Emmanuel takes after his mother in appearance—slim build, dark hair, dark eyes, sallow complexion. Though he’s tall and reasonably good-looking, he’s no favorite with women. Roxy never liked him—he probably made a few too many jokes at her expense.
“He just talks too much,” I told her.
He’s talking a mile a minute right now, telling me, “The cops are everywhere looking for you. They rampaged through the Bleak Street casino and smashed a bunch of the slot machines.”
I grit my teeth, furious at the expense to have those machines fixed.
Chief Parsons has gotten pretty fucking bold if he’s ordering his officers to attack my casino.
Then again, he was already pretty fucking bold when he assisted Valencia in framing me.
Clare’s admission that her father is personal friends with Parsons is no surprise to me—the trumped-up evidence was too good. It’s a conspiracy that goes all the way to the top, as they say.
But for what purpose?
Prior to my alliance with the Irish, I would have said that Connor Maguire was my number one enemy. He’s the one who stood to benefit most if I was tossed in prison for the rest of my life.
But I think he was happy with our arrangement. And there’s no way on God’s green earth he would allow his beloved daughter to be slaughtered as collateral damage.
I don’t need the Irish’s furious assassination attempts to assure me that they are genuinely fucking pissed that Roxy is dead.
Speaking of which—
“The Irish are looking for you, too,” Emmanuel says. “They’re telling everybody how they’re going to cut out your heart and feed it to Chopper.”
Chopper is Roxy’s pit bull.
“No way is that mangy mutt getting so much as a lick of me,” I growl. “I hated that fuckin’ dog.”
“Didn’t like sharing the bed with him?” Emmanuel snickers.
“His breath is worse than yours,” I tell Emmanuel. “Plus, I find it pretty fucking strange that he didn’t even bark the night Roxy was killed. Didn’t do shit to save her. A bad guard dog is no good at all.”
“Yeah, that is weird,” Emmanuel says, without much enthusiasm to discuss the topic further.
My men all stand by me. But sometimes I think one or two of them might not actually believe that I didn’t go off in a rage and pop Roxy with the wine bottle. Like right now, something in Emmanuel’s tone makes me think that he believes the reason Chopper didn’t attack is because he knew Roxy’s attacker on a personal level… like ‘cause we lived in the same damn house together.
“Set up a meeting with Maguire,” I say. “We need to put this bullshit to rest. I didn’t kill Roxy and I want to find out who did just as much as he does.”
Emmanuel raises one dark eyebrow. “I don’t know if they’ll agree to that,” he says. “And even if they do… it might only be so they can get you within heart-hacking range.”
“Do it anyway,” I order.
I had planned to check in with my father next, but I keep having the nagging sensation that I shouldn’t leave Clare alone any longer. I drive back to the Emporium and practically run up the stairs to the suite.
“She still in there?” I say to Yury.
“Of course,” Yury says, clasping his heavily tattooed hands in front of him and looking nervously toward the doorknob like I’m making him doubt himself.
I barge into the room, startling Clare, who is standing at the window looking down at the uninspiring view of the parking lot.
“Thinking of jumping out?” I say.
“Or throwing someone out,” Clare replies, frowning and crossing her arms over her chest.
Ha. She’s recovered a little spirit in the hour I’ve been gone.
“You couldn’t lift one of my fingers if I didn’t want you to,” I say.
“You think you can do whatever you want to me just because you’re built like a gorilla,” Clare snarls.
“Oh, I don’t think,” I say. “I know I can.”
Clare is so angry that her whole body is stiff as a cardboard cut-out.
“What’s your plan for me right now?” she demands.
“You’re coming with me.”
“Where?”
“To my father’s house.”
That seems to surprise her. Her shoulders drop involuntarily, and her mouth opens in a comical little “o” shape.
“I don’t have any clean clothes,” she stammers.
“Here.”
I toss a bundle of clothes directly at her chest. She catches them lightly, one-handed.
As she unwraps the faded T-shirt and jeans she frowns slightly.
“Did these belong to…”
“No,” I say, sharply. “They’re Yury’s sister’s clothes.”
Is she... jealous? Does she dislike the idea of wearing the clothes of a woman that mattered to me?
“Oh,” Clare says, relieved and mildly embarrassed.
I would never dress Clare in Roxy’s clothes. I already feel like Roxy is an angry ghost, following me everywhere I go, constantly watching over my shoulder.
I know she isn’t angry with me. If spirits exist at all, Roxy’s would be the one and only creature on this planet who knows for certain that I didn’t kill her. Well, her and Chopper. And whoever the fuck actually did it.