Grievous (Scarlet Scars #2)(63)

Instead of being offended, he laughs at that, strolling over to sit down on one of his couches, eyeing me as he sips his liquor. Doesn’t escape my notice that he hasn’t offered me a drink today.

I think he might be feeling some type of way about our friendship.

“Well, that is a shame, Mister Scar, because those rumors are not true at all.”

“That’s funny,” I say, even though it’s not fucking funny at all, “because I stumbled upon a little home movie you made that contradicts that, Aristotle.”

He stares at me, all amusement gone. “And where, may I ask, did you acquire such a film?”

“A certain police detective had it in his possession.”

There’s that flash of rage I was hoping for.

He drinks in silence, guzzling the liquor as he gets his thoughts in order. In the wrong hands, or maybe the right ones, that video could be a serious problem for him. Even Jameson would give his left nut to get his hands on it, to use it to take down the Russians, but I’m not really big on letting the justice system do my dirty work.

I happen to like getting my hands dirty.

That’s why Detective Fuckface had it, why he kept it hidden. He might’ve been working for the Russians, but in the event Aristov turned on him, he needed his own little grenade to make his problems go away.

“What is it you want from me?” Aristov asks. “If you are looking for the million dollars I promised, I am afraid I do not have it here. But being as I am a man of my word, I am happy to arrange a time for you to pick it up.”

“You think I want your money?”

“Why else would you have given me the address of where I could find her?”

I stare at him when he asks that. I want to think he’s toying with me, that he’s just trying to fuck with my mind, but his expression is dead serious, almost curious, like he’s genuinely wondering why I would’ve done such a thing. Problem number seven hundred and seventy-six in my life right now: I didn’t do it. I didn’t give him a goddamn thing, but for some reason he thinks I did, which means whoever did it made it look like I’d given her up. Son of a bitch.

“Of course, it is possible you just grew sick of the suka,” Aristov continues with a shrug. “Since it seems you saw the video of her sweet sixteen, maybe you just did not want to touch her anymore, but all the same, I am grateful.”

I’m not sure how to respond to that.

I kind of want to break his fucking jaw for half of the words he’s spoken these past few minutes.

“Does she know how you found her?” I ask. “Did you tell her it was me?”

He nods. “She did not believe me, of course. The stupid girl never believes what I tell her. I showed her the message so maybe she would believe her own eyes. It upset her, but she is fine now. I have ways of making her get over things.”

“I bet you do,” I say, my gaze flickering around the room, settling on a door along the side—one I’m assuming leads to the basement. “Any chance I can see her, give her a proper goodbye?”

He laughs, sipping his vodka. “I think you have given her quite enough, Mister Scar, but I will send her your regards.”

I bite the inside of my cheek.

Man, I want to kill him...

“Now, if we are done here, I have other business to take care of,” he says, standing up. “Seems I have a friend I need to talk to about a video in his possession.”

“Seems you do,” I say, not bothering to point out that he doesn’t have the video anymore. I do. I turn to leave, still clutching the grenade, and pause long enough to say, “By the way, I think I will be claiming my reward. A million, cash, for her.”

He doesn’t look happy, because that’s a lot of damn money, but he nods. “I will be in touch to make arrangements.”

“Good,” I say. “I look forward to it.”

“Wait, Mister Scar,” he says before I can walk out. “The grenade...”

I look at it in my hand before glancing at him. “What about it?”

“Do you think you could get me some of those?”

I laugh, because he’s serious with that question. “Maybe once I’m sure it’s not me you’re going to be using them on.”

“Fair enough.”

I leave.

Nobody stops me.

I don’t want to go, but at the same time, tonight isn’t the night to rock the boat any further. I need to wrap my head around things before I do something I might regret.

I don’t regret things often, but blowing us all up might be an exception.

The guys are still waiting in the car right down from the club, the engine running, both just staring at me like I’ve lost my mind. Like they didn’t expect to see me alive. I get in the passenger seat, securing the grenade before waving. “Now we can go.”

Seven starts driving. The atmosphere in the car is tense, wrought with unspoken words, but it doesn’t last long with Three in the backseat.

“So... nothing went BOOM,” Three says. “Didn’t hear any BANG-BANG, either.”

“It was mostly just a bunch of blah blah blah,” I say. “Nobody’s dying tonight.”

I think.

“Pity,” Three says. “I know Lexie will be happy to be free of that asshole.”