Grievous (Scarlet Scars #2)(76)

His eyes widen. I see it in him, too. Relief.

“It’s Three’s girl,” I say, heading for the steps. “Guess we know now why she didn’t signal him.”

Five blinks, the relief gone as he looks past me, whispering, “Fuck, this is going to hurt Declan.”

I make my way out of the basement. Five follows me, right on my heels. There’s no reason to linger any longer. What we came for isn’t here, like I feared. I nod my thanks to the officers and head out the front of the club, out into the peculiarly warm night, empty-handed and out of luck.

I wish I could say I was also out of fucks, but no, those just keep on growing, simmering and festering. For the first time in a long time, I feel this strange twinge inside of me. It’s hard to describe. It’s a tightening in my chest. It’s a tingling in my fingertips. It feels as if my lungs are trembling, like the weak punk bitches are trying to stop functioning. The woman has got me all fucked up here, flipped upside down and inside out.

It’s like the striking of a match.

All it needs is that spark.

“I want you to keep an eye on my brother,” I order the rest of my guys. “Five and I will go get Three.”

Jameson stands there, eyeing me warily, as the men scatter. “That sounds like a math problem.”

“It’s some kind of problem, all right,” Five mumbles.

“There’s a dead girl down in the basement,” I tell Jameson. “And for the record, before you ask, she was already dead when I got there.”

His eyes widen. “She’s dead?”

“It’s not his girl,” Five says, answering for me as I head toward my car. “It’s somebody else’s.”

I climb in the passenger side, waiting for Five to hurry up, and snatch my phone off the dashboard. Nothing from Three. Of course. I dial his number. It rings and rings and rings before voicemail kicks in.

I hang up, trying again. Nothing.

“Fuck!” I yell, throwing the phone. It slams into the windshield so hard the damn thing cracks, the phone bouncing off, hitting Five as he gets in behind the wheel. It bounces off of him, too, tumbling to the floor by his feet, ringing shattering the tense air the moment it lands.

“Answer that,” I say, “and tell Three I said he better not be dead or I’ll kill him.”

Five picks it up. “Boss, I don’t think it’s Declan.”

He holds it up. Brooklyn number. I recognize it right away. Aristov.

I snatch the phone back to answer it. “Gambini.”

“Ah, Mister Scar, I am sorry it has taken me so long to contact you. I have been quite busy.”

“So it seems,” I say. “What do you want?”

“To let you know that I have your reward,” he says. “Feel free to stop by tonight, if you would like, so I can make sure you get what you are owed.”

“Yeah, okay,” I say. “I might just do that.”

I hang up without waiting on his response, tossing the phone onto the dash again as I mutter, “Fucking Russians.”

“Was that Aristov?” Five asks. “Why did he call?”

“To invite me over.”

“Are you going?”

“What do you think?”

Five starts the car. “I think, if you go, you’re not going without us.”





Chapter Nineteen





Buster was gone.

The little girl stood in the doorway to the den, staring up at the fireplace mantle. How long had he been gone? She wasn’t sure, because she never came in here anymore. Panic flooded her, her eyes darting around. “Where did Buster go?”

The Tin Man stood in the middle of the room, turning his head to look at her. “Away.”

“Where?” she asked. “What did you do with him? Why did he go away?”

“It does not matter,” the Tin Man said, waving her off. “Buster is gone.”

The little girl’s stomach felt like it dropped to her feet. “No, Daddy! Get him back! Please!”

“No.”

No. No. No.

“Please!” she screamed, running through the room. “I didn’t do nothing! I didn’t! I’ve been good! Don’t burn up Buster!”

He stopped her before she could make it to the fireplace, before she could look. She had to see.

The little girl fought, but it was for nothing, because the Tin Man was too strong, like he was truly made of metal. He clamped his hand down on top of her head, the simple touch enough to stop her in her tracks. She grabbed his wrist, trying to pull his hand off, pushing against it with her head as she screamed, “Stop it! Don’t do that! Let me go! I wanna go!”

“Where?” he asked, glaring down at her. “Where do you want to go, kitten?”

“Home!” she screamed, hitting his arm as hard as she could with a clenched fist. “I don’t like you. You’re mean. You talk ugly! You don’t love me. Mommy loves me! I don’t wanna be here no more, so let me go!”

He let go.

Just like that.

He let go so fast she stumbled, falling.

Before she could get back on her feet, he snatched her right up with just one arm and hauled her over his shoulder, carrying her out. He moved fast, heading through the foyer, disabling the alarm and yanking the door open to step out into the cool night.