Page 73 of Ruthless Roses

One’s dropped out of the race altogether after clipping another car.

A second SUV struggles as I keep them guessing with my fast, reckless driving. Only the third SUV seems in it for the long haul. It swerves along only a car or two behind. The driver behind the wheel of that SUV seems most determined of all.

Somebody just tried to come for Delphine, which means this was orchestrated—likely some kind of plan having to do with Ernest and that letter she had received.

We lose the second SUV altogether to my men arriving on the scene of the chase. They crash onto the street we’re on in the armored utility vehicles that are part of my arsenal and intercept the struggling second SUV.

The taste of victory is within reach. I can sense we’re winding down. We’re about to end this shit once and for all.

As we close in on the club, I speed up and begin planning the next phase—our arrival and how I’m going to manage to throw off this third SUV. At least long enough that’ll afford me the ability to get Dominic safely inside.

My men solve my conundrum for me.

Making the last turn on the block where Nirvana’s located, they’re ready for us. We pass through unscathed, circling around to the back where the private garage entrance is. The third SUV gets shot up by my men in a haze of bullets and gun smoke.

I’m quick, unbuckling Dominic and getting him upstairs into my club office. He’s stopped crying, though his cheeks shine with tears and he has a flushed look about him. Stitches volunteers to stay with him as I head down.

“These are the only two who survived,” says Omar. He gestures to two bleeding men they’ve brought in and forced to their knees.

I step to them, barely able to contain myself. Not only did these assholes and whoever they work for attempt to accost my wife, even worse they started a car chase with my infant son in the backseat.

Both men are unrecognizable—brown skin, distrustful glares, dressed in all black.

It’s as I observe them that the epiphany comes to me.

The mysterious letter from Clay, the old photo of Delphine’s mother, today’s kidnapping attempt, and car chase by these men.

Ernest’s involvement.

“Clay Palmer,” I say aloud, racking my brain for what I know about Northam’s crime scene during that period. Not much, but I’ve heard of Killer Clay. His original alliance he had going on with my grandfather, Leandro Crotone.

An old friend of Delphine’s mother, was he?

Very interesting.

Ernest has never mentioned that, nor has anyone in their rich and posh society. If it was even known by many.

Suddenly, it all makes sense. Ernest must’ve sicced this guy and his minions on us.

All so he could destroy me and break up my marriage and family.

So much rage courses through me, I release a gruff laugh. This is the final straw. The fucking nail in Ernest Adams’s coffin.

“Call him up,” I say to one of the men on his knees. His name’s Andre. “Call your boss up and tell him you’ve got us trapped at the club. Tell him to come by for his victory lap. Do it or die.”

Omar cocks back the hammer of his gun and points it at Andre’s head.

The minion of Clay’s takes out his phone and places his call right in front of us.

“It’s done,” he mumbles afterward.

I grin, a twisted one that’s as maniacal as it is furious. “Good. Let’s see what Killer Clay has to say for himself.”

20

salvatore

Killer Clay showsup like he’s about to waltz into his own party. He gets out of the car he’s riding in and walks up toward Nirvana with a handful of his men in tow, a look of triumphant on his face.

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