Page 5 of Corrupted Queen

Ian is a slight man with almond-shaped green eyes. He narrows them into slits and spits on the ground by my feet. “Patrick Walsh can suck my dick.”

I cock a brow, removing the knife. “Is that so?” I look back at Antonio. “What do you think Patrick will say when he hears that, I wonder?”

“I don’t think he’ll be very happy,” Antonio replies.

“What do I care?” Ian growls.

“Our truce means I can’t kill you,” I reply. “But he can, and I think he’ll certainly be inclined to if he finds out what kinds of things you’re saying about him.”

This takes the wind from his sails a little, and his posture sinks. I smile.

“Why did you bomb the store?” I ask. “Do you have a personal vendetta against me?”

I do not recognize this man, so I find that unlikely, but why else would he go through the effort of contravening Patrick Walsh’s moratorium to damage my business? Especially when, in doing so, he has almost certainly forfeited his life.

“Being loyal to Patrick Walsh means being loyal to you. I remain loyal to Andrew Walsh. The Irish have fought the Italians my whole life, and I will not bow down to you pasta-munching guidos now.”

“Interesting.” I look back at my men, who share similar expressions of surprise.

I suppose I can understand how Andrew Walsh inspired such loyalty. Under his leadership, the Irish experienced a brief period of dominance over us. And now it is over.

“Are there others like you?” I ask.

Ian shrugs.

Maintaining a neutral expression, I swiftly deposit the blade of the knife into the meat of his thigh. Ian screams.

“I don’t think you heard me.” I wrench the knife free, holding it at his eye level as ruby drops of blood drip from the edge. “I asked if there were others like you.”

“Yes!” Ian groans. “There are others!”

I wipe the blade on Ian’s shirt and step back to Antonio, lowering my voice. “Hand him over to Patrick and tell him what we’ve learned. Remind Patrick that attacks on our territory from any Irish, no matter which Walsh they follow, are in direct violation of our treaty and it’s up to my discretion whether I choose to retaliate or not.” I hand him the knife. “Hopefully, that will incentivize him to root these insurgents out.”

I leave the cellar, climbing the stairs to the main floor and then up again toward my office. Only, when I reach the top of the stairs, I don’t turn right. I turn left, finding myself floating toward Alexis’ old set of rooms.

I step into the nursery and flick on the lights. The maids have tidied, but otherwise everything is just as Alexis left it. The star-and-moon mobile hangs over the white wooden crib, a selection of Harry’s favorite toys sit waiting on the shelves, and as I step further inside, I can even smell her faint, flowery perfume.

I remember standing at the open door one night and watching as Alexis hovered over the crib and read to Harry. Her soft, measured voice wove a gentle story that made even my eyes heavy. She wore a pink silk dressing gown that grazed her tanned thighs, and as she bent over the crib, her dark curly hair trailed down from her cheeks like spools of silk.

I walked into the room, footsteps light on the carpet, and wrapped my arms around her. She sighed and leaned against me, her head falling back against my shoulder. Her warm body fit perfectly in my arms, and I bent down to inhale the scent of honeysuckle and soap from her skin.

It was moments like those where I nearly fell in love with her, fool that I was. I thought she was falling in love with me, too, but looking back, I wonder if any of my memories of her affection were genuine, or if it was all a ploy to get behind my defenses.

How many locked doors did she go poking behind while she stayed here, searching for journalistic fodder? I know at least one time she stole the office key from around my neck while I was sleeping. I shudder to think how many other occasions she manipulated my emotions. I rescued her from Andrew Walsh, and the second she had the opportunity, she took my son and ran.

I have spent years resenting my father, blaming the family’s struggles on his blind adoration for a woman who abused him for her own devices. Felicity Huffman was the serpent whispering from the grass underfoot, urging him to make foolish plays for power. He listened to her but would not listen to his own son. It was disgusting.

And then I went and fell into the same trap.

I leave the nursery, trying to shake the thoughts of Alexis from my head. Despite everything, I still miss her. I miss the sound of her laugh, miss the way she snuggled against me in the night. I miss her talking back to me like nobody else in my life would ever dare to.

I step inside my office and close the door against Alexis and everything she represents. I need to work.

3

Alexis

Another day, another sleazy motel.

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