Page 223 of Lethal Obsession

I squeeze her hand. “You still getting this, Dom?” I say.

“Si, claro.” His voice is low and almost as furious as I feel. “We got every fucking word.”

“You asked me what I want?” Silas Thorne stares straight at Roman, his eyes gleaming with spite. “I want fucking justice, Borovsky. And if I could take a moment of your time in private, I’ll explain to you how I plan to get it.” He cuts his eyes pointedly toward the rest of the group on the deck.

They all glance at Roman, who gives a curt nod that makes them all stand.

“If you’ll excuse us for a moment,” Roman says politely, gesturing toward the stairs, “Dimitry will show you to a private suite.”

The crime bosses stand with alacrity and follow Dimitry downstairs. The two bureaucrats follow close behind, leaving Marty Hunter Jr., still with his politician’s grin, sitting beside Lance Ryder.

Here we go.

“Marty,” Roman says, “why don’t you go and check on your daughter? Here.” He produces a large bag of cocaine and hands it to Marty Jr.

“Of course, of course.” Almost snatching the bag, Hunter stands up, albeit rather unsteadily.

“Lance,” Roman goes on, turning to the journalist, “why don’t you show Marty to his daughter’s cabin and organize some drinks for them?”

Grinning like a maniac, Lance ushers Hunter toward the stairs.

Renata glances at me. “Ryder is going to get all this on film, isn’t he?”

“Fucking bingo.” I grin at her. “In Technicolor, as Dom says. Hunter and his entire family will be front and center on the Darkside by dawn, doing blow in a yacht that just happens to belong to a known criminal.”

“Damn.” She shakes her head. “You’re an evil genius, Petrovsky. Did I ever tell you that?” Despite the joke, her voice shakes, and she’s still pale.

I keep my hand on hers. “Roman,” I say, “stall him until the others are in place and watching.”

“I think we need another drink, Thorne, don’t you?” Roman puts his finger to his lips and gestures below deck, as if implying that people might still be listening. He goes to the bar and pours. “My staff are discreet,” he says to Thorne. “And the suites are soundproofed, so once the doors are closed, we’re entirely private.”

Thorne nods carelessly. He’s definitely a man who gives little thought to anyone he considers beneath him.

On screen, I see Marty Hunter Jr. cutting lines on a cabin table, while his wife and daughter roll up bills eagerly, and Lance Ryder lolls on the bed, his pocket camera pointed right at them. He waits until they’ve all snorted a line before he flicks on the widescreen, showing the feed from the deck, which makes Kristi giggle. She obviously thinks she’s getting special treatment because Roman wants to fuck her.

Oh, sweetheart, I think, without an ounce of sympathy. For what you are about to receive, I am truly fucking thankful.

Meanwhile, Knut, Benson, Luca, and Rico take their seats in another suite, in front of a television showing Silas and Roman on the deck. They take the drinks Andrew has poured them, and Rico gives me the thumbs-up through the camera. The two prospective lawmakers look like they’re in an underwater tank with hungry sharks swimming all around them.

Which is exactly why you’re here. If you’re going to work in my swamp, you need to be aware of what kind of animals you’re dealing with.

“You’re good to go,” I say into my comms.

“You were saying?” Roman asks Thorne politely.

Thorne leans forward importantly, making a pyramid of his fingers like he’s some kind of alpha male. “The Miami shit show is no accident,” he says, nodding toward the fireballs and chaos in the distance, which have continued unabated throughout the meeting.

“Oh?” Roman raises his eyebrows. “This is your doing?”

“Not tonight’s violence, perhaps,” Thorne says, “but my friends and I certainly lit the fuse that set it into play.” He smiles coldly. “Hunter, obviously, is an idiot—but I plan to make him a useful one.”

“Really,” Roman murmurs, sipping his drink. “Do go on.”

A glance at the security cameras shows Hunter, the cocaine in front of him forgotten, leaning forward, frowning at the screen.

“Hunter was on Petrovsky’s payroll for years,” Thorne says. “The trail of corruption tying him to Petrovsky is wider than Biscayne Bay. I have evidence connecting the two of them to everything from the cartels to that Lucchese scum you just sent downstairs.”

Watching Rico’s dark, dangerous eyes, I could almost feel pity for Thorne.