Savage Hearts

4

A brief silence follows. “You know what would happen if you did that.”

“Yes. Ask me how many f***s I give.”

He examines my expression. Weighs my words. A hint of warmth surfaces in his eyes, but dies a quick death, smothered by darkness.

Solemn, he nods. “My apologies. Mikhail was my only brother. The only family I had left.”

He turns his head, looks out the window to the rainy night, swallows. When he glances back at me, his jaw is clenched, and his gaze is murderous. His voice turns rough. “Now, all I have left is vengeance.”

It’s very clear: Malek is going to make Declan O’Donnell wish he were never born.

Cheered by that thought, I smile.

“Apology accepted. Let’s drink.”

From the bottom drawer of my desk, I remove a bottle of vodka and two glasses. I pour a measure into each and offer one to Malek. He takes it and nods his thanks.

I raise my glass. “Za zdorovie.”

He shoots the vodka down, swallowing it in a single gulp. Then he sets the glass on the edge of my desk and settles back into his chair, tattooed hands spread over his massive thighs.

“So. This Irish bastard. Where is he?”

“I’ll give you his last known address, but he’s cleared out since then. At the moment, he’s a ghost.”

I don’t offer that my contact inside the FBI has no idea where Declan went, either. Or that I’m keeping Declan’s former boss, Diego, hostage in one of my warehouses near the docks.

There’s no need to show every card in my hand.

That stubborn bastard Diego has so far refused to disclose any useful information, anyway. But if anyone’s going to get it out of him, it’ll be me.

I’ll be damned if I’ll hand my captive over to this arrogant out-of-towner.

Malek says, “Not a problem. Just give me whatever you have. I’ll find him.”

I don’t doubt that. He looks like he’d burn down every city on the face of the earth to locate Declan if he had to.

There’s nothing more single-minded than a man out for blood.

We discuss a few more details that might be helpful in his search before I broach what I know will be a delicate subject.

“He’s got a woman with him. Under no circumstances can she be harmed.”

I watch him carefully for his reaction. He says nothing, but in his silence, I sense dissent.

“It’s nonnegotiable. If she gets even a scratch, you’re dead.”

He knits his brows together. “Since when does the dreaded Reaper care about collateral damage?”

I hesitate, knowing exactly how bad what I’m going to say will sound. “She’s family.”

He digests that in unmoving silence for about thirty seconds, then repeats slowly, “Family.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Uncomplicate it for me.”

I ignore the urge to pull the Glock out of the top drawer of the desk and blow a nice big hole through his skull and pour us more vodka instead.

“My woman’s tight with Declan’s.”

One of his dark brows forms a distinctly disbelieving arch.

I’d like to rip that eyebrow clean off and stuff it down his throat.

Fuck, this prick’s annoying.

Through gritted teeth, I say, “They were childhood friends. Obviously, it predates our present situation.”

Malek pauses to drink his vodka before answering. “Inconvenient.”

“You have no idea.”

“What if it looks like an accident?”

“If the Irishman’s woman doesn’t live to an advanced old age, no matter the cause, I’ll be held responsible.”

We stare at each other. He says, “By your woman.”

“Yes.”

He pauses another beat. “She’d get over it eventually.”

My smile is dark. “You don’t know Natalie.”

He’s starting to look confused. “So you’re not the head of this family? She is?”

He’s got about ten seconds of life left, and the clock is ticking.

I snap, “I take it you’re not married.”

He grimaces. “Of course not.”

“In a relationship?”

“Is that a joke?”

“Then you couldn’t possibly understand.”

He looks around the room as if trying to find someone more reasonable to speak to.

“You don’t have to comprehend, Malek. You just have to abide by the request.”

“It sounded more like an order.”

My smile is grim. “Call it what you like. The result of noncompliance will be the same: death. I’ll make it slow and painful.”

We gaze at each other in tense silence until he says, “It’s been a long time since anyone threatened me.”

“I believe you. It isn’t personal.”

“Of course it’s personal.”

“Like I said, you couldn’t understand. Get yourself a fiancée, and it’ll become clearer.”

I have to admit, the expression of incredulity on his face is perversely satisfying.

He takes a moment to gather his thoughts. Stroking a hand over his dark beard, he watches me with calculating eyes. There’s a distinct possibility he’s debating how he’d like to kill me, but I simply wait for him to decide which way this conversation will go.

Eventually, he says, “A fiancée. I suppose congratulations are in order.”

Knowing that’s as close as he’ll get to admitting he’s decided not to bother with an attempt on my life and also will spare Sloane when he kills Declan, I smile. “Thank you. You’ll come to the wedding, of course.”

He looks like he’d rather be roasted alive and fed to wild dogs, but he finally shows some manners and says solemnly, “It would be my honor.”

We drink another toast. We talk for a few more moments. I give him a picture of Declan and another of Sloane, both of which he tucks into his coat pocket. Then he rises unexpectedly and informs me he has to be on his way.