“You’ve reached me but I ain’t here.” Lionel’s Southern drawl drones down my ear. “Leave me a message after the beep. If I haven’t been abducted by aliens or taken away from it all by a rich heiress, I’ll get back to you.”
With a sigh, I slip my cell back into my pocket. It’s been three days since I spoke to him. He must still be in Abu Dhabi. I glare at my laptop screen, hoping I’ll find a message from him telling me he’s found more information about that twisted piece of shit, but my inbox remains empty except for a spam email about erectile dysfunction.
“Only dysfunction I have is a boner that won’t go away,” I mutter under my breath. Every single morning, I wake with a raging hard on, and every single morning, I try to jerk off to the memory of Anya’s face, only to be plagued by images of Mia. Inevitably, I give up and spend the next half hour beneath the icy spray of a cold shower.
I’ve had a semi-permanent hard on for the past three days, and I swear that if I don’t bust my nut again soon, I’ll have a coronary.
The sound of the intercom buzzing snaps me from my train of thought. Dante and Kat are out with the kids. Mia’s in the kitchen with Sophia, learning to make fresh pasta—a skill she claims to have wanted to learn her entire adult life but never gotten around to. Fuck, that just leaves me.
Pressing the button, I bark at the guard on the gate. “What?”
“There’s a guy here, Boss …”
“And?”
“He says he’s a cop.”
“He says he’s a cop or he is a cop, Jimmy?” I snap, too wound up for riddles.
“Well, he showed me his badge, but he’s not Chicago PD.”
“So where is he from?” I already know the answer.
“Boston.”
“Fucker,” I mumble, balling my hands into fists. I’ve wondered how long it would be before he came for her.
“He says you’ve kidnapped his wife,” Jimmy adds.
I chuckle humorlessly. “I’ll be right out.”
Leaving my desk, I straighten my jacket and roll my neck and shoulders, trying to relieve a modicum of the tension currently squeezing every muscle in my body. Cop or not, I will shoot Brad Mulcahy where he stands before I let him anywhere near Mia.
I walk down the expansive driveway of our family’s mansion and spot the black Chevy idling right outside the gates. A tall sack of shit with a buzzcut leans against the driver’s side door, running a hand through his mousy brown beard. Two of my armed guards stand on either side of his car, but he stares directly at me and pays them no attention.
“You have a problem fuckface?” I ask as I come within a few feet of him. I can smell his stench from here. Unwashed clothes and sweaty pits, stale cigarette smoke and junk food. Either he was punching way, way above his weight class with the little firecracker in my kitchen, or he’s really let himself go since she left him. I suspect it’s both, but mostly the latter. He has that drawn, haunted look of a man who had it all and lost it in the blink of an eye.
He spits onto the ground near my feet. Disrespectful prick! “I’ve come for my wife.”
I fold my arms over my chest and glare at him, watching the bead of sweat run down his forehead, belying his cocksure facade. This man knows who I am. He’s aware that I could put a bullet in his brain right now and there’s every possibility I’d get away with it. There’s every possibility that I wouldn’t too, given he’s a cop and it’s broad daylight, but he doesn’t know which side of the coin his fate lies on today.
“I said I’ve come for my wife,” he repeats, spittle forming on the corners of his mouth. Jesus fuck, how did Mia ever even kiss this disgusting fucker?
I go on glaring at him, refusing to confirm that she’s here—for now at least. I’m enjoying watching him work himself into a fit.
He balls his hands into fists by his sides and stamps his foot, a toddler throwing a tantrum. A chill runs down my spine. I’ve known plenty of men like Brad Mulcahy, with the emotional maturity of a child but the body of a heavyweight boxer. It’s a fucking miracle Mia didn’t leave that house of theirs in a box. I glance at his hands. Not as big as mine, but they’re big. I imagine them wrapped around Mia’s neck. Slamming into her face. Hitting her. Restraining her. Forcing her. He’s a fucking dead man walking.
Rocking my head side to side, I pop my neck and step closer, biting back a smirk when he flinches.
“Hand her over now and we’ll talk no more of it,” he says, his voice taking on a desperate whine. “I’ll tell my buddy Superintendent Hayes to back off, and you can return to whatever it is you do.”
“Seems Hayes isn’t really your buddy though, is he? You have something on the deputy, isn’t that right?”
He shrugs, trying to appear casual while sweat beads on his forehead and his arms remain rigidly clenched by his sides. “Even more powerful to have a superintendent in your pocket than as your friend, as I’m sure you know.”
“Deputy superintendent,” I remind him.
His lip curls with contempt. “He can still make your life very difficult.”
“He could.” With a shrug, I edge closer. “But he’s not. A few raids on my family’s businesses. Is that the best you got, fuck-knuckle?”
He bares his teeth, barely able to contain his anger now, so I push him a little further, hoping he’ll make a move and give me a reason to beat every breath of life out of him. “I said, is that all you got?”
“Just give me my wife.” His voice is half snarl, half whine. “Bring her out here and you’ll never see either of us again.”
“Now just why the fuck would I want to do that?”
He barks out a laugh. “Because she’s not fucking worth it, man. Trust me.”
I take another step closer, and he shrinks back before he remembers that he’s supposed to be a tough guy cop and squares his shoulders. We stand toe to toe, eye to eye, and I grin with delight. “I happen to think she’s very worth it. Every delicious inch of her.”
That sparks something in him, and he bounces on his toes, anger radiating from him in waves. A thick vein pulses by his temple and he raises one fist.
“Do it, fuckface,” I goad. “Please fucking do it.”
“Take all three of you on?” He sneers at my guards.
“I give you my word they won’t touch you. They won’t fucking have to, but just give me a reason to, you sick fuck.”
“Fuck you!” he spits.
“You heard anything from your kid sister lately, Brad?” I ask with a grin, and the color drains from his face in an instant.
His entire face twists with malice. “What the fuck are you on about?”
“I know all about Michaela. And your mom.” I hope my lie will get him to reveal something more, but he stays silent and glares at me. Fuck, I want to punch him in that ugly mug. Knock him to the ground. Jump on his fucking head. Want to make him bleed the way he made her bleed and hear him plead for mercy the way she must have so many times.
With impeccable timing, Dante’s car comes to a stop behind Brad’s. He rolls down the window and eyes me with concern. “Everything okay, brother?”
I keep my attention glued to Brad. “Everything is just fine. Bradley here was just leaving.”
The asshole snorts, but his knees shake as he takes the few steps to his car.
Before he opens the door, I grab onto his forearm, digging my fingers into his taut muscle. “You ever set foot in Chicago again and I will kill you in the most painful way imaginable. You ever try to contact Mia in any way ever again and I will tell the entire world about you and your whole fucked-up family. You got me?”
His nostrils flare.
I squeeze tighter, enjoying the pain that flashes across his face. He deserves so much more than that, but we are where we are. “I asked you a fucking question.”
“Yes,” he hisses.
I release my grip and let him climb back into his shit-box car. All the while, I feel Dante’s eyes on me, willing me not to waste a cop in front of our own house with my niece and nephews a few feet away. For their sake, and their sake alone, I don’t.
