“Well.” I smirk, taking a sip of my glass of whiskey, eyeing his bloody steak. “If you don’t have to watch your figure, why should I?”
Oh, he doesn’t like it when a woman fights back.
If looks could kill.
“You’re rather hostile for someone who needs to do business with my company,” he sneers. “I was rather surprised at the dinner offer, honestly. Had I realized I was meeting with the company whore instead of the CEO, I would have suggested we skip dinner and go straight to my hotel room.”
Vas says I can’t kill him.
Vas says I can’t kill him.
“Oh honey.” My laugh is low, sensual, and full of the promise to do bad things. “I’m no one’s whore. I am the CEO. Maybe you should have paid attention when they told you my name.”
That has him slack jawed and silent for a moment.
“Yeah.” I wrinkle my nose at him and smile. “Should have thought about that before popping off at the mouth. And as for my company’s need to do business with yours? There is no need. In fact, from the look of things, you need my company more than I need yours.”
“We don’t…”
Holding up a hand, I interrupt him. “Now. Now. There’s no need to lie Mr. O’Neill,” I assure him, injecting as much condescension in my voice as I can. “Your shares are dropping and your investors aren’t happy with you overspending your budget every quarter.”
He goes to talk but I don’t give him the chance to rebut.
“Must have something to do with the fact that you’ve been doing some naughty side jobs.” Taking a sip of my whiskey, I continue. “I wonder what the FBI would think about the money you’ve been shunting through an illegal account that has been funding the Aryan Nation, a well-known domestic terrorist group.”
His grip tightens on the wine glass in his hand, face turning a rather fetching shade of purple. Like Violet Beauregarde in Willy Wonka, just angrier.
“I mean,” I chuckle breathily. “If that isn’t enough, I’m also sure that the CIA and Interpol would be ever so interested in the many items you’ve acquired and moved for your clients. Or how about the Department of Defense? Do they know you were helping Knightman Security move all that lost cash through the Middle Eastern ports? That one took me a while to figure out, but I do have one of the best hackers in the business.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he hisses, but sweat beads down his immaculately botoxed forehead. “My company is perfectly above board.”
“And I’m Cindy Lu-Who,” I scoff. Wiping his mouth on a white linen napkin, he throws it down on the table in a huff and goes to stand. I am not finished with him yet.
His high-pitched scream is music to my ears as my steak knife slides like butter through the middle of his hand, embedding itself into the wooden table beneath the silken cloth. People stare, but that doesn’t matter. Let them see what happens when you cross a Dashkov.
“Did I say you were dismissed?”
“Fucking psycho bitch,” he spits angrily, tears rolling down his face.
“Heard worse,” I admit casually. Leaning in, I whisper, “But we’re not here to discuss me. We’re here to discuss you and yoursick fuck of a father who started your little company with the blood money he got from suppressing my mother’s case.”
“That’s what this is about?” he asks incredulously. I swat his hand away when he goes for the handle of the knife that is still buried in the table. “Get over yourself. It was a long time ago and from what I heard; the whore deserved it.”
He pales, eyes widening in fear when he sees the fury of storm clouds etched across my face. I tsk, shaking my head in mock remorsefulness.
“Wrong thing to say, Crunchy Jr.,” I scold him. The restaurant is silent, all eyes still on us. No one moves. Or breathes. Not that it matters if they do. The only people in this restaurant that aren’t Sully’s or mine are the staff and they’ve been well compensated for their trauma.
I mean time.
Circling the table, I let my fingers graze over the soft tablecloth before clutching the hilt of the knife. Conrad hisses at the contact, the serrated edges digging further into his skin.
“I was hoping you were nothing like your pig of a father.” Disappointment colors my tone and I tsk again. “Luckily, my hopes weren’t too high. I do hate to be disappointed. Now.” I twist the knife slightly and the man howls. “One of your clients caught my attention and I want to know who owns it.”
Silence.
Conrad’s teeth clench together, lips turning up in what I suppose he thinks is a snarl, but it is more of a grimace. He isn’t going to tell me without a little more motivation.
“Okay then.” Grabbing the other steak knife on the table, I embed it into his other hand. He wails and curses and cries, but it doesn’t matter. “Sorry about that. Some people were complaining that I go for the kneecaps too often, so I thought I’d try something different. But don’t worry. A little bit of surgeryand you might regain some use sooner or later. Who. Is. The. Owner?”
