I can’t wait to inform Carmichael of this.
Carmichael and the plaintiff exchange words for a few minutes. It appears heated, which is surprising considering the complainant said his attacker wasn’t in the line-up. Shouldn’t a defense attorney be relieved when their client isn’t positively identified in a line-up?
If it were anyone but Carmichael standing across from me, I’d say yes, but since it’s a man I’ll never trust, my suspicions skyrocket. If any of the thoughts drifting through my head are correct, Carmichael’s demise will arrive sooner than Vladimir’s, and I’ll take his fair-skinned lackey as part-payment for his insolence.
Chapter Two
“Where the fuck is Erik?”
I speak to the officer guiding me to a conference room in Russian to ensure no one overhears us. The eye tattoo peeking out the cuff of his long-sleeve shirt identifies that he’s one of us, much less the Soviet Union flag hidden in the cornea of his realistic tattoo. They’re indicators of his bratva ties. The eye means he’s forever watching, and the flag sanctifies where his loyalties lay.
It isn’t with the men in blue surrounding him.
After taking a sharp left, he mutters in Russian, “Numerous attempts to contact him have failed to yield results.”
He takes another left before steering me toward a room I’m all too familiar with. It’s where I gave Carmichael enough evidence to convict Vladimir to three lifetimes behind bars.
Alas, I was the only fool who faced prosecution all those years ago.
“We’re trying another angle.” He coughs to cover his whispered words when our trek has us veering past Carmichael and the unknown redhead.
She watches me with silent reverence, her breathing shallow and mouse-like. She’s even more fascinating up close. Her lips are meaty and sheened with the slightest bit of gloss, her nose is as petite as her frame, and her tits gain more than the attention of my cock. They also have the eye of a handful of male officers as well. Officers who’ll be dead by the end of the day if they don’t adhere to the voiceless threats beaming from my slit gaze.
When the once-bustling corridor empties, I flare my nostrils so I can suck in the redhead’s scent. It is as intoxicating as my impish mind predicted. She smells like a mix of roguishness and innocence, like a dream in the middle of a nightmare.
She doesn’t belong here, but I plan to keep her here anyway.
When my entrance into the holding room sees her drawing in her first breath in almost ten seconds, I slant my head to hide my smirk. I want to say this is the first time I’ve made someone forget to breathe, but if a peacock doesn’t fan his feathers, who will?
After shuffling to the king’s spot at the end of the long table, I slump into an office chair before raising my eyes to the unnamed officer. He senses my command before I can announce it, and even quicker than that, the shackles circling my wrists and ankles are dumped on the floor.
Even with four heavily-armed riot officers in each corner of the large space, I could leave now if I want. I would if I weren’t feeding off the friction in the air like a crack addict seeking his next high. I was born and bred in Vegas, so I will die before I’ll ever sidestep the chance to do something risky. Whether it’s my life at stake or someone else’s, the thrill associated with watching the danger unfold can’t be achieved any other way.
People say murderers are the lowest of the low, but have you ever wondered what brought them to that place to begin with? Most parents raise their sons to be sports stars and musicians. Mine raised me to be a cold-blooded killer.
We all have our place in the world.
Mine just happens to be in your nightmares.
“????.” One word, and a packet of cigarettes and a lighter slide across the table from the other end.
After plucking a cancer stick from the recently-opened packet and placing it between my lips, I raise my eyes to my gift recipient. I’m not surprised when the steely blue eyes of Detective Bill Hammond reflect back at me. We were pulled apart by his peers long before we had finished our ‘conversation.’ His threat was only dispersed in pieces. Mine is already in production.
“If you are here to make amends, you’re too late.??? ?????????? ?????? ?????.”
He tries to act nonchalant to my reply, like he doesn’t understand a word I speak. His poor acting skills are one of the reasons he should have never worked as an undercover cop. Detective Hammond is one of the many law enforcement officers who unsuccessfully bid to infiltrate the Popov compound the past decade. He got as far as the front door before I sniffed out the rat hiding beneath his sleeve of tattoos and scared face.
He left with additional scars, but his life was spared as a warning to others what would happen if they dared to double cross the true owners of Las Vegas.
After mockingly sniffing at Detective Hammond, goading him to start what we didn’t finish, I shift my eyes to a female police officer whose hips were designed for fucking. They’re curvy and round but nowhere near as tempting as the redhead’s in the hall. I’ve seen her around, but her name is slipping my mind.
Thank fuck name tags were invented. Hers states her name is Jasmine.
From the way Detective Hammond stands protectively at her side, I’m going to assume he doesn’t realize the gleam in her eyes isn’t there for him. She wants a bigger piece of the pie than he can offer her—the cream of the criminal justice crop. She wants the number one defense attorney in the country, and she’s willing to face a firing squad just for the chance to warm his sheets.
Although I’d rather Carmichael live a miserably bleak existence, if Jasmine is occupying his time, I’ll have a better chance at pretending I didn’t notice the vein in his neck pulsating faster when the redhead leaned into his side. Then perhaps my wish to kill him will simmer to the back of my mind for a few weeks. Waters are already tempestuous, so I shouldn’t add a murder conviction into the mix—regrettably.
Jasmine takes in a sharp breath when I reveal how easy it is to triumph your competitors by staying one step ahead of them. “What does Carmichael want?” When her lips twitch like she’s preparing to lie, I warn, “Lying to me is punishable by death. Is your wish to scour your nails down Carmichael’s back really worth your life?”
