Stolen: Dante's Vow

He’s taking up the entirety of the thirty-second floor so when the elevator doors open, we are greeted by two men in suits who I’m sure are armed beneath their jackets. One stops us, the other comes forward to search us. They relieve us of our weapons even finding the switchblade I’d put in my boot before leading us to the double doors directly in front of the elevator. They open the doors, and we enter, my men stopping just inside as Matthaeus, and I move into the room.

It’s a large, circular space, the building itself circular. And very modern with minimal furnishings and floor-to-ceiling windows for walls. Everything is white. White marble floors veined with gold. White leather furniture. White furs draped over chairs. White counters in the kitchen.

“Blood has to be hard to get out of the rug,” I say, observing the thick carpet beneath my boots that spans the whole of the sitting space. I stop, unbutton my jacket. Matthaeus takes his place to my right.

Jericho St. James has his back to the room as he watches out the window. He turns to us, sips from a crystal tumbler as he looks us over. From what I can see, he’s not surprised by our visit.

“Gentlemen,” he says, noting the two men I brought. “Welcome back.”

I don’t like his face. I don’t like his smug grin. I take a step toward him, and a large man instantly steps between us, hand firm on my chest to stop me.

“That’s not necessary,” St. James says to him. “But you didn’t need to bring soldiers,” he adds for my benefit.

“I lost a man. I should have brought an army.”

“I’m not the one you lost your man to. Sybil, get my guests a drink.”

I turn to where Sybil is standing. She’s petite, young, attractive, wearing a very short maid’s uniform. I raise an eyebrow as she places a bottle of whiskey and two tumblers on a tray, carrying it to us. St. James has now taken a seat on one of the three leather armchairs. Again, white. It’s a fucking eyesore.

When the woman bends to put her tray down on the coffee table her skirt rides up. She’s not wearing anything underneath. She takes her time in that position as she pours for each of us, and I see the glint of a butt plug between her cheeks.

I catch St. James’s eyes on me. He smiles. “For later,” he says, and I like him even less.

“Sit. Please.” He gestures to the chairs and Matthaeus, and I sit down.

“I lost a man,” I say again.

“Like I said, you didn’t lose him to me. I didn’t have anything to do with the attack on your warehouse,” he says, then tilts his head like he’s confused. “You were living in a warehouse?”

“Your warning was convenient.” I don’t bother answering his question.

“My warning was common sense. Any idea how he found her?”

“Tracking device in her bracelet.” I’m sure they were watching the warehouse, waiting for an opportunity.

“I hear Felix is pissed he lost one of his best men.”

“You hear a lot of things. What are you playing at?”

“I’m playing at trying to get you on my side. We have a mutual interest in finding Felix Pérez sooner rather than later. He’s met with some high-profile people over the last forty-eight hours. We’re running out of time.”

“How do you know this?” Charlie hasn’t been able to turn up any information on his whereabouts.

“My sources are better than yours.”

“Then why haven’t you moved in?”

“I’m not a killer.”

“So, you want me to be your muscle.”

He shrugs a shoulder, sips his whiskey.

“I’m not looking for a job,” I say.

“I know where he’ll be on Saturday night.”

“Where?”

“You agree to help me, and I’ll tell you.”

“How do I know you weren’t behind the attack on the warehouse?”

“I don’t work with pigs like Alvarez.” His lip curls with distaste and I see how his eyes narrow, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “I know the kind of man he is. The things he’s done.” I remember what Mara said about him being the one who killed my sister. My five-year-old sister. Fuck. “I’m not that sort of criminal,” St. James must still have been talking but I’d tuned him out.

“But you are a criminal,” I say, forcing myself to focus.

He shrugs casually like he could give a shit.

“I need proof you’re not going to fuck me over,” I say.

“Proof such as?”

“You’re a smart guy. I’m sure you can think of something.”

His gaze is narrowed but he never takes his eyes off me. “The Petrov brothers.”

“They’ll do.” This is what I’m hoping for. He somehow has an in with them. I don’t know the extent of his relationship with the Petrov family, but I don’t like what I’m seeing.

He finishes his drink, sets his glass down. “Clear the room,” he tells the soldier who stopped me advancing on him.