Page 16 of The Last Call
I’m not really sure how this organized crime world works. As definitive as he sounds, I have to guess he isn’t bluffing. He probably bribes or bullies everyone else just like he has me. “You’re not God as much you want to believe you are.”
His head tilts to the side considering my disparaging comment before he nods slowly. Accepting his own conclusion. “Yeah, but I’m about as close as you can get.”
This man is unreal. So unbelievably egotistical. “You’re fucking insane.”
He laughs again when I roll my eyes. “You’re fucking beautiful.”
Damn the fire sparking inside me from his compliment. I hate him. I. Hate. Him. Why do I have to keep reminding myself of that fact? What the hell is wrong with me? Probably shock. Yes, that’s it. I must be hysterical from the stress. I’ve been traumatized, and I need to see a therapist. Almost as much as this lunatic does. “You can’t get away with this. You killed—kiiiiillllled—all those people.” I draw out the word for emphasis, not as if he doesn’t remember. But Iwanthim to realize how dire this situation is. Or that at least one of us is of sound enough mind to understand it. “They aren’t going to just ignore a massacre.”
His face hardens. I guess he doesn’t think I’m funny anymore. I shiver even though I’m not cold and wrap his gigantic jacket tighter around me. Terrible to be forced to wear his clothes, but at least better than the blanket he thought was acceptable to parade me around in. Or being naked as the only other choice he offered when I reminded him I needed something better than a bedspread to cover myself.
“Sergei was a brutal tyrant willing to sacrifice anything and anyone for his regime. No one’s going to miss him or be sad he’s gone. They’re probably fucking celebrating in the streets that he’s dead and they don’t have to live in terror anymore. So don’t try and make me feel guilty or even fucking think about mourning for him.”
Which of course I feel incredibly guilty that I’m not grieving over him. While I didn’t have any feelings for Sergei, he was still a human being. He probably had friends or family who cared about him. Or maybe he didn’t, the way Julius describes him. My head and heart swirl in utter confusion from the overload of conflicting information. Except for one simple, embarrassing fact. “I didn’t realize that he was that kind of man.”
He sighs from my honest admission. Some of the disgust darkening his face dissipates. Replaced with a softer expression that makes me relax a little bit more too.
“I know you didn’t or you wouldn’t have been with him.”
He’s right. I wouldn’t have been. I shouldn’t have been. When I met Sergei he made me believe he was the de facto ruler of a small, proud country in eastern Europe. A leader in title only. A prince without any real power. Just wealth and ancestry keeping him in his position.
Damn. I was so utterly wrong about him and about David. Unaware of the real truth about either of them until now. I hate that Julius is the one to make me realize how ignorant I’ve been. But he isn’t oblivious or innocent himself. “Well it’s not like you’re any different. You murdered all of those men!”
I sound stupid. Stating the obvious and behaving like a petulant child. Blaming him for my faults. Turning the spotlight on his flaws to hide from mine. My immaturity is confirmed by his satisfied grin. Proving how seriously deranged he truly is not to be offended by my accusation.
“Yes, Sydney. I did.” God how I hate his patronizing tone. “But it’s not like they were innocent or weren’t expecting an ambush. I’m sure you saw their weapons and the fortress Sergei built to protect himself. He knew eventually he would be attacked.” The arrogant smirk returns. Beyond pleased with himself. “He was just too clueless to realize it would be by me, and the devastation would be absolute.”
Some of my fury fades from the genuine fear engulfing me. Anxiety bubbles in my stomach because I know Sergei’s crimes are not the real reason for his death at Julius’s hands. I may not know much about him but I know he has absolutely zero concern for international relations or a desire to be a savior to the oppressed. For my own sanity, I need to hear Julius admit his intentions. “Why did you really kill him?”
The truth flames in his eyes before he answers. Possession. Obsession. Delusion. For me. I squeeze as far back against the cushion as I can when he rises and towers over me. Seeming even more gigantic in this confined space. His huge hands grab the lapels of his coat, and I stiffen. Bracing myself to be hauled out of my seat.
Instead he slowly spreads the fabric apart. Baring my abused body to him. I thought he was unaware of the torture I endured before he rescued me. Maybe not from the intensity of his stare taking in my wounds. A long, thick finger trails down my tender throat. A softer touch than I expected him to be capable of. Conflicting with the rage erupting in his unblinking gaze, and I can’t hold back the genuine quiver vibrating across my torso.
She trembles when I stroke her silky skin. But not the good kind of tremors, where she’s crazy with ecstasy. Begging and clawing at me for more. No, this is an instinctive response, full of terror and doubt. Caused by me and that bastard and all the other assholes who’ve let her down. Who’ve only used her and taken what they wanted. When all I want to do is spoil her and give her everything she needs. Including the patience I’m slowly losing with her magnificent body sprawled below me.
Shock parts her pink lips when I wrap my blazer snug around her again. Keeping a barrier I fucking hate between us. Only allowing myself a caress of her elegant cheek marred by a burgeoning purple contusion. Motherfucker. “I killed him because you defied me.”
Thin fingers clutch the armrests, lifting her raging little body closer to me. “You’re blaming me?”
There she is. My fighter. My lion.
I can’t help but smile when I drop back onto the bench. Enjoying the perfect view of the muscles flexing in her smooth thighs. Wondering how tight those toned legs would squeeze me when I’m pounding into her. “Just stating a fact. You’re lucky I’m not killing every man who you’ve allowed to touch you. But I will if you don’t stop testing me.”
A shadow flits across her expression that I can’t read, although I know for certain it’s not the anger she normally hurls toward me. Instead she takes a deep breath and focuses her attention on the hem of my coat. Tugging the gray fabric down to cover as much of her as possible. Which is pointless because if I want her naked, she will be. For now, I’ll let her think she has some say in the decision.
I’m more than willing to give her time to process and accept my promise. No need for anything but candor. This is how it works with me. Between us. Toward her. She fucks up, people die. Very simple.
“I have a business. Surely you can understand that. This is how I make my living. This is my job.Justa job.”
I like her style. Appeasing me with the idea they don’t mean anything to her—which I already know. I also appreciate her ingenuity. Appealing to me as a businessman, an entrepreneur, a peer, rather than using hysterics to persuade me. Except that her fucking a bunch of rich idiots is not the job for her. “I know about your…” I can’t help the air quotes when I describe her attempt to build a clientele and hide her duplicity. “…business. Your books are terrible and the audit trail for the interior design studio you’re pretending to run is too flimsy.”
A gorgeous shocked flush stains her ivory skin. I guess my analysis surprises her. “You accessed my files?”
“Obviously. I have to take care of you. You had no inventory. No vendor receipts. No letters of gratitude from satisfied customers. A few excel sheets aren’t going to convince someone who looks deep enough.”
“No one is looking. They’re not interested in me.” She shakes her head. Long hair, still damp from our impromptu shower, sways across her narrow shoulders with the force of her denial. Uncertain if she’s attempting to convince me or herself. The crack in her confidence growing wider as apprehension lifts her voice. “I’m a single proprietor who–”
“Who makes more than one hundred grand a year. What do you think the threshold is for the IRS to trigger an audit?”
