The Perfect Stroke (Lucas Brothers #1)(115)

“Maybe if you had stopped shooting up and snorting, you wouldn’t have to be in here and I wouldn’t be working my ass off to make sure there are people to wipe your ass because you left your body too broken to do it yourself,” Ana says, her voice monotone and as cold as I’ve ever managed to make mine.

Her f*cking mother starts to respond, and that’s when I tighten my hand on her wrist enough that I know the woman feels the pain. I could break it with just the slightest movement either way. It wouldn’t take much because the woman is a bag of bones. I’ve never in my life threatened violence against a woman before, but in this case, I think I could gladly make an exception. Jesus Christ, what kind of f*cking hell has my woman lived through?

“Ana,” I warn her, not wanting her to hear what I’m about to tell her mom, but also needing her to mind me for motherf*cking once. Her hand goes to my shoulder, her touch trying to soothe me. It does not. Then, she leans up to kiss my cheek.

“I’ll be by the limo,” she whispers near my ear.

“Not by the limo, Ana. Inside it.”

She stops when she gets to the door. “Yes, Roman,” she says before leaving. Now if I could just teach her to say those words all the time, my life would be f*cking simple again. I give Ana a few minutes to get gone. Her mother is strangely quiet. I let go of her hand and step away from her, the bitch stinking up my air.

“You don’t look like a man that has to pay for *. Especially worthless * like my daughter’s.”

“If you want to remain breathing, you’ll shut your f*cking mouth. Do you know who I am?” I ask her. Most people in Miami do, but then most people aren’t locked up in a long-term nursing facility.

“Why the f*ck would I?” she hisses. She reaches for her cigarettes on the table. It’s then that I notice one of her hands doesn’t work. Actually, it seems like most of that entire side doesn’t work. I don’t know what happened to her, but from what Ana said before she left, I imagine drugs. I hate f*cking junkies. It’s why I don’t deal with the shit. I leave that to Kuzma. The drugs are the only reservation I have about getting into business with him. Being in business with them however, means less headaches for me and added firepower. It makes damn good money sense. It keeps me being the only stop along the coastline for gambling and women. Not to mention, it gives me more firepower to protect what’s mine and to protect the women in my stable. There’s always some motherf*cker out there thinking he can take what’s mine, always trying to steal my business. That’s not about to f*cking happen, but I’m having to defend that shit so often, having Kuzma’s firepower, not to mention police protection would solve a million problems.

The first item on my list is f*cking ending Paul Banks. I’ll be doing it either way, but being certain there would be no legal backlash would be great. I don’t need all of the law enforcement agencies in Miami and Federal people looking at me with a f*cking target on my head.

I grab the bitch’s cigarettes from her fumbling hands. Taking one out and handing it to her, I keep the pack in my hand, taking the lighter too. Maybe she’s starting to wise up, or maybe she just really wants that cigarette, but I sense the change in her. I have her complete attention now.

“I own Miami. When I say I own it, I mean this shithole you’re living in too. It will look like f*cking heaven compared to what I can do to you. You’re a miserable f*ck, I get that. You are probably like your f*cking son and would rather die than keep drawing breath. What you need to realize is, there’s much worse things than dying, and I can make sure you find that out firsthand.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” she asks, but I hear the nervousness in her voice; I see her eyes and how they are dilated.

“You like drugs. I have friends use this stuff on their enemies that, with one injection, turns you into a vegetable. When I say that, I mean you will be fully alert, fully awake, but hooked to a machine that feeds you, have diapers on your ass, and not be able to bitch about how miserable you are. Unable to move. It’s bad shit. I’ve never been tempted to deal with it. That is, until I saw a miserable bitch raise a hand to my woman.”

“Ana is—”

“My property. Mine. No one touches what’s mine, least of all you. Your hand, your words, your breath no long touch my woman. If I hear it does, I promise you, you’ll find out firsthand what living in real hell feels like.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“You think? Ask around. I guarantee people here know who Roman Anthes is, even if you’re too stupid to. You don’t want me as an enemy, woman, but that’s too late for you. Much too late. If Ana comes back, you best be a f*cking saint ready to kiss her f*cking feet. And believe me lady, I’ll have eyes on you from here on out.”

The bitch wisely doesn’t say another word. I smash her cigarettes up in my hand. The smell of tobacco fills the air around me. I make sure there’s not one motherf*cker in the pack that can still be used before letting them fall to her lap, then I walk to the door.

“Don’t try me on this bitch,” I warn her on my way out. “I’ve never had much taste for harming a woman, but after what I’ve just seen, I’d make an exception for you, and I’d f*cking enjoy every minute of it.” With that, I toss the lighter across the room, having it land on the floor a few feet from her. Then I leave. Time to deal with Ana next. Thank f*ck that will be more enjoyable than the other shit I’ve dealt with today.