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He raises his hand to his phone as I raise my gun to his head and I hiss, “Hands on the desk, Carter.”
“What the fuck is happening here?” He yells as he slams his hands on the desk and growls angrily, “If your father was alive, he would tan your hide for this you fucking wannabee.”
I shrug. “But he’s not and I want to know why?”
“What are you talking about son?” He sneers and I take a deep breath and say evenly, “Firstly, I’m not your son and you may address me as Mr. Romanov. Secondly, I am not talking about anything. I’m asking a valid question that I already know you can answer.”
I lean forward. “So, save us all the embarrassment of knocking it out of you and tell me the fucking name and we’ll be on our way.”
Damien moves away from the door and heads to his side and Carter’s eyes flicker with fear as Damien makes a show of pulling on his black leather gloves.
Carter licks his dry lips and drags in a breath and the perspiration is now trickling down his cheek and his voice comes out in a low whisper, “He warned me you would come.”
“Who?”
You could hear a feather drop in the room as he lowers his eyes in defeat.
“Your father.”
I say nothing. It’s usually the best way to deal with cluster fuck comments like that and yet my brain is struggling to understand the meaning behind the words.
“Why would he say that?” I say as if we are discussing an old friend and Carter shrugs.
“He warned me that if anything happened to him, his family would have questions.”
“And?” I lean forward and lower my voice. “Did he tell you to assist us, or to say nothing?”
His eyes flicker with resignation and he huffs out a deep, “Say nothing.”
I stare at him hard because why would my father want to keep something from his own family—his sons? It doesn’t make sense and I’m not sure if I believe him or not. I glance at Damien, who stares impassively back, and I flick him the nod, causing his hand to grip the back of Carter’s head, which makes him squeal like a pig.
“I’ll tell you. Just leave me the fuck alone.”
Damien’s disgust is evident in his eyes as he drops his hand and I point to the photograph.
“The name of that woman please, Mr. Lamont.”
“Iris Mahoney.” He bows his head in defeat.
“Where can I find her?”
Now we’re getting somewhere, and he sighs deeply.
“She has an apartment in London. Kensington, I believe.”
“Do you have the address?”
He shakes his head. “Of course not. I only know of her from what your father told me.”
“Which was?” I ask, listening intently for any nugget of information this pig can give me.
He shivers and then cusses under his breath before saying with a sharp blow of air, “Okay. I’ll tell you what I know because I value my life higher than your daddy’s secrets.”
He shakes his head and glances nervously over his shoulder at Damien, who, if anything, moves a little closer.
“I met your father at various exclusive parties, and we shared some business acquaintances. He was sometimes accompanied by Iris, and I realized she wasn’t just a whore for hire.”
“What makes you say that?”
