Page 16 of The Mafia Enforcer's Temptation
“Put the fucking gun down or I swear to all that’s holy, I’ll kill you. My intrigue is waning and sure, while you’re pretty enough to hold some kind of interest for me, it isn’t enough to keep you breathing.”
“Oh, so you prefer corpses?”
“I just don’t like diminishing returns and boredom, and you’re quickly becoming both. Put the gun down.”
A burning lump forms in my throat but I struggle to swallow it down. He’s the worst, a thorn in my side. How the hell did he find me anyway?
Did Romanov?—?
But before I can finish the thought, I calm down. Romanov, if he wanted to drag me in front of his own personal version of judge and jury, would send his own second. Not some Irish bastard.
Slowly I set the gun down. He nods at my fistful of jewels and cash. “And the money.”
“But—”
“You’re clearly of the life, sweet thing, so you’re not naïve. You get it. There are costs to things, and you’re paying, not me. Besides, you never completed your deal?—”
“He was going to double-cross me.”
“It’s life,” he says, “it’s all a fucking double-cross. Now put the money down. Not yours, not mine. It’ll pay for cleaning this room up, and it’ll stop a price from being slapped on your head.”
I lift my chin, gripping the money tight. There’s probably two hundred thousand here, not at all what we settled on, but it’s a start. I’m not letting it go. I need it to pay Ruslan. “He was going to shaft me.”
There’s a flicker of something on his face that’s predatory, and my body flares in response, but he just says, “Chad’s the kind of guy you don’t do business with. Put the money down and we’ll get out of here.”
We.
The word reverberates through me.
I take a breath, trying to settle my racing pulse.
We.
He’s not looking at me. Instead, he’s taking in the room, the doors. He looks past the one marked exit and his gaze locks on the unmarked door.
“Put the fucking money down. Then stand by the wall where I can see you.” His gaze flicks back to me as he motions with his gun.
I’m not an idiot. I know this Chad was a bad bet, but I only make bad bets if I want to stay out of the sticky strands of Romanov.
I let out my breath, say goodbye to the money, and put it down before moving to the wall. He gives me a flinty look that’s hotter than it should ever be as he tries the doorknob and then pulls a lockpick tool out of his pocket.
He makes fast work of it, almost as fast as I could, and I hate myself for acknowledging it.
“Where are the rest of my jewels?” I don’t mention the crest because a strange little hope springs up. If he lifted the jewels from me, then it stands to reason he lifted the crest. Why else come after me?
What the hell else could he want?
“Oh, you mean Romanov’s trinkets?” A half smile forms as he opens the door. “Ladies first.”
And he pushes me into the dark passageway.
He shuts the door. The space is pitch-black and he’s right behind me, his heat enveloping me as I move down the hall. His scent grasps me and seduces my senses, twining through my blood, such dark perfection.
He touches me then, a slow slide of metal trailing down along my spine, and I shiver, clutching the bag where I shoved the jewels into before moving toward the wall as he ordered.
My God, he’s running the barrel of his gun down my spine, and it’s so fucking erotic. And then his fingers are on my arm, sliding upward, over the wound he left earlier and the hammering pulse just next to it.
A gasp breaks free. I despise him. I do. I hate his entire family and all they cost me. But most of all, I hate Seamus Murphy.
