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“You don’t know what they’ll do to me if I don’t give them that drive.”
I snort. “You’re pathetic, you know that? Go home. Get the fuck out of my sight before I hurt you.”
“What home? I don’t have a fucking home. Remember, you took it!”
“I took what?”
“Rockcliffe House. This club. My father. Everything.”
I’m out of patience. “Rockcliffe House belonged to my mother. It never belonged to the Black family. You and your father lived there because when my father died and that asshole father of yours was granted custody of Ginny and me, it made the most fucking sense. When your father raped my sister, he signed his own death warrant. Ginny was a kid. He fucking raped her, Ben.”
He knows this, I know he does.
“This club I built from the ground up,” I continue. “You have no part in it.”
“You fund it with drug money.”
“That’s not any of your fucking business.”
“And now you’ve got it all, huh?” His expression changes, his eyes narrow, he leans back almost looking relaxed. “The house. The club. The status. The pretty girl.”
Something about the way he says that last part bugs me.
“Wouldn’t it be a shame if even one of those things were to be taken away.” He says the words taken away with special emphasis, his teeth gnashed together, like it’s a threat.
I’m still processing when he continues.
“What’s the matter? For the first time in our lives, have I got the last word, Cous?” he asks, standing.
I hear the elevator doors slide open then. Surprised I turn toward it. Find Cilla standing there, her eyes wide as saucers.
I take a step to her. “What are you doing?”
She looks from me to Ben. “I heard—”
Before she can finish, Ben leaps toward the desk, grabs the gun. I whirl around as he raises his arm, aiming the weapon at Cilla, cocking it. She screams at the same instant as the gun fires, as I tackle him to the ground, close my hand around his, the one that’s holding the weapon. But he’s cocked it again and it’s pressing against my chest. I manage to move just as it goes off once more, ripping flesh apart, sending blood and tissue against the walls, the desk, the carpet.
I fall backward as I hear Cilla scream. I look to my shoulder, my jacket is shredded, there’s a deep gash in the skin beneath. It burns like fucking hell and when I turn to Ben, he’s staring at it too, like he’s more shocked than anyone.
“Give me the fucking gun,” I say, not waiting for him to comply but taking it from him. He falls backward, he doesn’t even put up a fight. I stand, empty it of bullets and put it in the waistband of my pants.
“I’m sorry. Fuck. I’m sorry.”
“Stop your fucking rambling.” I look at Cilla who’s pressed against the far wall. She’s staring at the wound in my arm. I go to her. “Are you hurt?” She can’t seem to drag her eyes from the mess of my shoulder. I look her over, she’s not hurt. Just in shock. “You should have stayed downstairs.”
I pull my phone out from inside my pocket, dial Hugo. He answers.
“Where the fuck are you?” I bark into the phone.
“Just pulling in. Fuck.” He must see Ben’s car.
“My office. Now.” I disconnect the call, take Cilla to the couch, sit her down. “Stay.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s fine.” I turn to Benji who’s managed to get to his feet and is cowering in the corner. I go to him, take him by the collar of his shirt.
“How dare you come in here threatening me in my own club, with my own fucking gun? How dare you threaten my girl? Aim a fucking gun at her?”
“Cous—Kill, please.”
“Did you watch it?” I ask, referring to what I know is on the USB stick.
I know he did from the look in his eyes.
“Fuck.” The elevator doors close, then a few minutes later, open again with Hugo. He steps inside, looks around.
“Take him downstairs.” I need to figure out what to do with him.
Hugo moves.
“No! Get off me! You can’t do this!” Ben yells.
Hugo drags him out. The doors close, leaving me with Cilla. She’s staring at me wide-eyed, her mouth open. She looks a mess, what’s left of her makeup is smeared, her hair half out of its twist, my blood on her dress.
I realize I called her ‘my girl’ but she isn’t that. She never was.
She could have been hurt tonight. Or worse. Her brother is lying in a hospital bed attached to too many machines after trying to kill himself. Is she better off for knowing me? Or is she in danger because of it? Is she a target for my enemies?
I rub my face. My neck. I know what I have to do. There’s only one thing.
