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If he died tonight, he’d be free of him.
That last thought alone set his legs in motion, eating up the distance to the elevator in long strides until he was inside, trapped between Toro and the heavyset guy who smelled like sweat and cigarettes and didn’t make eye contact with Win or Toro. Win stood with his hands clasped behind his back, fingers twisted around each other in hopes of easing their trembling.
It’d been a long time since he’d felt like this: scared, unsure, that numbing sensation of stepping into the unknown. That night, in that motel…
He shook it from his mind, focusing instead on Jairo and what he’d do if he ever found out Win’s secrets. His husband couldn’t find out.
The elevator came to a stop and he kept his head straight, not even bothering to check on the floor number. What did it matter? The heavyset guy remained in the elevator and Win followed Toro out onto a floor lined with men openly carrying guns. The sight wasn’t new to him, but Jairo’s men didn’t scare Win the way these men scared him. Jairo’s men would die for Win, but these men? They’d probably kill him. They all nodded at Toro as he strode past and entered one of the four rooms on the floor. Something told Win that all the rooms were occupied by Toro and his people.
He took a deep breath and walked into the room. If this was another mistake, hopefully, it’d be the last one he ever made.
The door closed behind him with a sound of finality that he felt down to his bones.
“Hello, Win.”
His body jerked, gaze flying toward the direction where the sound of his name originated. He staggered backward, tripping over his feet and falling backward against the closed door. “Sta-Stavros.”My god.Someone had encased him in ice because all Win felt was coldness. Was he already dead? Felt like it as he stared into the eyes of the man who’d pointed a gun at his forehead so long ago. Not long enough for him to forget, but long enough that he’d thought himself safe.
“Remember my face, because I will never forget yours.”
He’d taken those parting words to heart and for months afterward, he’d seen Stavros’ bone-chilling eyes in his sleep. He’d felt the weight of the gun on his forehead. He’d inhaled the stench of his fear and piss. He’d been sure Stavros would return and for months, maybe even the first year afterward, Win had anticipated him around every corner, every crevice where shadows touched. But Stavros never appeared.
Until now.
He’d been right; he was dying tonight.
3
The manon his knees had long stopped begging for his life.
Mathieu Pascal didn’t stop ramming his fist into Dave’s face, though. He wanted answers, but more than that, he wanted the noise in his head to go away. The wet smack of his fists connecting with Dave’s face, the crack of the other man’s teeth, the pained moans...they didn’t help shit.
But Mathieu kept going.
He’d brought Dave in for one thing, but the moment Mathieu let his fists fly, he’d forgotten why he was punishing Dave. Instead, the memories from recent events reared up and he found himself taking out his frustrations on the wrong man.
He’d gone to New York on business but left the city hating himself so much more. The things he’d learned. The mess he’d had to deal with. His sister had run away from the home they’d shared in Miami, settling in New York and cutting off all ties with him. Their reunion should have been one of happiness. Instead, Chantal shared why she wanted nothing to do with Mathieu. She’d been assaulted under Mathieu’s very own roof, by men who were supposed to be loyal to him. Mathieu had been drowning in his grief because of their father’s assassination, focused on making deals and growing the empire that had been left to him. He’d ignored her. Used her as part of business deals.
And she’d paid the price.
But that hadn’t been the only blow he’d been dealt in New York. His second-in-command had gone behind his back and orchestrated a hit on Mathieu’s former lover, Bishop, setting a clusterfuck in motion. Bishop had betrayed Mathieu too. Stealing from him. Betraying his trust. But that had been years ago and Mathieu had chosen to put it behind him. Lee—his second—hadn’t; he’d taken it personally and acted against Mathieu’s wishes. But there’d been collateral damage in the name of Eddie Montoya, former head of the BX Kings, and apparently the love of Bishop’s life. Eddie—a reluctant business associate of Mathieu’s—had wanted blood as payback for the bullets Lee’s gunman had lodged in his skull, and Mathieu couldn’t say he blamed the man. Or maybe Eddie had been a tad pissed that Mathieu had tried to get Bishop back into his bed. That last part had been merely a test to see how far Bishop would go to protect the man he loved and it turned out he would do anything, just not that.
Either way, Mathieu ended up with a gun in his face. He could handle threats to his own life, but to his family? Even now, he still reeled from the devastation in his sister’s eyes when she told him her truth, and the fact that he’d been so oblivious to all of it had fucked him up.
He’d been so caught up in himself.
Too blinded to see the damage he’d caused…
He stepped back from Dave, who rocked on his knees. His face was a bloodied mess, thick blood dripping down his chin and dirtying up his crisp white shirt. The men had brought him into the room with his hands tied behind his back and he’d been full of bravado initially, voicing his innocence for everyone to hear.
Now, Dave had nothing to say.
Earlier, Mathieu had a very interesting visit with Daniel Nieto, the last man he ever wanted to darken his doorstep. The former head of the Mexican Cartel was searching for someone he claimed was hiding out in Mathieu’s territory. A man who’d almost killed Daniel’s lover, Greek mercenary Stavros Konstantinou. Mathieu didn’t know shit about anybody hiding in his territory, but it seemed that while he’d been away, Dave, who he’d put in charge of the port, had been taking liberties with his life and Mathieu’s.
But here he knelt, still refusing to give Mathieu the information he wanted.
“You never get your hands dirty.”His father’s words whispered across his mind as he stared down at Dave’s wrecked face.“That’s why we have an executioner.”His father had never done the bloody work himself. He’d used an executioner for that. Pascal had an executioner too. Lee would’ve been the one doing this kind of work, but he’d left Lee in New York.
In a shallow grave.
