“Their son.”
“Good. Then have him sign.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Don’t piss me off, Perry,” I warn. The thrill of my recent kill is disappearing by the second. “Why?”
“Well, first off, he was on the private jet too. He’s alive, but he’s in a coma. Second, even if he makes it, he’s ten years old and the estate is held in a trust until he’s twenty-one.” The second Perry finishes, Brad gives me the nod. His story checks out.
“Motherfucking God,” I breathe, landing Brad with disbelieving eyes. It’s one fucking disaster after another. “Then let’s hope he doesn’t make it,” I say without thought, earning a stunned look from Brad that I ignore. “I’ll check in again soon.” I’m about to hang up when I hear Perry blurt my name, panicked. “Rose is surviving,” I tell him before he can ask. “Just.”
“What have you done to her, Danny?” He’s between anger and emotion. It’s quite sweet. Shame she doesn’t feel the same way about him.
“Nothing she didn’t love and beg for.”
He inhales, the sound whooshing down the line. “What happens if the Jepson kid makes it?”
I nod toward the cabinet across the office, deciding I do need that drink. Ringo has one in my hand quickly, ice and all. “Then you’d better get creative, because you’re not getting Rose back until I get that marina, and even if I do release her, you won’t get to indulge in her perfect pussy again because you’ll be dead.” I hang up and down my drink in one fell swoop, gasping in appreciation. “I want every detail from the crash investigation.”
“Got it,” Brad confirms. “Do you think he had anything to do with Vegas?” he asks as I study the side of the crystal tumbler.
I keep coming back to desperation. Adams is in the shit, would do anything to get himself out smelling of roses. But with Rose in the line of fire? No, not Adams, but that doesn’t mean his contact wouldn’t. Perry’s up to his neck, caught between me and . . . who? I don’t know, but he’s a brave fucker. And a light reminder to Perry that I’m the greater of two evils won’t be missed. “Send Adams her little finger.”
Watson, the sadistic bastard, has his knife out before I’ve even registered my own words, and I momentarily frown, wondering what the fuck he’s doing. “You sure about that, boss?” Brad must have caught my confusion, his probing eyes watching me across the table.
“Yes, I’m sure.” I stand and approach Watson, taking the knife from him. “But I get the honor.” I leave the office, feeling Brad’s worried stare rooted to my back, and pace through my mansion, spinning the blade in my grasp as I go. What better way to prove to anyone, including myself, that she means nothing to me?
My breathing is labored as I pause outside her door, my hand on the knob. My palm’s sweaty. My heart is thumping. My fucking head could explode. Just do it. If anything, it’ll truly make her hate me. It’ll halt these insane moments of rhapsody that are quickly followed by reality. It’ll show her that she’s here for one reason alone. I push my way into her room, determined, the knife poised . . . and freeze when I find her sitting on the edge of the bed in her underwear, a razor blade plunged into her forearm.
My head that was feeling like it could explode, goes right on ahead and detonates. I see red. Rage sails through my body like fucking wildfire, unstoppable and damaging. Like nothing I’ve felt before.
She finds me vibrating by the door and quickly gets up, running to the bathroom. I’m in pursuit quickly, flying after her. She goes to slam the door in my face, but it hits my foot and bounces back open. Fucking hell, I feel out of control. She walks cautiously back, a fear in her eyes that I’ve not seen before. And I’m not surprised, because I must look beyond my usual murderous self.
Her hands go behind her back, resting on the vanity unit. “Don’t you know how to knock?” she murmurs, her pathetic question doing nothing but turning my already burning blood into rivers of lava in my veins.
I can’t even speak. All of my focus is centered on helping me to breathe through my fury. The drops of blood hitting the tile floor are deafening. I stalk forward, my whole face aching with the tenseness of my tight jaw. She can’t even look me in the eye. Her head’s dropped, focusing on anything except the psycho slowly closing in on her.
When I make it to her, I push my front to hers, if only so she can feel how madly my heart is pumping. “Give me your hand,” I grate, looking down at her. She shakes her head, refusing to look up at me. “Give. Me. Your. Fucking. Hand.” Another shake of her head, and further defiance by keeping her face down. I seize her jaw, squeezing hard, probably too hard. I know she feels it because she flinches, trying to pull away. That’s a novelty. She actually feels something. Without moving, she fights me with all she has, pulling against my pushing, but I win. She’s heaving by the time I get her eyes, the blue pits to her soul overflowing with anger. “Give me your hand, Rose.”