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Fucking idiot. A well-dressed bed is more of a made man than him.
“Me? Never,” I drawl, leaning back in my chair with a lazy smirk. I turn to Gabe. “How’s the chess game coming along?”
His glare tells me everything I need to know. It’s dark and dangerous and I wonder how many men have been the subject of it and pissed their pants. He tugs a lighter from his pocket and, with a flick of his wrist, brings the flame to life.
“Needles in the neck. Heart attacks. Cut brakes.”
I nod slowly, raking a cautious eye over that flame as it dances under his chin and shifts shadows over the hard planes of his face. Wouldn’t put it past my brother to set my office ablaze, just for shits and giggles. “Sounds productive.”
The flame snuffs out, plunging his molten gaze back into darkness. His palms slam against my desk with such force that half of my whiskey sloshes out of its glass. “It’s child’s play. I’m restless. Losing my fucking mind. I need more, I need something…” He huffs out a dark breath. “Something to silence it all.”
What?
Slightly stunned at his outburst, I toss a look at Angelo, but he just rolls his eyes, a bored expression carved into his face. I have a feeling he’s heard this already.
Somehow, I think it’s safer to change the subject. “Well, I still haven’t heard from Tor.”
Now, Angelo’s eyes come back to mine, flashing dark. “Yeah. Dante hasn’t either.”
My spine straightens on its own accord. “What do you mean?”
“What I said. He never went back to Cove after the explosion. I called Donatello, and he hasn’t heard from him either.”
Fuck. His words settle on my chest and push me back in my chair. I’d have bet both my yachts Tor wouldn’t have chosen Dante over us. But disappearing entirely? This…I don’t know. It seems worse.
Three heavy knocks on the door cut through my thoughts. Gabe’s gun comes flying out of his waistband, and the noise is so loud that even Angelo twitches toward his weapon.
“Relax,” I sigh. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re on a yacht in the middle of the Pacific. The only threat onboard is food poisoning.” I jerk my chin toward the door. “Come in.”
Griffin bursts into my office and his stride screams trouble. He’s old and bald and has seen enough sick shit in this world that almost nothing makes him walk fast. The sight pinches the back of my neck, and I find myself rising to my feet and picking up my gun, too.
He comes to a stop behind Angelo. “We’ve got an emergency.”
Gabe’s safety catch releases. “Mine.”
Griffin’s gaze slides sideways, tinted with disgust. “Not an emergency concerning you or your thugs.” Shifting his attention back to me, he adds, “Lucky Cat’s been hit.”
My heart jolts at the mention of my Vegas casino. I suck in a whiskey-fueled breath, lean my palms against my desk and grind out, “I’m going to need more intel than that.”
“Hit and run. Armed van crashed into the lobby and shook out all the ATMs in under two minutes. Took just over six mil in cash, by the looks of it.”
“Yeah? And where were your men?” Gabe growls.
Angelo lets out a low whistle. “Who’d be that fucking dumb?”
Griffin chooses to ignore my more insolent brother. “Nobody on the West Coast. Has to be an outside job from a gang that didn’t know better.”
“Mine,” Gabe repeats quietly, taking a step toward Griffin and cracking his knuckles.
“No way,” Griffin growls back. “You and your thugs run rampage up and down the Coast, and that’s fine. But Raphael’s a prolific businessman, and part of my job is to uphold that reputation. We’ll sort it, and we’ll sort it quietly.” He stabs a finger toward him and Gabe looks down at it like he’s considering tearing it off with his teeth. “By the way, I saw what you did to Clive.” He turns to say to me, “He left his head in the trunk of my Sedan with a cocktail umbrella in his mouth.”
I bite out a laugh.
Griffin shakes his head, jaw ticking in annoyance. “I thought you were more sophisticated than that, boss.”
I am. Usually. Griffin’s elimination style has always worked perfectly for my agenda. It’s quiet, elegant, and no bodies means no leads back to me. But a cocktail umbrella? Come on. I’m not immune to the charm of irony, even on my darkest days.
As silence cloaks the office, Griffin’s revelation settles on my shoulders, thick and lava-like. I’m burning up, so I turn toward the French doors and crack one open. Beyond them, the icy sky melts into dark waters, and through the small gap, the sound of waves lapping against the hull float in with the wind.
