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That relapse had more to do with Yvette’s death than breaking it off with Lisbeth, but he didn’t have the energy to argue that point with Nick.
“I’m just sayin’. I ain’t taking care of your sorry ass again when it all turns to shit.”
Samson puffed out his chest. “Take care of me?”
“Yeah, 'cause maybe you forgot all the back alleys I dragged you from or how I broke up the bar fights you had no chance of winning? Or the time you got caught doin’ over a hundred down the FDR in your Maserati at three in the morning while some bimbo sucked your dick.”
“That car was sweet.” Looking back, he had no idea who the chick was, but he remembered that black Quattroporte GTS with fond affection.
“Until two weeks later, when you wrapped it around a telephone pole coming back from Atlantic City drunk off your ass with enough blow in the car to send you away for a long fuckin’ time.”
“And you had my back every time. I get it, but I’m sure you don’t want me to list all the shit you got yourself into or how you repeatedly gave money to a woman already stealing from you.”
Nick heaved out a heavy sigh. “I just wish you wouldn’t be dealing with Frank.”
“He’s the only one with as much, if not more, power than Monroe.” Samson pushed off the couch, and the two men stared at each other.
“Just be careful 'cause we both know how slimy Frank can be.”
They tapped fists, then Samson left and made his way across the hall. He knew Nick was looking out for him, but this was the only way.
* * *
Lisbeth stared out the penthouse window. From the twentieth floor, the view of the Strip’s glittering lights was far enough away to make it appear like some exotic rainbow. In the last four months, she’d opened her new office and got settled in, yet in only two weeks, her whole life changed.
She was no longer engaged to a man she thought was everything she wanted. Her comfortable rented condo was trashed, and now she’d have to spend tomorrow buying a new laptop and downloading all her client information from Evelyn’s files. Thankfully, she still had her phone, but the inconvenience of it all meant nothing compared to the sheer vindictiveness of the act.
At first, she resisted Samson’s implicating the Monroes, but logically there was no other answer. The neighborhood was safe, and her jewelry and the wad of cash left untouched ruled out robbery—almost like they wanted her to know this was done on purpose.
“Hey.” Samson’s voice rumbled behind Lisbeth, but she focused on the shimmering hotels in the distance.
He joined her at the window, close enough for her to smell his musky cologne. He sensed she needed space or something beyond what he could offer.
“You all right?” The three words warmed her. Samson had no advice, no recriminations over picking a perverted monster as a fiancé, just concern for her and nothing else.
Lisbeth turned her head and stared at his profile for a few seconds. Samson was a shockingly handsome man—not a pretty boy like magazine models—with a look tempered by life’s disappointments and trials mixed with a fuck-you attitude that said he didn’t give a shit. It was that look where she drew her strength.
“I will be.” A simple answer, but true. She’d weathered other storms and vowed to get through this one too.
Samson massaged her neck, pulled her head against his shoulder, and stroked his fingers through her hair.
They stayed locked together for what seemed like a long time, peacefully gazing out the window, lost in their thoughts, yet she sensed simmering turbulence brewing inside him like a pot just before it bubbled up and onto the stove, making a mess.
She knew Samson too well to believe he’d forget what the Monroes did to his club or her. The thought of retaliation and what it might cost scared Lisbeth, possibly being the deciding factor of whether she and Samson had a future.
29
Samson stared at the ceiling, listening to Lisbeth’s steady breathing as she snuggled beside him. For the last hour, he weighed the pros and cons of what he was about to do, and as usual, the cons outweighed the pros, but that didn’t sway his decision. Not that he was known for his good choices, but sometimes you just had to go balls out.
He eased himself off the bed and headed for the kitchen. The cold tiles chilled his bare feet as he stuck his hand into the back of the silverware drawer. He rummaged around until he found what he was looking for— just a little something to take the edge off.
He cracked the seal and opened the hard pack of Marlboros—nothing like the smell of fresh smokes. Samson stuck the cig between his lips, flipped the lighter, and drew deep. The only thing better than a new pack was the first drag and how it filled his lungs as the nicotine jetted through his bloodstream.
It wasn’t nearly as powerful as the line of coke he still craved, but a helluva lot smarter. He often wondered if the cravings would ever disappear, but he was pretty sure he knew the answer to that stupid question. Drugs had a seductive hold on Samson, more potent than alcohol. He inherited that defective gene from his mother, but he’d sworn it all off years ago. The temptation always existed, but he knew there’d be no coming back and no second chances if he let it lure him in again.
Samson drew in two more quick drags, flicked the ash in the sink, then dumped the dead butt in the garbage. He replaced the Marlboros in the back of the drawer and pulled out his phone, a little better equipped to deal with what he was about to do.
Samson held the phone in his hand for a good five minutes before swiping it open and tapping the number. When the name popped up, a shudder of doubt skittered through him. He never thought he’d ever make this call again.
