Page 16 of Business vs. Pleasure

Bremmer couldn’t possibly have heard the unspoken “because my husband is a dick and I’m going to make him pay for this.” Ricardo did. And he grinned. He really had missed this job, especially doing it with August.

“Ooh, the wine list.” Bremmer’s voice was full of glee. “Let’s get a bottle. I think tonight is more celebration than negotiation, don’t you?”

“Of course,” August gritted out with phony enthusiasm. “You choose. Oh, and we should order appetizers, too.” His smile was visible from here and complete bullshit. “I’m starving, so the sooner they arrive…”

Ricardo snorted, which August probably heard. He was tempted to keep Bremmer alive until dessert, just to make August squirm.

While Bremmer ordered some expensive-sounding bottle of wine, August muttered loud enough for Ricardo to hear, “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Ricardo said, grinning. “Because you know I’m going to leave marks tonight.”

August’s gulp was visible even without the scope.

Ricardo just kept grinning.

The server left, and Bremmer faced August again. As the two of them descended into the mind-numbing hum that was business talk, Ricardo zeroed in on the mark. He’d checked and rechecked that there was no one behind him. No collateral damage in the form of customers or restaurant employees. But now there was someone there—a server stepping out of the way to let a bus boy get to another table, and the two of them had paused to talk about something. They weren’t directly in the line of fire, but they were close enough that if Ricardo misjudged the trajectory even a little, he might hit one of them. Wind was unlikely to cause much of an issue at such a close range, but he still didn’t want to take chances.

Fine. He’d play it safe and wait until they moved. Though Ricardo did intend to finish this job before the wine was poured or the first course was served, he had as long as dinner took. August might not be thrilled about it, but that was the deal.

Another server joined them. The conversation became animated. Now one of them was right beside Bremmer; there was no avoiding hitting her if the bullet exited the body. Ricardo was using a low caliber—just a .223, which was far more likely to bounce around inside Bremmer’s body and destroy all his internal organs before lodging in a muscle or bone than go all the way through. Still, too risky. He didn’t even like August being that close, and the odds of August being hit were vanishingly low.

There was an impatient note to August’s voice as the conversations continued—both his, and the servers and bus boy.

“It’s always important to strike while the iron is hot,” he said with a hint of irritation only his husband would notice. “Don’t let opportunities slip away, am I right?”

“There’s people in the way,” Ricardo murmured. “As soon as they move…”

Bremmer was saying something Ricardo didn’t care enough to make out. August went to pour himself a second glass of wine, but he fumbled the bottle and sent it flying.

“Oh! Oh my goodness! I’m so sorry!” He flew up out of his chair, probably to help with the mess. The servers and bus boy immediately shifted gears as well and moved toward August.

Fucking finally. Ricardo had a clear shot now, as long as Bremmer stopped moving around and flailing. He seemed to be trying to flag down more employees or something. The frantic way he was acting would’ve been more appropriate had someone been having a heart attack and needed an ambulance, not like a bottle of Chateau d’Yquem Bordeaux had hit the floor.

“Rich people,” he muttered, more to himself than August. August wouldn’t be able to hear him anyway, since he was falling all over himself to apologize for the mess and warning the employees to be careful of the broken glass.

“I’m so sorry!” he was saying. “Oh, dear. I’ll pay for it, and—be careful with that! Don’t cut yourself! My goodness, I’m sorry!”

While August stopped just shy of rending his garments—as if—in apology, Bremmer settled back into his chair. He picked up his wineglass for a casual sip while the theatrics continued.

Ricardo inhaled deeply. Let it out. Inhaled again. Curled his finger around the trigger. Exhaled slowly. Closed the eye that wasn’t peering down the scope. Inhaled again. Tightened his trigger finger. Exhaled as he⁠—

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The pounding on the condo door had Ricardo flying to his feet and cursing. Only years of training in combat zones kept him from reflexively squeezing the trigger. Thank God, because he could’ve shot anyone from Bremmer to August to some random person on the street thirty floors below

“Fucking hell.”

Bang! Bang! Bang!

“Fire department!” came the booming voice on the other side. “Open up! Fire department!”

Bang! Bang! Bang!

That wasn’t good. The fire department could and would knock the door down if it was a genuine emergency.

Ricardo tucked the gun between the wall and a bookcase, and jogged to the door. The peephole confirmed two firefighters outside in full gear, masks and all.

He opened the door.