Page 8 of Beautiful Secrets
Fuck them.
Fuck everything.
I don’t need this shit. I don’t want this shit.
I want my old life back, but it’s not there anymore.
My SUV squeals as I tear away from the intersection. Beside me, my pills rattle, rattle, rattle in the console.
Kill says Dimitri took over our territory like a fucking cancer the moment I was put away and he went legit. Now the whole East Coast is under his slimy thumb. Man doesn’t have any morals. They’re so fucking old school, they probably have ties to the goddamn Illuminati or some shit.
Cillian seems fine with it, but what about the Connollys? I heard Callum got married while I was away, but his younger brothers should still be chomping at the bit. Never turned down a fight, or a raid, or a deal those two. Never mind how dirty it was.
If I can get them on board, we could push Dimitri right the fuck back to where he came from.
Maybe a war is just what Kill needs to remember exactly who he is. Not some daddy on baby duty, but a goddamn Hendry.
War has a way of jogging the memory. Of reminding you where your loyalties lie.
Those Russkies could be the key to what I want.
Everything back the way it was.
3
Cole
Dimitri’s a sick fuck. But he’s a clever fuck too and therein lies the problem. It’s like he knows I’m trying to provoke him. The Connolly boys and I bust one of his shipments, and he acts like it’s just tit for tat. Which I guess it is, in a way. But then he invites me over for dinner like we’re chums?
I’m going mad trying to figure out what he’s up to, but I accept the invite anyway. I am, after all, trying to start a war with the man. What better way to get to know my enemy than sharing some tatties and roast?
But the moment I’m in front of the ornate gates of his enormous estate, I realize I barely know a thing about the Russki.
Night is just starting to draw shades on the day. The mansion looks especially gothic where it paints a jagged silhouette against the purple sky. Silver Birches line the gravel drive, their slender trunks stagger into a distant pale blur.
“Jaysus, that’s some size,” Ethan murmurs, ducking his head to peer through the windshield. “Didn’t know Ole’ Vassie had so much money.”
“Family money,” I say, not knowing if it’s anything close to the truth. But I guess if their Bratva goes back far enough, the family ties would be strong. People think the Russians aren’t as traditional as the Italians—they’d be wrong. The Russkies just figured out how to merge with the modern economy instead of fighting it.
And Dimitri’s one of those fucks who made it out on top. He rules his house with an iron fist, but his business is as fluid as the little stream we crossed a few yards back.
I’d never live in a house this size, this shape, or anywhere near this location. I’ve nothing against facades where it looks like the architect had a hard-on for the Bank of Scotland—they’re just not for me.
A bunch of heavies greets us at the wide, studded door, but instead of frisking us down, they simply give us a quick once-over before pointing us inside. One of them—an older guy with silver hair and a slight limp—leads us through the entrance hall and down a passage.
It’s a piss cold evening, so it’s no wonder the air inside smells like it’s been hanging around this place all day. Food and cigarettes dominate, but there’s a mustiness beneath it all that smells like it wafts straight up from the hardwood floors.
The walls are all wood paneling and hospice shades of paint in yellow, blue, and green.
I have to bite back a smile when I see the rug in the middle of the den we’re taken to.
It’s a fucking bear.
“That’s downright animal cruelty, that is,” Paddy says right beside me. He crouches down low and gets right up in its frozen snarl of a face. “Y’alright there wee fella?”
I give him a warning glare over my shoulder, but he’s not even looking at me. I wouldn’t have brought him, but one of the boys told him where they were headed and he seemed to think it would be somecraic.
I’m not about to tell him otherwise. Mad fucker might just bite off my ear.
