A Dirty Business (Kings of New York #1)(82)

“We’ve cleaned everything. Businesses. Phones. Computers. New security systems. We have men now on our relatives. We have the upper hand now. Remmi is in Vegas and quiet. If there’s a time to go see your woman, it’s now.”

“She is still working for the other side.”

“We all have our crosses to bear.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

He laughed again. “Go and see her. You’re becoming a grouch to be around. You could do with getting laid again. Remember how that used to feel? And then after, we can move on Bobby finally.”

Right. Bobby with his note saying that my mother was alive. My mother. Jesus. If she was alive? What Pandora’s box would that open?

We’d had to wait this long before reaching out. Suspicion and alarms were high with Uncle Stephano. I didn’t dare connect with Bobby about her, but Ashton was right. The last three times I’d seen my uncle, he’d acted like nothing had changed. There’d been no altercation with him. He was back to bringing up his health, me taking over for him, but there was no more mention of his timeline. All in all, nothing and everything seemed to have changed.

This shit was now my nightmare.

“Go see her. We’ll talk about it after.”

We hung up, and I checked in with a new security detail specifically for her. They were hired the same day we’d had her tracker taken off. It was at their request, stating the tracker would be found before they were spotted. They were specialized enough and trained specifically to handle law enforcement agencies, so we’d removed her tracker.

When it came to Jess, I wasn’t messing around, whether she knew it or not. She could hate me, as long as she was alive to hate me.

Me: Where is she?

Team Leader 1: At a studio.

His second text was the coordinates.





CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX


JESS


The lights were off except for one lamp in the corner. I had dark folksy music going, and I was drinking. Fine. I needed a break from my life, so here I was. Painting again. Feeling shit. Bring on the feels.

No rules, regulations here. No suppressed emotions. No box I’d have to be stuffed into.

No roommate. No thoughts about Trace or our last times together.

Me and paint and vodka and my feelings.

Fuck my feelings, but I needed this shit out of me. This was always the best way. Who needed therapy? Talk therapy my ass. This was quicker, cheaper, and way more cathartic.

And as I stepped back, black paint dripping from my hands, I stared up at the canvas.

Apparently fuck me, too, because it was a huge stormscape. But at least I had painted Trace’s images out of me. Now all I wanted to paint were storms, over and over again, because they were coming. I could feel them. They were just on the horizon, and I wasn’t talking about weather storms. I was talking life storms.

I shouldn’t have been feeling this. My life was boring. It was so fucking clean that there was no drama. Squeaky clean. Maybe I was missing the storms. Maybe that’s what I was feeling . . . or hell.

I missed Trace.

God.

I hated him. I missed him. I wanted him here, but I hated him too.

“That’s beautiful.”

Oh, hell to the no.

I turned, my whole body seizing because it was Trace. He was here, looking damn good too. “Get out.”

Damn my voice. That came out as a rasp.

Dressed in a suit. His wide shoulders. Trim waist. Those cheekbones. His chiseled jawline. He looked tired, with mussed hair, but it always made him look better.

Goddamn him.

“Jess,” he murmured, his voice low. Also raspy.

My heart squeezed, and damn even that.

“Get out.”

“Jess.”

“It’s been three months and nothing. You asked for time, and I get it. Family stuff. Your family stuff isn’t typical, but there were no calls. Your numbers were gone. I’ve moved on.” I was lying, through my freaking teeth. Even seeing him had every nerve ending on high alert.

“I know you’re lying.”

“You’re lying.”

He paused, frowning. Then, a small laugh left him. “We’re in kindergarten?”

“You’re in kindergarten.” So stupid. I didn’t care.

I turned back to the canvas, and that storm wasn’t dark enough. There wasn’t enough texture on it. I was tempted to dip my hand into the entire paint can and start flinging it on the canvas. Over and over again. I wanted it covered in black paint.

He sighed. “You’re quitting the nightclub.”

I had my back turned to him. “I’m quitting you. You’re just attached to the nightclub, so I’m leaving.”

“I couldn’t contact you.”

“I don’t care.” Still going with the childish theme here.

“Yes, you do. Jess, my father knew about you. My uncle. My sister. You were becoming a target. I couldn’t have that. Especially if we’re going into a war.”

I turned back now. “A war?” I remembered the article. “They said there were shots fired at your warehouse.”

He nodded, looking grim. “There’s a family pushing in. That’s another reason I stayed away.”

I got that. I did. Logically, I got all of it. It made sense, and my god, it’s what we had both been trying to do for so long.