Page 52 of Hate to Love You
“All our recognizance says it is,” Cal says quietly, scanning the windows of the buildings around us. “We’ve had people watching this place for weeks. This is their stomping ground.”
When we reach the door, he scans it for boobytraps before knocking twice, but the door simply swings open into the darkened warehouse.
“Well, either they’re wrong or we’re wrong, because it appears that no one is home,” Lev whispers. “There’s no stomping happening here. Not tonight anyway.”
Something is off, but I can’t quite place it.
We step into the warehouse with our weapons drawn before pulling out the flashlights, splashing light around the room, terrifying some bats lingering in the rafters.
But as my beam pans over the wall furthest to us, that’s when I see it. On the pale blank wall, covered in hundreds of peeling paint shards, there appears to be a small photo with red writing on it.
Silently, and cautiously the three of us make our way across the old factory floor, scanning the room and listening for any sound other than the cooing of pigeons cooing above us.
I yank the photo off the wall, and shine my light on it.
It’s a picture of Saoirse McCleary, the woman I shot on in the head the other night, and the cousin of Irish clan leader Cillian McCleary. It’s obviously a photo taken of her while she was in the morgue, as she’s naked and lying on a cold metal table, her skin pale and untouched, and the giant bullet hole in her head hauntingly obvious.
I read the writing on the note.
Fuck your Parley.
An eye for an eye.
“Roman,” Lev says, shining his light on the wall where the note was pinned, illuminating a large red arrow scribbled on the wall. “What does this mean?”
“I think I have an idea,” Cal says, a few yards away from us.
Looking up, I can see he’s shining his flashlight on something on the floor behind a giant piece of discarded sheet metal. Cal’s stance is rigid, and his face is pale.
And when I reach him, I immediately understand why.
Because there, tied to a chair, is my cousin Stetson with a bullet hole in his head…and his eyes carved out.
Despite all the theatrics, there was no gunfight waiting for us at the warehouse. There wasn’t even a fight. There simply was nothing. Not a person, not a bomb…only Stetson.
And Cillian had that number disconnected before we had even stepped back outside.
He’d left his message though, one that told me that he knew our movements as well as I thought I knew his.
Stetson wasn’t part of my organization; he was just a casualty. And from what limited information I could gather, he’d left the club last night with a woman, but never made it home.
I did find it a bit surprising that Stetson would’ve left alone as he, like me, always had a small protection detail with him.
And although there’s no way for him to know, Stetson was probably the last person that I needed to die on my watch.
Although he was technically my cousin, our extended family in Moscow is not one for affection…or forgiveness. And now I’m going to have to call my estranged uncle and explain to him why his careless manwhore of a son, who was only ever supposed to be here for a week, is coming back to him in an urn. And I already know it won’t go well.
However, that’s a problem for tomorrow. And if I’m going to sit and wallow in my worries, I might as well do it at The Studio, where I can wait.
…For her.
However, when the last call goes out, and the crowds start dissipating, it’s clear that the only familiar female face I’m going to see around here is that of Heather, who has decided yet again to try her shot with me.
Tonight, I take it though, along with four vodka tonics, and allow her to suck me off right there in the VIP. And as I shoot my full load straight down the back of her throat, I admittedly feel a twinge of relief from the disappointment and stresses this night has placed on me.
But it doesn’t last for long.
Heather has barely wiped my cum from her lips when a blood curdling scream echoes through the dimly lit club.