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“And I’ll pay you back.” For the first time, he looks at me, and I see the fear in his eyes I expected. “Things haven’t gone as planned.”
“Yes, I’ve heard.” Danny’s glass meets the table and he reclines in his chair, completely relaxed. He’s the only one. Why did he bring me here? “I had a pleasant little chat with Spittle.”
Gordon’s eyes widen, and I look between the two men, my discomfort increasing. Who’s Spittle?
“Oh, you didn’t know we were acquainted?” Danny asks. “Of course not. Why would an FBI agent be in contact with a criminal like me?”
“Let me explain.” Gordon wipes his brow once more, his throat swelling with each swallow.
“No need. Spittle gave me a rather comprehensive rundown of your latest endeavor, Gordon.” An edge of menace makes it into Danny’s tone, though he does a good job of keeping it from his expression, which remains stoic. Leaning forward, he gets closer, forcing Gordon to retreat. “You told me my money was for the extension of your pharmaceuticals business. For medical research.”
“Please, Danny.”
“Do. You. Have. My. Money?”
A mild shake of his head, a face full of dread. “No.”
It happens so fast, I don’t have the chance to look away or cover my ears. Danny pulls a gun from his lap and fires, and I jump and then still, watching as Gordon’s head jerks back on his neck before he slumps forward in his chair, his upper body crashing onto the table. I stare at the back of Gordon’s head, frozen in my seat, watching as blood seeps into the threads of the tablecloth, growing rapidly to form a perfect circle.
“I think we need a new table,” Danny says calmly, holding his gun out to the side. Brad takes it, and Ringo, along with another man, whose name I don’t know, make quick work of ridding the chair of Gordon’s dead body.
Raising his hand and clicking his fingers, Danny summons the waitress and indicates the mess of blood. “Another table, please.”
“Of course, Mr. Black. This way, please.”
I watch, utterly stunned, as Gordon is carried out the back of the restaurant and the waitress doesn’t bat an eyelid. The feel of Danny taking my hand doesn’t pull my attention away or have me standing. “Rose?”
I look up at him blankly, and he smiles. It’s a mischievous smile, like he could have just stolen my last piece of candy or passed a rude comment. But he’s done neither of those things. He just killed a man. In front of me. No warning. No apology. I know he does this often, it’s a sport to him, but why in front of me? “Are you trying to make a point?”
His lips push together in silent contemplation. It’s as patronizing as could be. “Yes, I am. I’m pointing out to Gordon that he’s gone against the terms of our deal and in doing so, there are consequences.”
I slowly stand, though I can’t deny my legs are wobbly. It’s not like I haven’t seen endless horrific things in my time. I’m not shocked by what I’ve seen. I’m shocked that he’s brought me along to watch. “But how can he appreciate the consequences?” I ask. “He’s fucking dead.”
“And I feel much better about that.”
“Why? Now you don’t get any of your money back.”
“Maybe not, but I can guarantee no one will delay a payment to me in the future.”
“So you’re making an example of him?”
Danny laughs lightly, placing his palm in the small of my back and applying pressure to get me moving to a table near the front. A clean table. One that isn’t splattered with blood. “I make an example of many people, Rose. But that’s not the only reason I killed Gordon.” He helps me down to another chair and takes a new bottle of wine, pouring me a fresh glass. Placing it in my hand, he kneels before me, cupping my knees with his palms. I look down at him, still stunned. “I loaned Gordon one million dollars to extend the research program of a cancer drug,” he explains gently. “I found out that he used two thirds of that money to pay off his personal debts. To add insult to injury, his personal debts were amassed from sex and drugs. I despise both.”
My eyebrows furrow as I stare into eyes that are now soft. “You despise sex?” It just falls out of my mouth, but . . . he despises sex? My only thoughts now are that of a tragic nature, and they don’t involve death or bloodshed. Inappropriate, yes, but still. He despises sex? That is going to make my task to extract information extremely tricky. My body is all I have to get what I want. He despises sex? But I’ve seen him hard. I’ve felt it too. God, is he a monk? A monk who battles his morals each day to not give into that sin called desire? My thoughts are running away with me. Of course he’s not a monk. He’s just left me not a few hours ago to find relief elsewhere.
