He tsks. “Cute, Maeve. Or should I say, Ace?”
I hate that fucking nickname—but I don’t let him see it.
“I know who you are,” he whispers. “I know what you do. And I know why you’re here.”
“You know a lot,” I muse. “Too bad I never saw that side of you on our dates, either. Maybe I wouldn’t have this insane urge to chop off your dick and make you eat it.”
Snatching at my throat, I keep my face blank. This? This I know well. Insult a man’s pride, and expect some kind of reaction. I lived through nights of this, attacking Michael in any way I could and accepting my punishment for it. It was my small act of defiance.
Snarling into my face, he says, “Big talk for someone here alone. Where is he?”
Raising an eyebrow, I keep quiet.
He shakes me, throwing me back onto the stool. I don’t lose hold of my knife.
“Where is he?”
Shrugging, I ask, “Who?”
“Murray.”
I let myself smile, a deranged grin, as I think of Murray rotting in the burn pile out in the Berkshires. “We had a chat. I didn’t like what he said.” I shrug. “Oops.”
Rearing back, he slaps me across the face; the sound is lost to the club music. It’s not even a solid hit—something from a man with weak hands and a tiny set of balls.
Slowly, I turn back, cheek red. “You know the last man to hit me ended up stabbed to death in his bed.” Sliding off my stool, I plant my feet, glaring up into his face. He might tower over me, but my rage makes me dangerous. “Don’t think I won’t do thesame to you, surrounded by onlookers. I could fucking obliterate you, and not a word would leave this bar.”
The first trace of fear shines in his brown eyes. Lackluster orbs, how did I ever think they were kind? Because I saw something I wanted to see—projecting my needs onto an available body. Fucking stupid.
“Ronan is going to kill you,” he mutters, hands shaking. “You won’t be able to touch me.”
“No?” Consequences be damned, I slam my pearl-inlaid knife into his thigh, smiling wide as the pain overtakes his warm face. He screams, but the music swallows it whole. “I really hate being told what to do.”
Ripping the knife out, I glare down into his face. Pinching his chin, I make sure he sees my words. “Where is he?”
Gasping, he holds his leg. He doesn’t say anything other than whimpers.
Christ. It’s a little knife wound.
“This is what I know,” I begin, “You’re a cop. A dirty one. You’re working for the Board, but you’re on Bruno’s payroll. I assume because you like to get your dick wet by women who can’t say no to you. You seem like the type.” Tapping his cheek, I make him look at me. “No, no. Don’t pass out on me now, Reese. We still have things to discuss.
“You’re the link,” I explain. “My personal tracking device because my genius baby brother keeps me off the grid. Smart idea, using my vulnerability against me. Devious even, I can appreciate that.” At his glare, I smirk. “Murray gave you up. He also gave up Ronan. What I can’t figure out is how you got involved in this. Money, status? What?”
Smugly, I watch his blood soak his pant leg. I got him good.
“Money,” he bites out. “Bruno pays me, and the Board pays Bruno. In other things.”
“Like, what?”
“He wants to break you,” he says, smiling. “The Board promised to give you to him once you’re dethroned. None of the assassins were supposed to kill you—incapacitate you, bring you in. Then you forfeit your throne. Bruno gets his turn.” He coughs, the bass growing heavier with each passing second. “He picked out a room for you and everything.”
Cold fury settles into my belly, a rising demon that will smite everyone to Hell.
“It’s going to stay vacant,” I murmur, tossing him back to the stool. Snapping my fingers, I say to the bartender, “You take him to Lex’s office. He doesn’t leave. He stays. No medical attention. He’s mine.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Before I leave, Reese laughs, a wicked noise that grates on my nerves.
