Page 22 of Hateful Union

I nod tightly, glad that one of us is thinking. “Thanks.”

“So, what did she say?” I snarl at his question. “I’m not stupid, I know you, Mal. She’s said something to you that has you seething. So what is it this time?”

“Sienna and Mayer had been dating since they were fourteen.” Fuck, I’m such a fucking fool. She played me well. I go on to explain everything that happened since I dragged her into my office.

His lips part slightly showcasing his shock, he then lets out a low whistle. “Fucking hell.”

“What the fuck are we missing, Christian?” There’s a big gaping hole in the information that we’ve gathered. I fucking hate this shit.

His eyes flash with anger. “I’ve gone to the same person as always for the specific details we need. Bryson.”

Which means that Bryson is playing us. What I want to know is why?

Christian’s phone buzzes and when he pulls it from his pocket, his lips curl into a smile. “So, Raylee’s currently downing shots, I’m not entirely certain that’s the right thing for her to do, given how pissed she is. The two of you are volatile at the best of times. Adding alcohol to the mix, that’s just a disaster waiting to happen.”

Fucking arse. Of course he’d find this amusing.

“In all seriousness,” he says, his voice a note softer than it had been. “Is she okay?”

I blink, that question taking me by surprise. “What?”

He shrugs. “From what you’ve just said the woman’s dealing with a lot of shit. Can’t be easy finding out that your father is a fucking piece of shit on the same day that you bury your best friend.”

What the hell is it with this fucker? Since when did we give a fuck about what anyone was feeling?

He moves so he’s sitting in the chair that’s in front of my desk. “Look, there’s obviously something going on between the two of you. Why the fuck are you fighting it?”

“She’s a fucking Silver,” I growl. “Do you really believe that fucking her would help this situation?”

He merely shrugs. “Fucking say whatever is on the tip of your tongue.” I don’t usually have to pry shit out of him. He’s not one to hold things back.

“Will it help the situation? No. It won’t. If anything, it’ll make it worse. But will it help you? Fuck yes.”

I’m fucking tempted to track her down, say fuck it, and take her home, dedicate one night to ridding myself of this craving that I have.

Sensing that it won’t be happening, Christian sighs. “You’ll be going to New York for a few days, maybe the distance from the situation will help.”

Who the hell is he trying to convince? I already know that putting distance between us isn’t going to solve my constant hard-on. All the distance will do is give me blue balls and put me in a fucking worse mood than I’m already in.

“I need to make some phone calls,” I tell him and the fucker just smiles as he settles back into his chair. I shake my head, the bastard has no respect. “You’ll stay here while I’m in New York,” I tell him as I reach into my pocket and take out my cell. “I’ll need someone to oversee everything.” Including the shit with the Silvers.

He nods, “Okay, boss, you make your phone calls and then we’ll discuss upping the security in the clubs.”

My first call is to my da, we organise everything for Holly’s upcoming nuptials. She’s marrying into the Italian Mafia. Her soon-to-be husband is the brother of our aunt’s husband. Dante Bianchi is the head of the Italian Mafia and my aunt is the head of the Irish Mafia on the American East Coast.

Guilt crawls through my gut as it does every time I speak to my da. I never told anyone what my ma said to me about him not being my real da. I’ve not spoken to Ma since Danny and Melissa’s wedding and I don’t want to, but fuck I need to find out what the fuck she’s playing at and if what she’s said is the truth.

Forty minutes later, I’ve finished my calls and sitting back in my chair, a tumbler of whiskey in my hand. The tension that’s been tight in my body is slowly starting to ebb away. Christian leads the conversation on the new security upgrades that he wants.

The distinctive rat-ta-tat-tat sounds mere seconds before the windows to my office shatters around me. Bullets zoom past me, sinking into furniture and walls.

“Get down,” Christian shouts as more bullets tear through the building.

I don’t get down, instead I jump to my feet and reach behind my back to where my gun is currently holstered all the while moving towards the door. Anger rolls through me. Whoever the fuck it is has a death wish. No one comes at me and lives to tell the tale.

As soon as I open the door to my office, I hear the blood curdling screams, the scent of fear hangs in the air. My gaze goes to the mass of people heading towards the exit. Fuck. Thankfully, my men are there, guiding them out to safety.

Gunshots continue to ring out and those that haven’t fled to the exit, are lying on the floor, heads buried into the ground, their bodies flinching with each gunshot that sounds. Their whimpering can just about be heard over the hysteria.

---