Grievous (Scarlet Scars #2)(53)

I reload the magazine and chamber a round, eyeing the gun as I say, “You sound like you believe that.”

“Because it’s true,” he says. “I would never betray you, nor would I stand back and let anyone else fuck you over that way. If I thought for even a second that Lexie would spill, I would’ve blown her brains out myself.”

“You’re thinking with your dick.”

“No, I’m following my gut,” he says. “She wants that rat bastard to pay just as much as we do, and she’s our way in. She wouldn’t have done this.”

I point the gun at him, aiming center mass, finger on the trigger, and he still doesn’t run. “Is that what your gut tells you?”

“Yes,” he says. “So if you’re gonna shoot me, fine, but use the girl. She wants to help, and she can.”

I stare at him, far past the point where a normal person would grow uncomfortable... which, with my face, is a few seconds, at most. Three doesn’t waver, though. He just stands there, like a man on death row who has come to terms with his impending execution and just wants to tell the world, one last time, that he doesn’t deserve to die. Whether or not he’s innocent is irrelevant. We’re all guilty of a lot of shit.

Scarlet’s a thief who sometimes used her pussy to survive.

Seven’s a former crooked cop who took bribes from the mob.

Me? I’ve probably killed more people than Ted Bundy but with only a fraction of the charm.

“Is it raining outside?” I ask.

Three shakes his head. “Not a cloud in sight.”

Huh.

Slowly, I lower the gun, setting it on the cushion beside me as I relax back on the couch.

“Boss, if I may?” Seven chimes in from where he stands near the window. I wave toward him, motioning for him to continue. “Look, I want to preface this by saying don’t shoot me.”

That’s never a good way to start a conversation.

“I just think maybe we ought to take a minute to really think about what we’re doing here,” Seven continues. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

“Which part?”

“All of it,” he says. “We went up against the Italians for territory, for reputation, to take over a lot of the business, and it worked. They’re terrified of you, and we’ve made a lot of money off of them. But with the Russians, it’s different... you’re starting a war over a woman, and history tells us that never works out good for any man.”

I turn my head, looking at Seven, seeing a flicker of fear in his eyes, like he thinks I might actually shoot him for his opinion.

I mean, yeah, I might, but I probably won’t.

He’s always been the one to play devil’s advocate with motives and consequences.

Must be the cop side of the man.

“It’s not about the woman,” I say, and I know I’m fucking lying the moment I say it, because it damn sure feels like it’s about her. I can’t shake the sickness in my stomach, the tightness in my chest, knowing wherever she is, he’s probably there. Brave, beautiful Scarlet, she fucking buckles because of that man, and I saw enough of his little home movie to riddle out why that happens.

“It’s principle,” Three chimes in. “We’re not exactly The Avengers here, but sometimes shit has to be done. Sometimes you’ve gotta go after a guy, to make a point, to say ‘this shit isn’t happening on my watch’ because it shouldn’t be happening.”

“Exactly,” I say. “Besides, the guy came into my house today and helped himself to something that doesn’t belong to him. We’re a little past live and let live at this point. I ought to cut his balls off for stepping onto my property.”

Seven says nothing else. I don’t know if he’s convinced, but he knows better than to press too hard after I’ve made up my mind on something.

“You can go,” I tell Three, waving him away. “Tomorrow, I need you and all the guys back here, so we can handle this. Try to get a hold of the girl tonight and see if she can tell you anything.”

“Yes, sir,” he says, nodding before leaving.

“You can go home, too,” I tell Seven. “I’m sure your wife is waiting for you.”

He hesitates. “Are you going to be okay here by yourself tonight?”

“I’ll be fine,” I say. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

Seven leaves, finally, a minute later, saying nothing else. I sit in silence as darkness creeps in, nighttime coming. Picking my gun back up, I run my fingers along the cool metal. The gun feels heavy in my hand, heavier than usual, like the weight of this situation is pressing upon it.

I’ve never really liked guns.

Sure, I use them often. They do the trick, in a pinch, but it’s almost too easy, if you know what I’m saying. You don’t even have to get close to someone to pick them off, if you’ve got a gun. That makes it impersonal, which also makes it boring.

This thing with the Russians... it’s as personal as it gets, which means Aristov won’t get the easiness of a bullet.

Getting up, I stroll out of the living room, clutching the gun like a security blanket. I take the stairs up to the second floor, heading for my bedroom. The bed is unmade, unkempt, comforter bunched up along the end, sheets rumpled, the beat up old bear lying in the center of it. Left behind.