“I should go,” Jennifer says.
I sit back down behind my desk and turn my attention to the laptop. “You should.”
With a sigh, Jennifer leaves the office. As soon as she’s gone, I drum my fingers against the desk and focus on the numbers in front of me. Half an hour later, they’re still swimming in and out of focus, and I have a pounding headache.
I can’t think or see straight.
I hate being kept in the dark.
Is this really about the Harrisons, or is this about London keeping things from you? Because you know how this ends.
Sooner or later, I’m going to have to push London for her own good, but for now, I’m telling myself it doesn’t matter.
She’s allowed a certain amount of leniency for now.
Given everything else I’ve taken from her, it’s the least I can do.
That’s such bullshit. You’re just afraid that if you push her into telling you what she’s been up to, she’ll leave and never look back.
I’ve already decided I don’t want to live without London.
I don’t want to go back to what my life was before her, but giving up a modicum of control is a lot harder than I thought it would be.
I’m used to being in charge, the man who’s always ten steps ahead, and finding myself lagging is unsettling.
With a little more force than necessary, I shove my chair back and stand. I leave the office, stride down the hallway, and stop a few feet away from the bar, letting my eyes sweep over the main floor. There’s a cacophony of voices to my right, and when I turn to it, I see a group of women surrounding a senator whose tie is hanging askew.
Little by little, our clients are returning.
We’ve taken a serious hit, and the numbers are nowhere near where they should be, but there’s no other place in the city like us.
Nothing that offers the kind of high we do.
I’ve made sure of it.
Mercy will rise from the ashes, one way or another, and I’m not above getting my hands dirty to ensure it.
I step toward one of the VIP booths on the top floor. A burly man unclips the rope to let me through, and I unfasten my jacket. A waitress in a tight outfit wanders over with a glass of whiskey and a plate of nuts. She sets it down and saunters off, giving her hips a little extra sway.
I ignore her and reach for the glass, doing a double-take when I spot Oliver leaning against one of the walls with one hand fisted through his hair. A few inches away, Katia is standing with her hands on her hips. She makes a sweeping hand gesture, and even from where I’m sitting, I see Oliver’s expression tighten. He leans forward to say something into her ear, and Katia stiffens.
Slowly, he leans away again, and they look at each other.
Fuck.
I know that look on Katia’s face, but I haven’t seen it since we were little.
With a frown, I watch the rest of the exchange, which ends when Katia shakes her head and walks away. Oliver calls afterher, and she ignores him. I almost let her walk right past me, but at the last second, I sit up and yell after her. The assassin stops to look at me. Then she walks back to me and curls her hands into fists at her side.
“Sit.”
“I’d rather not.”
I shoot her a pointed look. “Sit down, Katia.”
Katia takes a seat in the chair opposite me. She sits with her back erect and her eyes focused on revealing any potential threats in the VIP area. When she finally looks at me, there’s a gleam in her eyes I don’t recognize. I cross my legs and study her under the dim lighting, with the smells of alcohol and expensive perfume lingering between us.
“Do I need to remind you of what happens to people who betray me?”