Page 90 of Reckless Woman
I close the distance between us in two short strides. “I’ll take you as soon as the doctors—”
“I want to go on my own.”
I grit my teeth. “Not a goddamn chance.”
“Then I want my own room when we’re there.”
She knows my answer to that already.
My cell starts beeping in my pocket.
It’s Dante.
“Bad timing,” I tell him. “I’ll call you back.”
“On the contrary,” he drawls. “It’s always a good time when I have the man who shot your wife in front of me. He calls himself Michail Borodin, and he’s a living, breathing execution with your name all over it.”
I pause, gazing down at the ruins of the woman Michail Borodin left behind, tasting a bloodlust so sharp only murder will level it.
“You sure it’s him?”
“Positive. He’s singing already, and I haven’t even shown him the color of my knife yet. Says he works for someone called Igor Bukov, and lots of other interesting things.”
“Where?” I demand.
“Miami docks. I’ll message you the coordinates.”
“I’ll be there in two hours.” Hanging up, I reach out to tuck a strand of hair behind Anna’s ear, but she cringes away.
“I have to go.”
“Then go,” she mutters.
“I’ll speak to your doctors on my way out. I’ll make the necessary preparations and call Gabriela tonight. We’ll leave for Leticia as soon as I have a security detail in place.”
“I don’t want you to come,” she repeats through gritted teeth, but I ignore her parting shot, like I’m ignoring all the other bad and sad between us.
“Don’t let her out of your sight,” I instruct the men outside her room, and again to those outside the hospital. This place is on complete lockdown, but every single minute I spend away from her is another minute whenI’mnot protecting her.
A two-hour drive takes one hour thirty when you’re fueled by a bottle of whiskey, hard vengeance and a dead brother who won’t stop haunting you.
I follow Dante’s coordinates to a discarded warehouse on the outskirts of the container docks, and park nearby. This place holds a lot of history for our organization. I spilt blood not far from here. Eve sent Dante’s brother to his grave. That night set into motion a chain of events that changed all of our lives, one way or another.
Stepping out of the SUV, I’m struck by the sensation that things are coming full circle. I pause, taking in a couple of lungfuls of the salty air, and then I’m dismissing it as the bloated instinct of a drunk and angry man.
I enter the warehouse with a lit cigarette locked between my teeth and a loaded gun in my hand. Michail Borodin has already been strung up and worked over. His naked torso is a patchwork of Dante’s favorite pastime: flayed skin, dark bruises, crimson slashes—in truth, there’s not much left of him to play with.
Dante’s over by a dirty metal table, cleaning his knife with a blood-stained rag.
“You started without me,” I say, ripping the smoke from my mouth.
“I stopped as soon as he started talking.” A dark smile tilts his lips. “This wasn’t my kill to make.”
“How considerate of you.” I size up the soon-to-be-dead man. “Is it Christmas already? How did you find him?”
“We studied footage of the hit. Roman found a plate and ran it. It was false, so he concentrated on the vehicle. Turns out it was registered to a certain house we know in Bal Harbour.”
“You’re shitting me.”