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10
Win waiteduntil way past midnight, when the house was in silence and he was sure Jairo had gone to bed, before leaving. He didn’t sneak out per se, but he damn sure crept his way out of that motherfucker, heart thumping, ears tuned for any noise.
His and Jairo’s relationship was different in a whole lot of ways. Which was why Jairo didn’t blink or do anything other than point out the handprint—Mathieu’s fucking handprint—on Win’s throat. Jairo thought Win took lovers and even expected him to do so...as long as he was discreet. He’d told Win just that when they’d agreed to get married. Win didn’t have time or want for lovers, he hadn’t had sex with anyone since breaking up with Mathieu, but for the purposes of the shit he had going on with his ex, he preferred Jairo think he had some random lover out there.
Jairo finding out about Mathieu would bring about a disaster of biblical proportions and Win wasn’t for that, not at all.
He left the house and drove to Mathieu’s place. Waiting to set up a meet at any other time would be difficult now that Jairo had gotten him a bodyguard, so Win couldn’t afford to put off informing Mathieu of the latest developments. He instructed his phone to call Mathieu, which he should have done earlier, but he didn’t want to take the chance with Jairo in the house.
Now, Mathieu wasn’t picking up. Win’s lips twisted. Mathieu was likely occupied with whoever the flavor of the month was now that he was once again a single man. Win released the steering wheel, using his free hand to shove his black hoodie off his head and touch his throat.
He’d spent an exorbitant amount of time staring at that faded handprint in the mirror after Jairo pointed it out. Tracing it, hating it, liking it. Everything that had to do with Mathieu kept him torn, as it’d done since their break up. Mathieu liked that, he knew. He liked that he could wring reactions from Win, even if they were the furious kind.
Because at least Win still felt something for him, right?
He hated that shit. Hated that he still carried the hurt of what Mathieu did to them, hated that he still lived among the torn and shattered remains of the promises Mathieu made then broke.
In his weakest, saddest moments, he’d found himself wishing he hadn’t been spared Stavros’ bullet in that motel room. He wished Mathieu hadn’t intervened and saved him, only to break him further on down the line. He wished he hadn’t been dumb enough to hand over his heart to a man he’d thought would protect it only for him to turn around and set it on fire.
And he wished the thought, the very fucking idea of being in Mathieu’s presence again, of being close to him, didn’t unleash crazy butterflies inside him.
He tried calling Mathieu again and still didn’t get a response.
Why the hell was he even driving to Mathieu? He didn’t even know if the other man would be at the house. Still, when he got to Mathieu’s neighborhood, he parked his car a street over and exited, pulling his hoodie over his head as he walked over to Mathieu’s place. He made his way around to a side entrance after scaling a wall, avoiding the three armed guards engaged in a rousing conversation about their girlfriends, and squeezed himself through a secret hole in the barbed wire fence that’d been there for ages. He’d told Mathieu about it a dozen times. He could have walked up to the front door, but Mathieu had a bunch of new faces that Win didn’t know and didn’t trust. Only a small handful of Mathieu’s crew even knew about them and Win wanted it to remain that way.
He couldn’t afford to be seen in this neighborhood, couldn’t afford to be recognized. Everyone around these parts knew the rivalry between Jairo’s MC and the Haitians. Everyone knew who Win was married to. He was thankful that when he and Mathieu had been together, they’d managed—somehow—to keep their relationship secret.
Once on the property, he pressed his back to a palm tree only about an inch or two taller than him and pulled out his phone to call Mathieu again.
“Put your motherfucking hands up.”
He stiffened, phone falling from his hand as a gun was jammed into his right ear. Shit. He did as he was told, slowly, carefully. “I’m Sparrow. I need to see Ma—your boss.” Mathieu’s men might not know Win’s name or face, but they damn sure knew his code name.
A rough hand yanked him forward and he stumbled. The guy who held him wasn’t anyone he recognized. He was dressed in all black and wearing a scowl, eyes narrowed, a wicked-looking gun trained on Win. “Hands up!” he barked.
Win rolled his eyes. “My hands are up. Can you have someone get your boss, please? Or Jason?” He mentioned one of the only other people he trusted within Mathieu’s crew. “Tell him Sparrow is here.”
“Shut the fuck up!”
He didn’t see the gun move, but the pain that blossomed in his face yanked a yell from him and dropped him to his knees. His hands flew to his face as blood flowed between his fingers. The guy hit him with the gun.Fuucck.He scrunched his eyes up at the pain. A glancing kick to the side of his head knocked him sideways and he toppled onto the ground.
Goddamnit. He shouldn’t have come.
More warm moisture dripped onto his chin and fingers and he didn’t know if he was crying due to the pain, if it was just blood, or if both tears and blood had mixed to soak his face. He couldn’t open his eyes, but he felt the vibration on the ground of rapidly approaching feet.
Someone grabbed him by the front of his hoodie, yanking him upright. He managed to lift his wet lashes in time to catch the look of shock and panic in familiar eyes, saw the newcomer’s lips form one word.
“Shit.”
He tried to take a deep breath. “T-tell Mathieu Sparrow is here,” Win wheezed out to Jason. Fuck, it hurt to talk. He didn’t hear Jason’s words over the ringing in his ears, but he kept his eyes open long enough to see the other man mutter some words into his earpiece. The panic didn’t leave Jason’s features; in fact, it got way more stark.
Win dropped his head back onto the ground and closed his eyes. His face hurt like a motherfucker, but it was his own fault. He shouldn’t have come here. Should have tried to come up with another solution. But he’d wanted to be here. Wanted to see Mathieu and didn’t want to wait.
So this, a bloodied face and a brewing headache, was what he got for his stupidity.
A tap on his shoulder had his eyes flying open. Jason gave him a sympathetic grimace and helped him to a seated position as the backyard lit up with lights, and men. Jason had the presence of mind to pull Win’s hoodie back up over his head in an attempt to preserve his identity.
But then Mathieu was there, striding through the throng of men with no shirt on and his naked chest on display, wearing black shorts, feet bare. And rage, so much rage in his eyes. His gaze found Win’s and the rage morphed into something even more dangerous that sent goose bumps blanketing Win’s skin. He knew that look, the one forecasting a storm on the horizon. No one else seemed to notice it when Mathieu bellowed, “What the hell happened?”
