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“Cut the crap.” His hands edge to the book, but I cross the room in seconds flat and take it. “What’s all this? Evidence I’m thinking. But what I couldn’t figure was the low level stalking you were doing. Until I got it. You figured she’d get scared and run, didn’t you? You didn’t fucking figure on me, and I’m betting you didn’t fucking know she was part of the Morgan family out of San Diego.”
He pales a little.
I grin, lupine fucking style.
I want this asshole to squirm.
“Rhett? I can call you Rhett, right? Did some driving in the early hours, made some calls. Seems like your mother’s got an interesting fucking last name. I also wondered how you had such a small business with such high real estate, not to mention the bookings are all suddenly new. Since Avah got to Dallas. Since you saw her pretty photos.”
His eyes narrow and he edges close to his desk. “Work picked up, what can I say. It’s seasonal.”
“And this, my fucking little asshole friend, is money laundering.” I wave the book. “You’re talking to someone who knows.”
“Look—”
“And your mama, her maiden name was Ramirez? Which is a branch of El Cabeza. Hence your ties.”
He reaches for his gun, and I throw myself at him, across that fucking desk, and have him pinned by the throat against the wall.
“Settle down, Rhett, because we’re having a talk about your family, your connections, your tastes, and your business.”
And then, because I can, I punch him hard. Once in the guts and once in the face.
His howls tell me he’s not going to talk.
He’s going to sing.
* * *
When I pull up outside the HQ of the top Lowlanders, their security is on me in seconds and they have one of my guns that I’m packing, the notebook, and the computer I took from the office.
I shoot a cool look when they reach for me, to manhandle me. They stop short of it as I raise my hands. I’m led into the old-school Irish bar, but it’s not the same guys I spoke to last time. No, this is one guy, reading a paper, and I’m pretty sure I know who he is.
The actual head of the entire thing.
“You O’Grady?” I’m not sure if this will work, but I’m hoping like hell it will.
“That I am,” he says with an Irish accent. “And you’re De Luca. Fucking about in my business.”
He doesn’t look up from the paper, rattles it, and turns a page. Then he laughs, shaking his head.
I wait.
With the rumors flying, his being here is either a coincidence or not. But whichever it is, it doesn’t sit well.
Dark hair too long, silver rings on his fucking fingers and faded blue jeans that are ripped.
I haven’t met him before because he’s rarely around, rarely in Dallas. It’s usually one of the other Irish, as long ago they were made up of a couple of families. Now, it’s about five, not all Irish, and all with different interests, which is why I never call the Lowlanders a family or an outfit.
“Now, Abruzzi,” the man says, an easy grin on his lips, one that doesn’t reach his eyes, “tell me why I shouldn’t kill you.”
“You’ve heard?”
He folds the paper, picks up a SIG Sauer nine millimeter, and checks it. “Ah, now, I did at that. Shot one of mine. I say one of mine. Someone in the fold. And your little girl has something, that’s what I hear.”
“You need to leave her be.”
O’Grady looks at me. The charming smile with nothing behind it but ice in place. “I don’t need to do fuck all. Except maybe use you as target practice. Some might say a De Luca Enforcer rocking up to my pad, one who’s carrying somewhere on his big person, is what’s called a provocative move. Warlike.”
