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Good. Let him think I’m dense and harmless.
I stare at him intently, waiting for more.
“I piloted the goods for the drop sites first. The men I deal with, the bosses, they keep their soldiers on a need-to-know basis. The less said and the more discreetly they say it, the better. The lower the risk if anyone ever decides to flip for the authorities or a rival group. It’s a pretty decentralized operation at the lower levels, and it works for us.” He turns to look at the city again. “If this works, your fiancée’s lovely pastries could become more than a logistical tool. Long term, they’re perfect for transporting more important cargo.”
My face burns, hating the way he talks about this disgusting shit like it’s just another real estate transaction. The thought of his friends bastardizing Junie’s creations, stuffing them with drugs or coordinates or who the fuck knows, makes my blood molten.
“Impressive,” I bite off, trying like hell to keep my voice neutral. “I’m sure she can step up the orders, no problem. We could even set up a Sugar Bowl bakery case at the golf course to explain the new business boom. It’ll be easy.”
“That would be a first in this line of work.” He inhales sharply. “Easy or not, we need to talk numbers first.”
I walk toward him again, knowing it’s a risk as long as he’s clutching that bottle.
I do it anyway for the sake of the recorder in my pants.
For Junie.
I’ve got under ten minutes to kill before my brothers check in. I glance at my watch, but Haute tracks every movement. I don’t dare reach for my phone.
“Okay. Numbers,” I say, spreading my hands.
Then Haute’s phone rings.
A sharp, blaring sound set to the factory default that, from the look of it, he isn’t used to hearing unexpectedly. His head snaps up and his eyes slit as he pulls out his phone and squints at the screen.
The big hand holding the broken bottle twitches.
Shit, this isn’t good.
Even the way he’s looking at the screen tells me it’s a call he doesn’t want to take, almost certainly related to hisprimary business.
“What is it?” he snaps, holding it to his ear. “I told you not to call unless it’s an emergency—”
As the voice on the other end of the phone talks quickly, Haute’s eyes heat. It’s a different sort of expression from before—not the lazy, controlled anger—but a white-hot, knowing rage as he looks straight at me.
“I’ll deal with it,” he snaps, ending the call.
“If that was—”
The bottle comes back up like a club.
There’s barely time to swing to one side as he charges, backing me against the wall. “You miserable ingrate! Thought you’d play me like a fucking fool, did you?” he snarls, every breath full of murder.
I shove his thick arm away as he swings the bottle alarmingly close to my face.
Game over.
“Got pretty close, didn’t I?” I laugh at him.
“You don’t get to lie to my fucking face, Rory. I’m not the stupid shit you think I am, but you—you have no clue what my business is and how dangerous it can be.”
“Keep talking,” I grind out.
He shifts half an inch to the right.
I take advantage of his undefended left, plowing an elbow into his side—all muscle, not much fat—before ducking out from under him.
He swings that bottle again and catches me, slicing down my arm.
