Page 23 of Unlawful Lies
There’s no need to check for a pulse. Not with this kind of wound. Stomach punctures are known to be a slow way to die, and an inch or two to the left might have left Arden gurgling as he choked on his own blood.
As it was, whoever stabbed him knew what to do, and they’d gotten lucky, slicing through the right blood vessels and arteries for an instant death. He was in a pisspoor way before this conversation, too.
I wouldn’t be surprised if an autopsy illuminated a cocktail of crap in his bloodstream.
I’m the wrong person to be here right now. Wrong person, wrong time, wrong fucking night.
Just when I thought things were taking a turn for the right.
I draw blood-slicked hands through my hair. A lone dog barks in the distance and a puff of foul-smelling smoke belches from the sewer grate.
Sweat pours down my spine and pools at the waistband of my pants. With a sigh, I head back inside the club to use their phone.
Wrong person, wrong time, a ton of trouble hardening like cement at my ankles.
It takes hours to get my father’s men to the scene. To search for clues and clean up, wrapping the body in a rug and duct-taping it at the edges.
It’s nothing we haven’t done before.
Usually, it’s Father giving them the orders, but they'll listen to me because of who I am.
The procedure leaves me covered in blood, staring down at the spot where Arden had died. I can’t exactly say it’s a waste that he’s gone. But fuck, Nicola is going to be heartbroken. How would I feel in her shoes? If my old man were the one with the knife in the gut instead of hers?
The scary part is that I’m not sure how I’d feel. Delighted, on one hand. I’d be a complete prick if I didn’t admit it to myself. Sad, of course, filled with grief over the loss of a stoic and hardworking leader. Relieved, I supposed, to have the reins of control firmly where they belong: with me.
Things would almost be easier if it were Gio Balestra rather than Arden wrapped in a tarp in my trunk. At least now there's no need to worry about the goddamn painting.
I finally drop like stones into the front seat of my car.
“Sir? Are you sure you want to go alone?” The man my father hired as my personal chauffeur, chaperone, and bodyguard stands to attention a few paces away.
“Yes, go home. I’ll handle this myself.”
“It won’t be safe,” he retorts.
I scoff loud enough for him to hear. “I’ll handle it myself.” The door slams, a punctuation to the conversation.
And the moment the wheels hum over the sidewalk, exhaustion presses down. Death turns the night into tortures without end.
This might not be the first time I cleaned up after a mess I did not make, but this one is going to be tough. Nicola won’t take this well.
She deserves to hear it from me, from someone who saw what happened, in a manner of speaking. Someone with the brute strength and the gunpowder to figure out what exactly happened and find the bastard responsible.
The thought is so vehement and violent that I sit up straighter.
Why do I want to make this my problem?
For Nicola? For some sweet pussy who doesn’t mean anything to me outside of her beauty? And her connection to Arden?
The smartest thing to do is stay as far away as fucking possible from this chaos before I get my own people into trouble. Yet I don’t course correct. I say nothing on the drive up to the house after the guards wave us through.
And what is there to say when the housekeeper pulls open the door, takes one look at me covered in blood, and bolts to grab her master.
Mistress, I correct silently. The master, with his iron fists, won’t return home again. It’s no great loss, but it changes the game, and I don’t like it when the circumstances shift suddenly.
I should be used to it by now.
Footsteps sound like a herd of wild horses, and Nicola rounds the corner, her hair tucked into a messy bun at the base of her neck. Her eyes narrow when she takes me in.