Celt. (Den of Mercenaries #2)(78)

“Can you guarantee my position as the head of this organization?” Carmen asked, more than happy to toss her husband to the side if it meant she could advance to a place of favor.

Smiling slightly, Uilleam said, “They’ll kneel at your feet.”

“Then name your price.”

“Your partnership with the Contreras Cartel, end it.”

Her eyes widened, the fresh drink someone had brought her nearly to her lips as she digested his words. “You can’t possibly—”

Cutting her off with a shake of his head, Uilleam said, “That is my price.”

Truthfully, Uilleam couldn’t care less who she chose to do business with, but the man she associated with did. The Contreras Cartel had a contract with Elias, one that ensured them they would have first pick of whatever girls were brought in.

Just another piece he was ready to move—a pawn he was ready to knock over.

But, Uilleam did always request payment in the form of something that wasn’t easily given. Money could be produced at any moment from the clients he kept in his ledger, but that wasn’t enough.

There could be no reward without sacrifice.

“But don’t worry,” Uilleam added for her benefit. “While there shouldn’t be an issue, I’ll send one of my mercenaries to guard you for the duration.”

She perked up at the idea. Word had spread far and wide of the elite team he had under contract, both fear and respect felt for them.

Except, he wouldn’t tell Carmen that it wasn’t a man that was coming to work for her, but a woman simply because she abhorred women in general. She was as bad as any man, treating them as nothing more than fickle creatures that were beneath her notice.

Despite her rather public image of fighting for women’s rights and victims of sex trafficking, Carmen Santiago was one of the most notorious madams in the world.

But her mask was always kept in place.

He also wouldn’t mention that the mercenary he would be sending had once been a part of this place, drowning in the horrors of what happened under its roof.

Had it only been seven years since he had been to this place and found her lying naked on a bed, ready to service him because Cesar had demanded it?

She had only been sixteen, or maybe seventeen, at the time.

A lot had changed in that span of time.

“I’ll see it done,” Carmen said. “But I expect this mercenary of yours to be here the minute Cesar’s heart stops beating.”

“You have my word.” Finishing the last of his drink, Uilleam set the glass on the table. “I’ll be going.”

“Why in such a hurry? I’m sure one of my girls would be glad to satisfy your needs.”

“I’m a man of little time,” Uilleam said, taking her hand in his and briefly pressing his lips to the back of it.

Besides, when his brother learned of what he had just proposed, he would have an entirely new problem on his hands.



* * *



Present Day …



“This is beautiful,” she said in breathless awe, her fingers ghosting over the canvas as opposed to touching it outright, as though she weren’t worthy of laying her hands on it.

Of all the works in his home, he wondered why she had chosen this one to fawn over, to look at with such rapt eyes that he knew she genuinely felt moved by it. It was curious seeing someone else appreciate something that he loathed entirely.

At the very least, it made him give it a second look.

“Does it have a name?” she asked, glancing back at him with doe-like eyes, waiting for his response.

“L’amant Flétrie,” he responded, pronouncing it again, more slowly the second time as she tried to mimic what he was saying. “This one belonged to my mother.”

He didn’t know why he shared that information with her—it wasn’t like it was particularly vital. Usually, he was careful not to reveal anything about himself or his family in the company of others, but with her … he wanted to share.

For the first time, he wanted someone else to know him…

And what a fool he had been, Uilleam thought with some bitterness as he stared across the distance at a painting that held both good and awful memories. He could still remember so clearly the way she had fawned over it, engrossed by the image depicted in the paint, but then he could also remember his mother’s love of it, almost to an obsessive degree.

Resting on the mantel above the hearth, The Withered Lover looked darker, more foreboding in the glowing light of the fire raging beneath it.

Though he had contracted the job to get the painting back in his possession, he hadn’t given much thought to what he would do with it now that he had it. Once, fleetingly, he had thought to hang it back in its proper place, in the same place his mother had displayed it, but during a fit of rage, he had burned his former home to the ground.

For what memories he couldn’t block out, he destroyed.

Looking at it now, and the memories it invoked, he felt that familiar urge to destroy something, to rid it from his sight and be done with it forever. He could have left it to whomever the buyer was, but that wasn’t the way his compulsion worked.

Uilleam had to know that the things that haunted him were gone for good, not just in the hands of another.

That was why this game of his wouldn’t be over until there were no pieces left.