“Why?” Makeda demands, flicking a hand toward the device.“Ember murdered Marcus, the head of Cross,her father. We can’t just ignore what we saw or the implications of it. If she can take her own father out, then what else is she capable of? What else has she already done? She can’t be trusted.”
“I’m aware of their relationship. It’s because of that connection I’m deading this shit,” I bark, pacing away from Makeda, over to the stove, then retracing my steps. Over and over. “That”—I jab a finger in the direction of the tablet—“was personal. If she’d sent someone else to kill him, I might agree with your argument. But Ember didn’t; she handled that herself, and it was between father and daughter. Whatever happened in that apartment didn’t have shit to do with Cross or me. Don’t get me wrong. Ember Cross is very capable of more, and I’d turn my back on a starved pit bull while wearing a meat suit before her. But what happened to Marcus don’t have shit to do with us. So. Forget. It.”
I halt mid-step, pin an unblinking stare on Makeda. To her credit, she meets it without flinching.
“But get one thing straight and never fuck it up again—I’m the head of Cross. Offer me your opinion, I welcome it. But don’t ever fix your mouth to tell me what I can and can’t do. Understood?”
After a moment, Makeda, arms crossed tightly in front of her chest, nods. “Understood.”
“Good.”
Neither of them was privy to the dirty, raw details of the history between Marcus and Ember. So they couldn’t fully grasp why I didn’t give a fuck that she shot her father full of smack and left him like some dope fiend in a condemned crack house. Given the father he’d been to her—the mu’fucking man he’d been to her—it was better than he deserved. And shit, fuck I look like trying to swoop in and avenge him? Fuck Marcus.
My anger stems from her not confiding the truth with me. Not letting me fucking protect her. Not letting me protect what’s mine. Trust between us an ideological concept, but… No but.Iwant itfrom her. Call me unreasonable and irrational considering I’d just threatened and blackmailed her into marriage, but Ineededit.
Sighing, I drag a hand over my hair, then roughly scrub it down my face.
“So you don’t think she’s behind the drive-by today?” Eli asks, walking back to the table and reclaiming his seat. Leaning forward, he props his elbows on his thighs.
I shake my head. “I didn’t say that. I don’t know if she’s involved in that or not. Ember has her own reasons for wanting me dead so we continue to look into her and everyone else. Marcus and today’s attempt are two different instances. We treat it like that.” I look over at Makeda. “We good?”
Frowning, she lowers her arms and reaches for the milk. “Yeah, of course. Listen, I’m into that toxic shit. If you ain’t threatening my life, you don’t love me.”
I snort and head to the refrigerator. Pulling the door open, I grab a beer, no longer in the mood for Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
“Now…” I twist the cap off and lift the bottle for a long, deep pull. “Let’s go over this dinner. Everybody’s about to find out the difference between me and Marcus.”
CHAPTER SEVENEmber
So this is what Daniel felt like?
Except he was a whole punk in those biblical streets.
First, he got to kick it in a lions’ den. Try hanging out in a drawing room with exquisite, prettily upholstered furniture that invites no one to sit their asses on, art that is pricier than good, and a large, looming fireplace that feels more like a threat than an offer of warmth. Do that, then come talk to me about discomfort.
Second, those lions’ mouths were sealed shut while he was in that den. Standing here in the middle of this elegant and luxuriously appointed drawing room, the mouths of these predators are wide the fuck open, flashing razor-sharp teeth that are just ready and waiting to tear into vulnerable flesh.
Am I being a little dramatic?
Given we’re congregating in Marcus’s—no, now Asad’s—Malibu property instead of Asad’s home because he wouldn’t dare invite anyone to where he lays his head?
No. I’m not being dramatic in the least.
Still… I dislike most people under ordinary circumstances. They’re annoying, ignorant, rude, and talk too much. As a person who values quiet, I can’t put up with all that noise for too long. Which is why I’m ducked off in a corner of the room, alone except for my drink.
Add my natural aversion to a room filled with the heads of powerful crime families—families who share a tenuous history—several of the Cross organization’s soldiers, my stepfamily, and ofcourse, Asad, and my tolerance level is nearing flash point. And then there’s Aryn Murray.
Her light, slightly husky, and sensual laugh floats above the conversation in the room. It’s not garish or rude. And judging by the expressions on most of the men’s faces, they find it alluring, delightful.
I’m not a man.
Asad is.
Though his usual stoic expression gives nothing away, including how much he appreciates his lover’s laughter, he doesn’t try to avoid her slim hand on his chest. He doesn’t ignore all the smiles she directs up at him. No, my “fiancé” allows another woman to loop her arm through his and press her body against his. Sure, we’re an exclusive party of two that knows about this “engagement,” but the disrespect of inviting the soon-to-be side chick to the same party as your almost wife?
The fucking audacity.
My hand tightens around the cut crystal whiskey glass. The sharp edges press into my fingers and palm, and I relish the small bite of pain. It blunts the fringe of anger simmering in my chest, combating and keeping it under control.
