Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“You’re outmatched,” I say loudly, making sure his soldiers hear this too. “I understand you’re angry. I want stability in Chicago. I want business to continue. I’m not asking you to forgive, but I’m saying that if you keep pushing, we will crush you. Ronan’s men, plus my own, are more than enough to finish this.”
“I bloodied your nose,” Dusan says, showing his teeth in a snarl. “I should’ve finished you off.”
“You sure as fuck tried, but here we are.” I grab Pascal’s wheelchair and roll him forward. “Take the old prick. Sell him to the highest bidder. End this goddamn war tonight, Dusan.”
The Serbian kingpin says nothing, only stares death at me. I don’t blame the man for wanting me dead; he can hate me all he fucking wants, so long as this is over and I have the space to rebuild my empire.
We both know whatever agreement comes from tonight will only be temporary. He’s as hurt and diminished as I am—there’s no way he got through any of those firefights without losing significant numbers of men, bodies he can’t easily afford to replace. He knows he’s trapped, but he can’t lose face in front of his men.
That’s why I’m giving him Pascal. That’s why I’m letting him sell the old bastard back to France. This way, Dusan can look like a savvy businessman, pay his soldiers, and let peace win.
But that peace won’t last forever.
I made an enemy in Dusan, and he made an enemy in me.
He won’t forget.
Neither will I.
“Alright, Julien,” he says at last. “I’ll take the old man. I also want names and numbers to reach out to for his ransom. And if they don’t pay, I’m breaking our truce and coming for you.”
“They’ll pay.” I nod at him and cross the zone between our two groups.
He meets me in the middle and takes over Pascal’s wheelchair.
“You should thank Marco for this,” he says very softly, quietly enough that nobody else can hear. “He really went to bat for you. I guess someone feels guilty.”
“Yeah, well, he can fuck himself.”
Dusan grins as he takes Pascal away. I return to my group and watch as they hustle the old fuck into one of the trucks. Dusan barely looks back once they’re loaded, and the whole group pulls out as a convoy, driving off into the night.
Slowly, the built-up tension deflates.
“How long do you think that’ll last?” Jean asks, which is probably what everyone’s thinking right about now.
“Months, maybe years,” Niall says, sounding thoughtful. “Depending on how much he makes.”
“He’ll make a lot. Despite how it may look, Pascal’s still worth something to the right people.” I shake my head, sick of this whole situation, sick of everything. “Ronan, it was a pleasure.”
“Wish I could say the same.” But he shakes my hand all the same. “You and Brianne are welcome to Sunday breakfast whenever. Just call first.”
“I’m sure she’ll want to take you up on that eventually.”
“Jean. Good luck.” Ronan nods at him and walks off with Niall.
Leaving me alone with my best friend.
He claps me on the shoulder. “Well? How’s it feel?”
“Feels like shit. That would’ve been more satisfying if I got to shoot someone.”
“Ah, come on, you got to wreck Pascal’s knee. That’s kind of great.”
“Wish I could’ve put a bullet in his head.”
Jean laughs and heads off toward his truck. “Never say never, mon ami. See you soon then?”
“We’ve got a lot of fucking work to do,” I call after him. “Don’t get lazy on me now.”
“Me? Lazy? Never.”
He waves and drives off. I stay alone in the night, thinking about the future. Pascal will get back to France eventually, and he’ll be angry. That’ll be a problem—I’ll always be looking over my shoulder, waiting for some French hitman to show up with a contract to take me down.
But that’s a problem for another night.
Now, at least, the war’s done. The truce will stand. Pascal’s dealt with.
And I have my pretty wife waiting for me back at the apartment.
Chapter 47
Brianne
My boots crunch over blackened wood. Glass, plaster, and debris are scattered all over the floor. Caution tape is wrapped around cones, blocking certain hallways that are too dangerous to go through. The stairs to the second floor are a splintered mess.
The mansion is a freaking wreck.
I pick up a priceless oil painting, or at least I think it was priceless. Now it’s a smoke-damaged mess. The edges are scarred from the fire. I toss it onto a pile and move on, picking up artifacts as I go along. Vases, sculptures, anything that looks like it might’ve been valuable at one time. It all goes into the pile.
“What do you think?” Julien appears ahead of me. He’s wearing work gloves and is sweating lightly. “Think we can salvage it?”
I walk over and kiss him. He leaves a smear of blackened soot across my cheek. I try to wipe it off, but it’s no use.