Page 22 of Devious Roses

“Jon, are you planning on there being a shootout in our home anytime soon?”

I snap open the briefcase and show her the selection. She poses the question as if it’s absurd. Yet paranoia creeps over me like a second skin. If there’s one thing I’ve learned is to never take safety and security for granted.

“No,” I answer. “But should you ever need it. Phi, I want you to place these around the loft in spots you’ll remember. They’re for you in the event of an emergency.”

Her hand comes up to stroke my beard. “Okay, I’ll hide them around the loft. But please stop overworking yourself. I’ll be fine here. I’m more concerned about you at the club.”

Maybe I am too paranoid. Maybe I am too angry and full of rage.

It seems like too much when I’m faced with Delphine’s calm temperament.

The feeling still lingers. The many what ifs that can happen. They pollute my mind almost every moment of my waking hours.

We return to the bedroom with Delphine feeling playful. She tips her head to such an angle she’s able to press soft, teasing kisses into my neck. “I missed you tonight,” she purrs.

The second her lips touch me, I’m like an addict given a hit of my drug of choice. My chest hardens and skin warms, and I want to push her back onto the bed and take her. I want her silky thighs wrapped around me and her moans filling my ears.

But then I remember what Stitches told me and what Delphine’s hiding and any oncoming erection disappears.

I put an arm around her and ease her gaze up to mine.

“I’m sorry about Valentine’s Day,” I say. “I’ll make it up to you. But it’s been a long night. All I kept thinking about at the club was lying in bed with you.”

A pretty smile lights her face. We do just that—settle into bed and snuggle close like Delphine loves (and I secretly do too). I stroke her cheek and body and listen as she tells me more about her day. Her nightmare doesn’t come up.

I decide not to press her on it. She’ll talk about it whenever she chooses to. Though as she fades away into a calm sleep, I’m the one that stays up.

My thoughts focus on the feud unfolding between Kozlov and Giancola. It’s become untenable and Suarez better have an explanation for how the latest distribution got so fucked up. My men better figure out who the guy was who shot up the club tonight. If he has anything to do with the other guy who almost mowed me down.

Whoever was behind it has a brutal reality check in store. They’re about to learn not to fuck with the new Don of the Mancino family.

* * *

Suarez wipes his brow, his features strained in confusion. “I don’t know how that could’ve happened. We distributed the product as directed. Everybody got their cut. I can prove it to you.”

“Kozlov claims his losses were double what we said they would be. Yet Giancola claims he only got what was promised. Where did the missing product go?”

I’m mincing no words, offering no pleasantries, no professional demeanor. I’m here with my brawniest guys, ready to make the situation life-threatening if need be.

Suarez is no slouch. As a drug distributor, he’s got connections on both ends. My side and the cartels he works with. I’m under no illusion that he’s innocent and incapable of pulling shit.

For all I know, he could be sabotaging me and the other families with some other motive in mind. Just last night, some mysterious guy shot up my club. Whoever he was, he was acting on somebody’s orders.

Some would say it’s paranoid, but I trust nothing and nobody outside of my closest inner circle.

Suarez dials up one of his business partners on the phone, holding up a finger at me as it rings. The person on the other line answers and Suarez launches into an explanation about the missing product.

His reassuring glances disappear the second the person replies. His face darkens and he barks out, “What do you mean it was stolen? How’re you telling me now and not before?!”

Suarez explodes like I’ve never seen him before. He chews out whoever’s on the other end with a throbbing vein in his temple.

I wait patiently for the conversation to end, my men still flanking me. It does with reluctance, Suarez lowering his phone at a snail’s pace, and then running fingers through his ear-length hair.

“There’s been a complication.”

“No shit,” I say.

“We’re looking into it. Turns out, one of our freight trucks was stolen in Lunsbury. That’s where the mix up happened.”

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