Page 97 of The Devil's Obsession (East Coast Devils 3)

Donnacha

The moment I stagger into the penthouse, I find the first object that isn’t nailed down—a cookbook—and hurl it at the glass wall. It bounces off and lands on the carpet, opening up to reveal a risotto recipe that Romy had annotated in wobbly writing, highlighting the words she didn’t know.

I lean my head against the window and close my eyes, listening to the rain destroy the city below.

How could I have been so fucking stupid?

Before I can find something else to smash, the elevator dings behind me.

“Boss?”

Ronan. I roll my forehead against the glass just enough to look at him. He’s wearing plastic overalls and an angry scowl with my toolbox tucked under his arm. Sliding it onto the coffee table, he click-clicks the catches open to reveal all of my gleaming babies.

“Do we have Belsky?”

His nostrils flare as he shakes his head. “No. Our boys are slow as snails.” Popping his knuckles, he adds, “Permission to punish them?”

I nod, but I couldn’t give a flying fuck about my men’s speed times right now.

Aiden’s idea was solid; we had the Belsky’s driver’s call translated.

Romashka is in room 386 with English. Am I to pick her up once she’s done, or should we send another car?

It was all I needed to hear. All I needed to know that I was a fucking idiot. She’d played me good, and I was dumb enough to allow it. She never owed me anything. I was the one who forced her hand in marriage, but the betrayal runs through my blood like poison.

“If we don’t have Belsky, why’d you bring my tools?”

Confusion flickers in his eyes. “I thought you’d need them to take care of Romy. Unless you already have?” His gaze darts around my suit, looking for any sign of blood.

“I’m not killing her.”

Only when the statement leaves my lips do I know I mean it. Fuck, I must be insane. I’m running on zero hours sleep and three bottles of Smugglers Club.

“No dramas. I’ll do it for you, boss.”

I whip around, stabbing a finger in his direction. “Nobody’s going to kill her,” I snarl.

I stuff my hands in my pockets and pace the apartment. Fuck, our apartment. Like a dog that pisses to mark its territory, her scent is fucking everywhere. Fluffy black slippers tucked under the coffee table. A hoodie strewn over the armchair. A goddamn necklace pooled on the kitchen island, like she took it off at the last minute because she suddenly decided it didn’t match her outfit.

A hangover is kicking in, and the way it thumps on the walls of my skull is making me feel like I’m going insane.

Ro asks the same question.

“Are you insane?” he hisses. “She’s working with Belsky, Donnacha, and has been this whole fucking time. Who knows what she knows about us? What you’ve unwittingly told her while you were playing happy families—?”

His defiance melts into a gargle as I grab him by the throat. I slam him into the glass wall with such force that if it wasn’t bulletproof, it’d shatter. “Talk to me like that again, and I’ll march you up to the roof and throw you off it,” I growl, my nose nearly touching his.

The vein in his temple ticks. He releases hot air through his lips, then nods. It’s enough for me to let him go—this time, anyway. Even in my fucked-up mind, I know he’s right.

I can’t let her get away with this. I’m a goddamn Quinn, and nobody fucks over me or my family. I have to do something, but I know I can’t bring myself to hurt a hair on her head.

Taking a deep breath, I lay my palms on the kitchen island as if the coldness of the marble will give me back an ounce of my common sense.

I square my jaw and say, “Find her best friend and bring him to me.”

I’ll break her by making her watch me take away the person she loves most.

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