to work for shit.

“Everyone has a price—you just need a big enough bank account to find it,” Senior grunts, wrinkles cracking around his lips and splintering out from his eyes. The fucker has gained weight over the last year, making his cheeks bloated and ruddy.

It’s not about bigger bank accounts—it’s who has the lesser morals. He must be forgetting they get most of the informationthey use for bribery from the Kings. Zoning commissions become obsolete when you have the key players on film doing shit they shouldn’t be doing with people they shouldn’t be doing it with.You’re fucking welcome, asshole.

“He who has the money has the power, and those who hold the power make the rules,” Senior adds with a smirk, twisting his watch to check the time. His fingers look inflated, his gold rings strangling the digits. The man should get that checked out. “I have dinner reservations. If we’re done here…” He taps the edge of the table, and Pres pushes his chair back, getting to his feet before Senior can.

“We’re done. I’ll be in touch.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Michael Junior says. He stands, gesturing toward the double doors we came through. Blowing out a breath, I follow Pres and Callan’s lead, Monster and Grease bringing up the rear.

The portraits hanging obnoxiously throughout the halls watch us as we pass. Callan turns his head at the painting of Nicolas in the foyer. Unlike Michael’s portrait, Nicolas’s will remain the same, frozen in time. It doesn’t even replicate him. It’s more a fantasy of how they wish he fucking was. The kid was a skinny, drugged-out prick who looked like he hadn’t seen water in months. This painting…there’s color in his cheeks, an odd smile on his too-big lips, life in his eyes, and meat on his bones.

When I sit at a table with Senior, who has the same eyes as Nicolas, I never feel an inch of guilt for killing his son. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about him. I think about the little fucker all the damn time. Not because I killed him—I’ve killed many men—but because of the cost of his death.

Michael took the bait we laid years ago, framing the Redwings for Nicolas’s disappearance, and we ended the gangfor him. He always reiterates his debt to us. When the time is right, Pres will collect.

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