The Brit

I eye him as he sips his drink, rather than knocking it back like me. He can’t need it as much as I do. Brad holds my stare, waiting.

“There’s something about her,” I admit, doing what I’ve never done before. Confiding in someone. Truth be told, I’ve never had to confide in Brad. He reads me like a book. Like now. I’ve never entered into a discussion with him on anything other than work. That’s just the way it’s been since we were kids. I think it stems from us both fearing that any show of emotion would render us less capable in our deadly world. With my father mentoring us, it’s understandable why we took that angle. But now he’s dead. And I need to get this off my chest. And though my father always said trust no one, he knew I trusted Brad.

Brad takes a seat, resting his glass on the arm of the leather chair. “There’s something about her,” he muses quietly. “You mean those insanely long legs, flawless skin, and perfect breasts that are the starring role of any man’s wet dream?”

I give him a tried look. “Her assets aren’t helping matters,” I admit. The woman is a goddess.

“We’ve had many pretty women in our beds. What is it about his one?”

“I see something familiar in her.”

“What?”

“Me.”

Brad falters a beat, a flash of worry washing over his rugged face. “You, how?”

“Lost. Trapped.” I swig more of my drink. “Dead.”

He looks wary. Probably should be. There aren’t many people—only two in fact, Pops and Brad—who know my history before Carlo Black found me. Brad’s mother, my father’s sister, took me in as her own, just as Pops did. Brad respected his mother, listened to her, and we soon became best friends, as well as family.

“She’s the mistress of an upcoming politician,” Brad says. “She’s not trapped. She’s with him because she’s a gold-digging whore like the rest of them. And she doesn’t look very dead to me.”

I let his analysis of Rose go over my head, ignoring that his detrimental label riles me. “There’s more to it,” I say, getting up and pacing the room. “Her back’s bruised as fuck. Like she’s been punched in the kidneys by a pretty solid fucking fist.”

“She’s not your concern. She’s here for a reason, Danny. Remember that.”

I breathe in and pull myself together, if only to try and convince Brad I’m thinking straight. I’m not. “Tell me the deal.”

“Adams leaves tomorrow. Back to Miami to pick up his campaign, though how he’s going to do that is a mystery since his bank account is dry.”

I eye Brad with caution. “Completely?”

“All gone.”

“And he hasn’t asked for more,” I muse, looking out across the skyline of Vegas. “So who’s bank rolling him now?”

“Whoever it is, we need to ask if they knew you were bankrolling Adams first. Because if so, we’re dealing with braver men than I knew existed.”

“Or Adams has kept my contributions to himself, leaving his new investors in the dark.”

“The Russians?”

“The Russians have an agreement with us. They wouldn’t break it.”

“The Romanians?”

“The last time the Romanians tried to move in on the US, most of them ended up dead, remember?”

Brad smiles. “I remember.”

Pops didn’t wait for them to come to him when he got word of their plan from the Russians. He went to them. Killed the problem, namely their leader. What was his name? Ah, that’s right. Dimitri. Marius Dimitri. His men scattered like ants and haven’t reformed since. I was fifteen at the time. Pops took Brad and me along for the ride. It was the first time I held a gun, and I was forced to use it. Not because Pops made me, but because one of the Romanian fuckers had Brad. Stupid fuck was so busy watching the grown-ups, he missed me in the car. I took the greatest of pleasure blowing out his brain. Pops smiled. Brad, slightly shook up from staring death in the face, swore he’d repay me, and he has. Tenfold.

Brad sighs. “The Mexicans?”

“They don’t have the resources, or the balls.”

“You sound sure.”

“I’m sure of nothing. Check them all out.” Nothing more needs to be said. “The shipment?”

“Half the money is in the bank. We need to be ready for the exchange next week.”

“And the goods get here . . .”

“The day before the exchange.”

“Have the men check it all before the Russians arrive.”

“Done. So we’re leaving tomorrow?”

“In the morning.”

“And the girl?”

“She comes with us.” I wander over to the desk and slide her phone across to Brad. “Have one of the men get into this.” I knock back my drink and slam the glass down. Conversation done.

The next morning, I stand at the edge of the bed watching her. She looks like Sleeping Fucking Beauty. So peaceful and serene. I almost don’t want to wake her.