Ruthless Creatures (Queens & Monsters, #1)(52)

“What happened, anyway? I missed how the shooting started.”

“Stavros saw some guys over at the bar who were looking at him sideways. He said something to Alex and Nick, the other guys approached the table, there was a little bit of conversation, then Alex and Nick just jumped up and opened fire.”

So they started it. Interesting. “What did they say to each other?”

“Who the hell knows? It was all in Russian and Irish. Whatever it was, it obviously wasn’t good.”

“Did Stavros tell you anything?”

She chuckles. “Babe, I know better than to ask. The less we know, the better.”

She sounds exactly like Kage. I make a face at the phone.

“When are you coming back?”

“I’m not sure. But from what I’ve overheard, Stavros and his crew will wait for contact with Kage before they do anything. Apparently, sis, your man is the shit. Second only to the Grand Poobah of the Russian mafia himself.”

Maxim Mogdonovich. The man Kage said was in prison…leaving him to run the daily business.

My boyfriend is the acting head of an international criminal syndicate.

My mother would be so proud.

My phone beeps, indicating another incoming call. When I look to see who it is, my heart starts to pound. I tell Sloane I’ll have to call her back.

Then I click over to Kage.





20





Nat





“Kage!”

“Good morning. I left you a cell phone in the drawer under the microwave in the kitchen. Go get it.”

For some strange reason, hearing his voice makes me emotional. Probably because of my history with disappearing men.

Once you’ve had one of them go permanently missing on you, even an unannounced trip to the restroom by the next guy is cause for a panic attack.

Hyperventilating, I grip the phone. “Where are you? Are you all right? Are you coming back? The police were here—”

“Natalie. Get. The. Phone.”

I can tell from his tone that he’s in no mood for a Q & A. So I head over to the drawer he said the phone was in. Sure enough, there it is.

It’s a sleek black thing, folded in half to the size of a credit card. When I flip it open, the screen lights up.

“What’s the password?”

“Your mother’s birthday.”

That makes me pause. “How do you know my mother’s birthday?”

“I know everything about you.”

“That’s not possible.”

Without hesitation, he starts to tick off a list.

“Your favorite color is indigo blue. Your favorite song is ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow.’ Your favorite food is your mother’s roast chicken. You’re a Pisces, don’t eat nearly enough vegetables, and donate far too much of your meager teacher’s salary to animal rescue charities. Your first car was a 1986 Mustang convertible. Stick shift. Onyx black. Your father bought it used for you on your sixteenth birthday. The transmission went out three months later.”

Where did he get all this information? Social media? Background checks?

The FBI?

When I stay silent, too stunned to answer, he says gently, “I told you I’ve obsessed over you. Did you think that meant writing your name over and over in a notepad and drawing little hearts around it?”

“Please hold. I’m feeling queasy.”

He ignores me. “I’m going to hang up and call you on the other phone. It’s untraceable. Use it from now on, and destroy yours. Smash it with a hammer and throw the pieces into different trash bins around town.”

I’m still trying to recover my equilibrium, but I manage to ask, “Is that really necessary?”

“I wouldn’t ask you to do it if it wasn’t.”

He hangs up without saying goodbye. Within seconds, the other phone rings.

I pick it up and say, “Please don’t tell me I have to leave the country. I like it here.”

“Don’t be dramatic. You’re not going anywhere.”

“Don’t be dramatic? Excuse me, but I’m an accessory to murder!”

He chuckles. “You’re panicking. Don’t. Everything’s under control.”

“Whose control?”

“Mine, of course.”

He sounds so confident, so unruffled, so calm. Too calm.

How many guys does he shoot in an average week?

“Kage?”

“Yes?”

“I’m having trouble with all this.”

His voice grows softer. “I know, baby. But trust me when I say I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of everything. Everything is going to be all right.”

“But the police are looking for you!”

“There were no security cameras in the restaurant. The eyewitnesses who provided my description to the police didn’t actually see me shoot anyone. I walked through the room, then they heard shots. The kitchen doors were closed behind me. They can’t ID me as the shooter.”

“How do you know all that?”

In his pause, I feel his satisfaction. “I know everything.”

I’m beginning to think he really does.

“Sloane—”