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It’s not about the Mill. Not any potential financial returns from the property that could be years off.
This.
Because whatever returns organized crime offers are vastly better than any conventional business deal he could make.
“I could bring a lot to the table,” I say. “Right now, your friends are relying on shady, insecure places as drop sites. That’s going to bite you in the long term. If we can stumble on it by accident, guess who else can? I’m offering you safe, discreet locations, full security, and real investment in return for a small bite of the profits.”
Haute purses his lips, making a little sucking sound as he thinks.
At last, he’s interested.
There’s this quiet, dark amusement in his eyes. For a second, I think he’s considering it and maybe he’ll confess and let me in on the deal.
Then he moves—too fucking fast for a man his size.
The champagne bottle smashes against the railing before I can blink and he shoves me against the wall, holding jagged glass against my neck.
Champagne floods the floor, spraying my shoes, stinking like death arriving with expensive tastes.
He doesn’t seem to even notice how stunned I am.
His eyes are too wide, his nostrils too flared. His pupils are like staring into inkwells.
The noise of the shattering bottle was like a gunshot, but now there’s just his breath and mine and a deathly silence.
Holy shit, I never thought this asshole would get violent without someone else doing the dirty work for him.
Think, think—
“Shady places as drop sites?” he hisses, pressing the edge of the bottle against my throat. My jugular throbs, desperate to avoid being sliced open. “Places like the laundromat? Why the fuck did you go snooping, Rory?Why?”
His beastly arms rattle me again.
I’m not afraid.
Now I’m gettingpissed.
The speed he moves says he’s stronger than he looks. The way he’s holding the bottle against my neck tells me this isn’t his first murderous shakedown. He doesn’t leave the gruesome shit to minions.
He won’t hesitate.
This man has drawn blood and broken bones before.
One wrong move and I’m dead.
I’ve seen enough people bleed out to know how violent it’ll be. My flesh torn open, my life spilling out of me in seconds. There’ll be a lot of cleanup, sure, but Haute’s people can manage. My brothers will be lucky to ever find my body.
Plus, I’m away from the balcony edge, farther from potential witnesses.
Fuck.
Archer and Patton might check-in after roughly fifteen minutes.
Not soon enough.
I need to find a way to occupy this maniac now.
Step one—get the fucking bottle out of my face. I’m sure I can take him if he’s not holding a weapon to my neck, but it’s sharp and close, pressing hard enough to feel glass biting my skin.
