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A Jameson always collects.
2
The blood on my hands is beginning to dry—cracking between my fingers with each flex of my hand on the steering wheel. The flakes, these minuscule fragments of what used to be Jonathan, are almost undetectable to the eye, but I see them fall onto my trousers and then the carpet of my Mercedes AMG G63 as I rush through nighttime traffic on my way to the family’s pub.
Casper’s waiting on me while the two men disposing of Jonathan’s head and body take a more scenic route. That was his final penance. No funeral. No recognition. What remains of him is being disposed of in two pieces and in separate locations.
Stepping on the gas, I hit ninety miles an hour while my body thrums with endorphins. Killing is my high. The moment a person takes their last breath is unforgettable—feels almost as good as a warm cunt choking my cock.
It’s a beautiful sensation that both calms and winds you up. My muscles are tense, yet my reactions are languid and fluid—almost serene as everything around me blurs into colorful lights and sounds. Picking up the lit cigarette laced with cannabis from my ashtray, I bring it to my lips and take in a deep inhale. I hold the smoke in my lungs and for a moment, I close my eyes and exhale slowly while the car maintains its course, opening only when the car gives a small beep alerting me to an object being too close to my right.
The vehicle is an older model BMW from the early nineties and has two arseholes revving up beside me unlike the rest of the calm traffic around us. Not these two, though. They’re shouting while nearly hanging out the vehicle, waving hands to draw my attention, and I take in another deep drag instead. The wrapping paper burns quickly, the reddish glow almost touching my lips before I lower my window and toss it in their direction.
“You fucking wanker!” the driver shouts while his mate’s mouth is open, yet no words come out. Especially after I flick on the lights so he can see me. His reaction is instantaneous: fear. The heady reaction brings a grin to my lips.
My mug is known. My reputation is all true.
However, the arsehole behind the wheel is slower, and it takes the backseat passenger forcing his face to stop moving for it to click. Then he pales while I simply stare, unmoving, not giving a flying fuck about ramming my car into anything or anyone.
They wanted my attention, and now they have it.
His eyes widen and the car swerves; a harsh yank to the right, away from me, causes two other cars to slam on the brakes. There’s a lot of honking as I pass them while the idiots car stops in the middle of the road. Pussies.
From there, it takes me another ten minutes to reach the semi-empty parking lot, and I pull into my private spot. At this time of night, the place is closed to the public, but not those in our business. At night is when the dark souls roam and degenerate deals are made while someone does a line or two and a pretty girl entertains their boss.
The latter is always part of the visiting party’s group. A mistress.
Never one of ours. We don’t traffic or whore out.
We also don’t touch.
It’s the two rules my aunt demanded from her husband while he was the head of our family, and we’ve followed the same path out of respect.
When I walk in, though, the place is quiet except for the low riffs of a guitar playing—an old rock song—filling the space. Two tables are occupied with men that work for the family, and at the very back, a transporter from Ukraine is nursing an amber-colored drink. Just him. No associates and I raise a brow in question at our head guard, Jeffrey, while tossing him the keys to my car.
They know to clean and erase every trace of Bryce.
The shrug of his shoulders is barely perceptible, but I’ve known him long enough to read every subtle change or twitch. I flick my eyes to the visitor once more and then meet his eyes, and he nods at the silent command. Watch him.
I don’t bother to acknowledge anyone else and walk through the clean, empty kitchen. The private door to Casper’s office is open, and filtering through is the sound of music and chatter that sounds American. And I’m right as I stop at the entrance and my eyes focus on the screen.
We don’t acknowledge each other. His eyes and mine are watching—struck by the same scene.
Two women, but it’s one that stands out. Motherfuck, I can’t look away.
My heart rate spikes up and a lick of heat flows through my veins, igniting every molecule in my over six-foot frame. I’m hard—furiously throbbing. Who the fuck is she?
The brunette is sitting with another woman, one I recognize as Casper’s newest obsession and what’s keeping him focused after the death of his mum. It was a senseless assassination that burns, and had he not found her—his end goal—London would be bathed in blood.
My own hands twitch to end her murderer’s life.
The women are similar in height and hair color, but that’s where the similarities die. No. Aurora Conte would never measure up to the reincarnation of Venus sitting at what looks like an American sports bar and sipping a pink drink with a sexy smile on her lips.
“Who?” This leaves me on a low growl, a rumbling that builds deep in my chest, and my cousin’s eyes flick to mine for a brief second. In them, I find mirth and a bit of cockiness, a better demeanor than the pain-filled eyes of the last month. Moreover, whatever he sees in my face is enough to pull a low chuckle from him, and had he not been family, I would’ve given him a bunch of fives. Arse. “Answer me.”
“Aren’t you hostile tonight?”
“It’s been a testy evening,” I hear myself answer, but my attention is on the beauty on his screen. She’s laughing now, head thrown back, while her tits shake in a low-cut top meant to tease—to destroy a man’s self-control. “Name, and who’s following?”
