Now, I’m going to kill her.
I just have to find her first.
32
Dimitri
“Married?” I pull on the collar of my shirt, acting as if I’m a naughty boy for openly flirting with a taken woman, even with me doing exactly that multiple times in my early twenties. “How long ago did that happened?”
Aria, a once-in-a-blue-moon bed companion from around the time Audrey was kidnapped, fans her flushed cheeks with a napkin. The pigheaded side of my brain wants to say she’s heating up because of my trademark half smirk, but the logical side won’t allow it. She was petrified about how I’d respond to her turning down an unvoiced invitation to my bed. I’m not known for my appreciation of the word ‘no.’
“Almost a year and a half ago.” She rubs her stomach before pivoting away from the bar, exposing her protruding midsection. “We had to rush things along when we had an unexpected intruder.”
“You’re pregnant.” I have no clue why that came out sounding as disgusted as it did. I’m just relaying to you what’s happening.
“This is baby number two,” Aria exposes, giggling about the shock on my face. “Quade turned one last summer.” She must move quickly as her bump looks an easy seven or so months along. “Would you like to see a picture?”
She misses the shake of my head since she’s rummaging through her overloaded handbag. It should have been the first indication that I could scratch her off my suspect list. She’s so accustomed to packing diapers and baby wipes, even without her kid in tow, she still carries the necessary ‘mommy’ supplies.
After snagging my whiskey from the glistening bar, I swivel away from Aria. “Why didn’t we cross mothers and wives from the guest list?”
I hear Smith’s chair creak into place before he replies to my mumbled comment, “Because some of the women you bedded were wives and mothersbeforeyou slept with them.”
I growl, wordlessly warning him to keep his attitude in check. He’s as pissed as Rocco has been the past five days. Not even requesting him to send live footage of Roxanne from India’s residence saw him giving me any leeway. I guess that could have something to do with the fact it was around the time Rocco was set to drive Roxanne to the airport, but that isn’t the fucking point. They’re not the only ones struggling. I feel like I’m drowning. I have been since Roxanne told me what happened to her.
I want to maim.
I want to kill.
But more than anything, I want Roxanne to know I took down the people responsible for her pain. When she looks at me, I want to return her stare knowing justice was served. I feel it when I tuck Fien into bed every night, but it’s only at half its strength since the person responsible for giving me that joy isn’t a part of the picture.
With Roxanne incapable of leaving my thoughts for even a second, I ask, “Have they arrived at the airport yet?”
I stop scrubbing the back of my hand over my eyes when Smith says, “They?”
He isn’t stupid, so why the fuck is he acting as if he is?
“Roxanne and Rocco?”
Air whistles between his teeth when he struggles for a reply. “Uh… no. They haven’t arrived yet.”
Pretending his delay has nothing to do with him being deceitful, I ask, “How far out are they?”
“Ah…” Another pause adds another tick to my jaw. “Around forty or so minutes.”
I check my watch, noting that Roxanne’s flight is due to leave within the hour. “What caused the delay? They left over an hour ago…” My words fade to silence when the answer I’m seeking waltzes into my peripheral vision.
Roxanne isn’t on her way to the airport. She’s mingling with the women she made me forget existed. She isn’t alone. Rocco is holding the purse Alice said was a perfect match for the final outfit I gifted Roxanne before I released her into the wild.
Because it would look mighty suspicious to host a party with only female invitees. Roxanne’s provocative curves aren’t solely being eyed by the long list of women I’ve fucked, she’s caught the attention of men who’ll take without asking, mark without permission, and fuck without fear of prosecution.
You don’t fear the law when you’re one of them.
“Smith…”
He coughs to clear his throat before answering, “Yeah.”
Nothing but honesty rings in my tone when I mutter, “Rocco’s death is on your hands.”
