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“Why?”
“Because you’re invited to my wedding.”
“Your wedding’s next wee—” He pauses, his brain catching up. “It’s not next week.”
“You got a suit?”
“No.”
Of course he doesn’t. Leon’s one on those people who showers daily but always manages to look grubby. “Anything at all?”
“No.”
“You’ll do as you are.” I hang up and fall into thought, my mind running in circles, and when my phone rings, I look down and see a London number. “Hello.”
“Black?”
“Depends who’s asking.”
The guy chuckles. “Eugene Conner,” he says. “And I’ve found your man.”
“Where?”
“Panama.”
“You’re shitting me?”
“I shit you not. He’s closer to you than me, mate. I’ve got men there. We’re holding him in a warehouse by the city airport. So what am I doing with him? Killing him? Torturing him?”
“Hold your horses,” I say on a laugh. “Can you get him to Miami by tomorrow morning?”
“You owe me,” Eugene says, hanging up, just as an email from Brad lands, giving me everything I need to know on the building I followed Shannon to. It confirms what I’ve learned.
“The fucker,” I whisper.
“Who’s a fucker?”
I look up and find James in the doorway, my mind so distracted, absorbed, I didn’t hear him come in. I shake my head and motion for him to sit, getting up and collecting a bottle and another tumbler. “Nice suit,” I say, pouring him a drink and topping myself up. “You rent that?”
“Fuck off,” he retorts, making me chuckle. “You nervous?”
Fuck me, anyone would think I had something to be nervous about. “There’s only one thing in this world that makes me nervous,” I admit, not quite believing I’m divulging this.
James’s eyebrows slowly rise, his eyes on me over the rim of his glass. “Rose.”
“Rose,” I confirm, not surprised he’s concluded correctly. I have a feeling James is in the same boat. I lower back to my seat. “Whether she loves me, whether she always will, whether she’s safe.” The corner of my mouth lifts. “Whether she’s angry.” I toast the air. “To the women who make us nervous.”
“Cheers.” He necks his drink.
“What’s it like out there?” I ask, nodding to the door.
“Busy. It’s a fucking big affair for a wedding with very few guests.”
Our private ceremony on the beach in St. Lucia was hardly legit. And really, the only thing that makes today any different is Father McMahon taking the service. “And how’s that front looking for you and Beau?”
James falters as he lowers his glass to the desk. “It’s not been mentioned.”
“And you need it? Marriage, I mean.”
His smile is ironic. “It just feels more final.”
“More end than don’t.”
“So why did you succumb to the institution of holy matrimony?” he asks, sitting back, getting comfortable.
It’s a good question, one I’ve thought about endlessly over the past few years. I didn’t need it to know Rose is mine. She was mine before I got a ring on her finger. Since she was a girl, Rose was alone. No family, nothing, and her baby was stolen from her. “I think subconsciously I was trying to offer her stability. Promise her something that could never be taken away, whether stolen or killed.” I plan on keeping that promise.
“That sounds reasonable.” He rests his elbow on the arm of the chair, skimming his chin with the side of his finger. He’s digging deep for his reasoning. Not that it matters. They won’t be getting married.
I lean across my desk and fill his glass back up, the chink of the bottle on the side rousing him from his daydream.
“I’m taking Rose to St. Lucia tomorrow night.” And hopefully we won’t be coming back.
James’s eyes narrow a fraction. “You’re talking like the job’s done.”
“It will be,” I assure him. “Let’s go skiing tomorrow morning.”
“Why?”
“I want to show you something.”
His jaw starts to roll, his impatience thick. “Talk, Danny.”
“We found Brunelli.”
His impatience transforms into something far more deadly. “Where?”
I hold a finger up. “We agreed. No business today, or it’s your funeral.” No one needs to know about my little dabble with some C-4.
We both look at the door when it opens and Brad enters, all suited and booted. He immediately finds me, his eyes questioning. I give him a nod that he reads well, his inhale subtle, but his eyes? They’re loaded with fury.
“I need a few minutes on my own,” I say, reaching for the Scotch again, turning it one way, then the other, studying the still liquid. Neither of them speak, both leaving quietly. But James is definitely on edge, and he has every right to be.
I find the picture of Pops and look straight into his eyes. “Don’t trust anyone,” I whisper, pulling up a number and glancing at the clock, dialing, and taking my phone to my ear, getting up and pacing slowly back and forth.
I wait a few seconds for him to speak. He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He’s currently on the other end of the line wondering, fearing, if Danny Black has returned from the dead once again. “Surprise,” I say lowly, my lip naturally curling. “Sorry, I couldn’t die today. I’m getting married next week, I’m sure you’ve heard.” Still, nothing. It’s a standoff, a stupid fucking play for power. He can have the power, just for now. I’ve got a wedding to get to today. “So this is how it’s going to be played, huh?” I ask. “Are you going to carry on blowing up things in Miami until you hit your target?” Still, he doesn’t speak, and I fucking hate that it’s getting under my skin. Not even the shock of me still breathing got him talking. Let’s get this fucking done with. “I want some guarantees.”
