Page 162 of Lethal King

“Fuck,” I curse, my heart pounding.

There’s no caller ID, but I know it’s Roz.

It has to be.

But it’s also clear what’s happening.

She’s leading me into a trap.

… Leading me by the leash...

My fury flares.

But so does something else.

“You stay here with Mel tonight, alright?” I tell Maksim. Shoving my phone away, I storm past him. “You can leave for Leander’s last two properties in the morning. Don’t worry, I won’t be late.”

“Where are you going?” Maksim calls out after me.

Reaching under my belt, I check to make sure my gun is there. It is; tucked just above my swollen cock. I’m already half-hard.

Fuck it.

“I’m going to dinner.”

21

Rian

La Forcina isn’t the type of place you set a trap—especially not one for Rian Kilpatrick.

The upscale restaurant borders on the edge of my territory, and is directly under my control, which means anyone trying to suck up to me is going to be coming here on a near-weekly basis.

Every night, famous athletes, celebrities, politicians, and police chiefs fill these seats. Their presence brings all kinds of paparazzi too. The streets outside are swarmed with flashing cameras.

There’s no room for stealth, no opportunity for reckless behavior. If you make a mistake here, it will be all over the news, right along with your face. And that’s only after my men get through with you.

Causing a disturbance at one of my establishments is a big no-no. Hell, we even have a designated alley out back just for disgruntled customers. The cement is steeped in blood.

So, of all places Rozalia could have met me, why has she picked this one?

… Unless it wasn’t her who sent that text.

Or Maybe she just wants a nice date.

“Here’s your drink, sir.”

The bartender serving me looks nervous. I can only imagine the manager put every employee on notice the second I called ahead—not that I needed to. Apparently, a reservation had already been made in my name.

“Thank you,” I mumble.

The whiskey sour is acceptable, and I quickly down it before gesturing for another one.

For now, I’m waiting at the bar by the front. A dozen new guests stream in every second, and nearly everyone pauses for a second when they notice me. But I don’t pay them any mind. Instead, my attention keeps turning back to the muted television at the corner of the bar. Just above its flickering screen is a clock. I’ve been looking at it religiously ever since I got here.

It’s only 8:45 pm, and the table that’s being held in my name is still empty. It sits atop a platform, slightly elevating it over the crowded floor like a velvet throne. Every once in a while, I spot someone taking a curious glimpse up at the best seat in the house. They’re wondering who will sit there.

They’ll find out soon enough.