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Until the day the actual president stormed into the office, and I understood why.
He was roughly the same height as Dornan, about six foot, with a shock of blond hair that looked like it belonged in a shampoo commercial. It was messy and unkempt, but I bet he copped shit for it from the other Gypsy Brothers anyway. He wasn’t as stocky as Dornan, but just as muscled and well-defined. He looked like a surfer trapped in biker’s clothing, or maybe a sheep dressed in wolf’s clothing, come to think of it. He was tanned, and I guessed he got to see the sun a lot more than I did.
He looked stressed, his jaw clenched tightly.
‘Who are you?’ he asked, coming to a stop in front of the desk I was working at. I looked up with uncertainty, and more than a little attitude.
‘Who are you?’ I echoed, placing the emphasis on the last word.
He scowled, his hazel eyes flashing in annoyance as he pointed to the prez patch that adorned his leather vest.
‘I’m the boss,’ he said, staring me down. ‘Who are you?’
My eyes darted to the door and back to him. I was starting to feel more than a little apprehensive about being stuck in this room, alone, with a Gypsy Brother. And a man who ruled over a club with such a ferocious reputation surely couldn’t be a good man, right?
‘What are you?’ He pressed. ‘An assistant? A friend of Emilio’s? What?’
Maybe he saw the panic in my eyes, I don’t know. Whatever it was, his expression softened a little; perhaps he could tell I was nervous, and that I was trying to word my response carefully.
‘I’m Ana,’ I said, giving him a small smile. ‘And I’m not sure what I am.’
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
DORNAN
There were two dead girls at his clubhouse when he arrived there later that night.
He’d taken Mariana back to the apartment, and though he’d wanted to stay with her, his life was full of obligations, like a goddamn juggling act. Everything always up in the air, and if he didn’t finely choreograph every minute of the day, it would all come crashing down on him.
He’d arrived at the clubhouse to find a black Pontiac sitting in the large garage that housed their motorcycles, the car’s windows splattered in blood, two female bodies slumped in the back seat. The stench of congealing blood filled his nostrils. When he’d said he liked blood, he did not mean like this.
Holding a rag to his nose to stifle the smell, he ripped out his cellphone and called his father. The phone rang and rang.
‘Figlio,’ Emilio answered after ten rings.
‘Pop,’ Dornan responded, tightly wound and ready to blow. ‘Missing something?’
Emilio chortled. ‘A favour, if you will, son. Get some of your boys to clean it out and get rid of the bitches.’
Dornan pocketed the rag and rubbed his chin, glancing again into the back seat of the car. His stomach roiled as he saw a fly crawl over one of the girl’s open mouths.
‘Weren’t these girls meant to be auctioned?’ Dornan asked, shaking his head. Fucking Emilio, always laying his dirty jobs on the club.
‘They were indeed,’ Emilio responded.
‘And?’
‘And, they were sick. They were no longer useful.’
No wonder the car stank. It was ninety degrees out and the dead girls had been in the car for a day already.
‘Right,’ Dornan said, ending the call.
He rounded up a couple of Brothers, who complained loudly but soon got to wrapping the bodies in plastic and organising for the car to be dismantled and scrapped. Dornan watched it all from the sidelines in detached horror.
It could have been her. That could have been Mariana in the back of that car, her brains blown out over the seat.
It was much, much too close for comfort.
