I follow her gaze and see a hazmat company van double-parked and idling with flashers on.
“Oh no. I thought the apartment being unlivable was bullshit.” Scarlett breaks into a run. “Second floor.”
I follow her into a hallway with flickering fluorescent lights, like this is some apocalyptic movie. Keys in hand, Scarlett jams them into the lock. But the door nudges inward before she even turns the knob. It’s already open.
When Scarlett’s breath stutters, I push her gently behind me and enter first.
Christ, there he is. Ronan Castro. A Langston fixer. He’s the legendary boogie man in the medical world. It’s still a business. And any business can turn corrupt. When people don’t comply with Langston’s wishes, they get a visit from Castro and don’t always survive unscathed.
Castro isn’t some thug in a hoodie. Not a desperate dealer like the men I put in the ground.
Thisbastard is polished. Tailored navy suit. Shiny shoes. A watch that costs more than everything in this whole apartment. A corporate shark performing petty cruelty.
And he’s shoving my woman’s clothing into a black contractor’s bag.
“What the fuck are you doing to my clothes?” Scarlett barks.
He looks up with a bullshit smile. “Scarlett, it’s about time you got here. Your curling iron caused a small fire in the bathroom. The porter says you can’t stay here.” Castro nods toward the bag. “I’m expediting your move to Dr. Langston’s apartment.”
“Stop touching my things,” Scarlett snaps.
“Step away from her clothes.” I put my hand on Ronan’s shoulder pressing on a nerve. “I’mhere to move her out.”
He knocks my hand away, suggesting Castro has enough medical knowledge to preventparalysis. “And you are?”
I shouldn’t give him the truth. But something feral and territorial bites hard inside my chest. “Dr. Cormac O’Rourke.”
My last name should shake some trees, but Castro doesn’t flinch. Just eyes my posture, my build, my tattoos. “Never heard of you.”
I glance at Scarlett’s clothes spilling out like trash, and I go livid.
“No one puts my wife’s clothes in a fucking black garbage bag.” I grab Castro by his jacket collar. “You tell Pierce, the next time they send someone to touch my wife or her belongings, I’ll send them back in a medical waste bag.”
“Wife?”
“Yes. Scarlett Ford ismy wife.We just got married. Spread the word.”
“You don’t understand, guy. I have orders from her fiancé.” He breaks free and points to Scarlett. “Dr. Langston is expecting you.”
Scarlett stiffens beside me, anger on her face. “You can tell Pierce to go to hell,” she hisses. “I’m married to Dr. O’Rourke.”
“Perhaps you misunderstood.” Castro’s voice dips to dangerous condescension territory. “Not Pierce Langston.RamsesLangston sent me to collect you. He wants a word with you.”
Scarlett looks like she’s going to shatter.
That’s when my pulse goes lethal. I take two steps forward, and Castro backs up, not accustomed to someone fighting back. I don’t know how not to fight. And I don’t think this fixer has the spine for the hand-to-hand combat I learned in Dunbar.
“What is Ramses Langston’s phone number? I’d like a word with himright now.”
“I don’t give out the boss’s number,” Castro snarls.
My fingers itch to hurt him. I’m a doctor who isn’t afraid to murder, and I could easily strangle him. But I can’t chance Pierce using his money and connections to put me under a microscope and convince the DA to press charges.
I text Trace to get over here with a couple of his men. This neighborhood is Quinlan Empire territory, and I expect someone is close by.
“As I said, I’m here to move my wife into my condo.” I yank the trash bags from Castro. “Get the fuck out. Go have a smoke. Go have a drink. In an hour, we’ll be gone, and then tell that monster disguised as a surgeon you work for that the place was empty, and you have no idea where she is.”
Castro swallows hard. “For how much?”