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After a quick confused and worried look thrown at each other, Brad and I follow him in, Brad going straight to the beer fridge and pulling out three bottles, twisting off the caps. “A tipoff?” he asks, setting one bottle in front of Spittle and handing me another.
Spittle takes a long, and what looks like a much-needed slurp, and drops it back to the table with a thud, breathing in. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you. I couldn’t fucking stop them. I don’t know what’s going down with you and the Russians. I’ve made it my business not to make it my business, if you know what I mean.” That’s fucking bullshit. Spittle knows exactly what I deal in, the bent fuck. He casts serious eyes to me. “You have a mole.”
My bottle pauses at my lips. “What?”
Reaching into his inside pocket, he pulls something out and tosses it on the table like he’s glad to be rid of it. I move in, looking down at the photographs.
“Motherfucker,” Brad breathes, slamming his bottle on the table.
I’m deathly still. A statue. But my insides are blowing up, all kinds of manic shit happening. My heart feels like it could be making a bid for freedom, ramming down the walls of my chest. An atomic bomb feels like it could have gone off in my veins. My eyes can see more clearly than they’ve seen before.
My arse drops to a chair and my numb hand reaches for the pictures, dragging them toward me until the images are blinding me. Rose is coming down the steps of a jet, a man behind her. I don’t recognize him. “Who’s that?”
“That, my friend, is Nox Dimitri.”
My eyes fly up, and Brad curses under his breath. “Dimitri?” Flashbacks bombard me, my head pounding. I see Pops take out Marius Dimitri. I see me, just a boy, take out his son. I look at Brad, my forehead heavy. “The Dimitris are all dead.”
“All except him.” Spittle taps the picture, and I force myself to look at it. “Nox is Marius’s illegitimate son. He’s moved in and reformed the Romanian mafia, and it seems he has a beef with you. Why’s that, Danny?”
“Jesus,” Brad breathes.
I look up to Spittle. His face harbors a million concerns. “When were these taken?”
“The day before she”—his finger moves across to Rose’s face—“found Adams in a hotel bar and seduced him. The phone you gave me. Hers?”
I close my eyes, trying to breathe.
“Tracked,” Spittle finishes.
My fucking heart clenches. I didn’t know it was capable of such . . . hurt? “She’s spying for the Romanians?” My blood just surpassed boiling point, and I slowly rise, my balled fists braced against the table supporting me. My head is in tatters, realization dripping into my brain little piece by little piece. “Nox Dimitri.” I let my thoughts roll out. “He planted Rose on Adams to get intel on me, and then I fucking took her in Vegas.” Nox must have laughed himself out of town. She’s bait. A trap. “Don’t fucking look at me like that,” I warn Brad, feeling his accusing eyes on my profile. “Just don’t fucking look at me like that.” I flex my hands and claw my fingers, dragging in the photos until they’re screwed up balls in my fists. “I’m going to fucking kill her.” I turn and steam out, feeling psychotic, every muscle vibrating with the strain to contain my temper.
Falling into the car, I slam the door and start it up, smashing my foot on the gas and roaring away as Brad makes chase. I lose control of the back end, the Merc swinging from side to side as I speed down the lane. She’s played me. She’s fucking played me. How could I have been so stupid?
The drive home is fast and furious, my anger worsening the closer I get to my mansion. I break every speed limit, cut up a million cars, and punch the steering wheel every few seconds. When I screech up the driveway, I don’t bother turning off the engine, throwing the door open and sprinting up the steps, bursting through the door like a raging bull.
Esther is halfway down the stairs, a laundry basket in her hands. She stops abruptly, assessing me from head to toe. It’s only now that I register I’m only wearing my boxers. “Where is she?” I can hardly speak, my throat burning with the strain of trying to catch a breath.
Esther’s head tilts a little, and for the first time since I met her, I sense concern. If I had the energy, I would laugh in her face. She glances up the stairs.
Jesus, is this what panic feels like? My heart could have fallen out of my chest and splattered on the floor in front of me. My eyes follow Esther’s stare up the stairs, my feet feeling like they’re buried in cement. I can’t move. Don’t want to go up and find her room empty. Yeah, I locked the door, but I know Rose. That won’t hold her back. I don’t want this anger to take on another level, because it might very well burn me alive.
