AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I’m positive that Henderson—who strikes me as an upper-middle management perv who has done well for himself, aka my latest dead man walking—is the only one with the collection of blackmail, but who else is in bed with him?
I just figured whoever wants him dead is someone he crossed the wrong line with. A client.
What if it’s not?
What if it’s someone else? Like a silent partner?
Broken Angel has many subdivisions, and some of them nasty. As in really nasty.
I could call Alek Severinov, the senior member of a crime syndicate that includes a handful of Russian, Italian, and Irish mafia families across the country. He’s got a team of data gurus who track pieces of shit like Henderson who threaten their organization and then decimate them.
I always have that option in my back pocket. But the other Knights might have something else I can use to get the information I want.
I pick up my phone and text the two people I can trust with work. Malone and Orion.
Malone knows all the people no one should know. Orion can access things even I can’t.
One of them will find me something I can use. And then I’ll owe whoever comes up with what I need, which I hate. But I don’t have time to wait around with my dick in my hands, hoping that something will fall into my lap.
I walk downstairs to Ivy’s room.
Her door is open—and she’s standing in her underwear.
“No underwear. And put on the green sundress.”
Ivy frowns. She fucking frowns. Hurt and anger spit and hiss on her skin. She still dips her head, lowering her eyes in what looks like submission, but feels more like hiding.
It makes me want to push her into the wall, talk nasty, and kiss her senseless. It makes me want to add to the bruises on her ass and finger fuck her. It makes—fuck. It makes me want to do all the things that have me keeping out of her way.
The bruises are fucking gorgeous, though.
I know they are, even though she’s facing me, because she sent me a photo yesterday and the day before and…
“Drop the panties and turn.”
Her head comes up, eyes bright and sea green as she does so. My eyes rake over the deep purple marks that are starting to rainbow at the edges.
I want to touch, to run my hands over them, over her, but I won’t give in. She makes me weak and impulsive and goddammit, I hate that.
“Get rid of the bra, put on the dress, and wear those black heels I got you.”
And then, before I do something really stupid, I walk the fuck out.
Broken Angel is pumping tonight. I do something tacky and use the guest passes that I was sent. They have my name on them, so the good old powers that be will be alerted of our arrival.
I sit near the bar with a drink in my hand, one that I don’t drink and don’t share with Ivy. Just like I don’t really talk to or acknowledge her as I take in the action and the talent roaming among us.
She’s uncomfortable here. I figured she’d be. And I’m feeding the flames by being a total asshole to her. It’s a little beyond what I need to do tonight, which is make her a little agitated while I ignore her.
I could have told her my strategy.
I could have even been nice and spent time with her since we fucked. But I can’t. It only makes me want her more. It’s like fucking her every which way has somehow torn open something inside of me and let her in.
And that’s exactly where I don’t fucking want her to be.
So I’ve avoided her by sticking to my place in Bedford-Stuyvesant. I work from there, do renovation projects, andthen come back to Manhattan where I make food and eat it by myself.
Asshole by name, asshole by nature.
