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“Gav?” Erion asked, gaze dubious. “No.”
“Exactly,” I agreed. “But there was heroin. And it was moving through the gym. So she is wrapped up with it. And since you are the one dealing H in the area…”
“Oh, come on. It’s not that I’m offended you think I’d let someone take the fall for me. I would. Yes, even your innocent, Taylor-Swift-loving girlfriend. And her boss. But I don’t deal through the gym. The fuck kind of business model would that be for me?” he asked.
“What about Czar?” I asked.
“What about him?”
“Could he be doing it?”
Honestly, now that I had a minute to think about it, I really didn’t think so.
Sure, Czar had linked up with Erion to start their own organization. The former Albanian and Bulgarian mobsters. And, yeah, I did think Erion was capable of being a cold, calculated, heartless bastard. But Czar?
No.
Czar Petcova was Nyx’s ex. A man who, by all accounts, loved her and tried to protect her.
She wouldn’t have been involved with someone who would mistreat innocent women.
“If you think that, you don’t know the players in this town as well as you should,” Erion said, taking another drag of his cigarette.
“But would he let Gray do it?”
“Gray?” Erion repeated, and I instantly knew, fuckingknewthat they weren’t in bed together. “That fuck,” he said, exhaling so deeply that a growl escaped him.
“You’re not working with him?” I asked.
“No. He wanted in.”
“Then why isn’t he in?” I asked.
“Because I’m a businessman,” Erion said. “And it’s bad business to have a former user dealing your drugs.”
That… made perfect sense.
“Well, he’s dealing now.”
“That explains it,” Erion said, the only sign that he was irritated being a muscle ticking in his jaw.
“Explains what?”
“Business being slow. Former clients dropping dead all over. I don’t cut my shit. He must,” he said.
Whatever he was going to say next was cut off by the sound of my phone ringing.
I reached for it with my free hand, swiping the screen.
“Yeah?”
“He’s not here,” Sway said. “Looked all over, but he’s not here.”
“Fuck,” I hissed. “Any luck on finding someone with an M he’s in contact with?” I asked.
“He’s a fucking slob. There’s nothing but old food wrappers and piles of laundry all around his apartment. Nothing personal.”
“What about a t-shirt press?” I asked.
