The Wrath of Cain (The Syndicate, #1)(13)

I’ve got so many sins on my hands. Murder is not one of them, but I would do it for her if I had to. I would do anything to keep her safe.

I don’t give a shit about anyone except about the woman who I want nothing more than to give this all up for. She’s my weakness; the one person who could cure my soul, the only one who can bring me to my knees and get my head spinning out of control. It’s going to take my balls to turn into brass to be a prick to her again. To make her think I don’t care when all I want to do is bring her into my arms. Tell her I never once stopped loving her.

Damn it! My chest explodes with rage. I f*cking can’t do it. She needs to think I’ve gone bad.

I’m still trying to figure out who is the mole in this club. Everyone around here knows I’m married. They were all sworn to keep their damn mouths shut or suffer the consequences of my wrath, but someone talked. That’s why Manny was sent off to Canada to take care of her. This shit is so deep that I wanted to keep my wife as far away from it as possible.

Now that she is here by my side, I need to stick to my master plan of finding the *s who killed my father, starting with Kryder Banks. He knows I’m after his piece of shit ass. Ever since word got out about Calla, he’s been lying low, keeping his whereabouts a secret while he has his parasites do all of his dirty work.

Even though every part of me wants to go back and take my wife in my arms, I have shit to get done. Turning around, I take about five steps before I see Emerald stalking my way with a determined look on her face. I need to end this shit with her here and now.

She’s been nothing but a means to an end for me for years. All she has ever been to me was a quick release for my dick, and she knows it. The pitiful bitch has been begging me to let her ride on the back of my bike, to officially make her mine. Little does she know that I know what the cunt does when I’m not around... she’s on her back or on her knees for Coon.

I laugh at the nickname we gave him. Coon Dog. All he likes to do is f*ck doggy style, and doesn’t give two shits if someone watches him do it, either. He’s into that kind of exhibitionist shit. This is how I know he’s been screwing around with Emerald. Don’t care either. He can have her. That bitch screams louder than a banshee when she’s being f*cked. Good thing I tune her ass out. Every woman I’ve been with, I tune them out and pretend I’m inside Calla.

These bitches around here have been f*cked by so many hen-pecked *-whipped sons of bitches it isn’t even funny anymore. I have never f*cked another woman bareback. Never gone down on another woman, either. None of them have sucked my cock, and I sure as hell won’t kiss them.

Emerald gets close enough to reach out and try to touch me.

“Come on, Cain. Talk to me, please.”

“Go home. Get out of here, NOW!”

I make it to my office, settling into my chair to discuss business when my VP Beamer walks in, all six foot seven of him lean and tatted up muscle. Those tats look damn good on him; they fit his badass persona to a tee. Me, on the other hand? I have one tattoo, in a spot no one has seen except me and the man who put it there. I never had the desire to mark myself with one unless it meant something to me. This one means every damn thing to me.

Call me crazy for marking my dick with a tattoo. I don’t give a shit. It’s never been a problem to keep it from any of the women I’ve screwed. None of them touches my dick, sucks it, or looks at it. I get straight down to f*cking and then kick their asses out the minute I get my balls off.

“You got news for me, brother?” I ask Beam, while pulling out a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label and two shot glasses. I set them down on my desk and glare at my friend.

“Nothing, man. No one’s talking. It’s like he disappeared.” He shrugs. “You know me, I’ll keep digging. Someone’s bound to talk.”

His eyebrows shoot up when he notices the two shot glasses.

“You know I’m not drinking that shit, right?” he smirks, then reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a small pint of his cheap Jim Beam.

And there you have why we call him Beamer. I shove a glass across my desk at him.

“Best shit in the world right here,” I say as I crack open my bottle, take a deep sniff, and pour my shot. Beam does the same with his.

“Cheers, man.”

Both of us suck down our favorite drink like it’s water. This type of stuff should be sipped and savored. Not with me. I love the ever-so-gratifying feeling of the burn as it makes its way down my throat, settling into my stomach. I need to get shit-faced, forget about today, and worry about tomorrow when I wake my ass up.

“I heard about Calla coming here,” Beam says with concern.

“Yeah, man. She’s here,” I reply brusquely.

“And?”

“And what?”

“How’d it go?”

“She wants a divorce. I’m not giving her one. I’ve waited way too long, wasted six years that I could have spent with her. She’ll never get me to sign. She’s in my old house. Until we kill that rat bastard who gutted my dad and threatened her life, she stays here.”

He doesn’t need to know any more than that, so I quickly change the subject. I grab my bottle of Jack and head towards the door with Beam, intent on getting drunk. The minute I walk out the door and head towards the event in the back, I roll my eyes.