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Knox cracks his knuckles. It’s a nervous tic he picked up after his partner was shot. At least, that’s what his psych file says. Along with some disturbing shit about enjoying chick flicks and crocheting.
“Look,” Knox says, sounding more irritated than concerned. “Let’s skip the pleasantries. Spare me the threats. I’m sure you’ve got your gun on me, so just get to the point and go away. Why are you here?”
“Because you’re going to tell me where my wife is.”
“Or what?” he asks, underwhelmed. “You shoot me?”
I hold up my phone, turn around, and snap several selfies with him. “Or I post these on every social media outlet for the world to see with the hashtag #1FED.”
Aggravated, he lowers his voice and leans in. “I’m undercover,” he seethes.
“Are you?” I feign surprise.
“It’s a little ironic that you were able to track me down in the middle of bumfuck Illinois, but have no idea where your wife is.” He makes an exaggerated motion, his fingers splaying outwards as if his head is exploding. “Mind-blowing.”
Which means she’s probably been right under my nose the entire time, and I’ve been too blind to notice. Like a stupid little lovestruck puppy that someone should put out of its fucking misery.
Whatever.
I sit back, letting the cracked vinyl dig into my spine. “Tell me where my wife is before Helena returns, and you’ll live to eat your salmonella pie.”
“How about this?” He clasps his hands together, a smug look on his face. “You tell me why your name is all over dozens of your uncle’s enterprises, and I’ll give you whatever the hell you want.”
What? I try to mask my shock, but my mind is racing. I’ve been trying to piece together all the businesses my uncle has conveniently inserted my name in place of his, but it’s like matching scattered pieces of broken glass. “Which enterprises?” I ask.
“The two casinos out of town, the underground human trafficking ring running out of the basements of a dozen bars, the money laundering operation in six different kids’ dance schools—low, even for you. Do I need to go on?”
Hmm. My uncle’s empire, and my name is all over it. The implications settle into every manipulative pocket of my mind.
If I play my cards right, I can cripple my uncle, and all I’d have to do is quietly take control of these holdings, since the dumb son of a bitch put them in my name.
I study Knox. Hell, would it be weird if I asked for a pen and paper?
“You drive a hard bargain, Knox. I want the entire list of locations and the safe house where you’re keeping my wife. Then, I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
Helena returns with the coffee and pie. Okay, not going to lie. The pie actually looks good.
I hand her a twenty. “Don’t come back,” I instruct.
She snatches the twenty and tucks it into her sagging cleavage. “I wasn’t planning to.”
Knox whips out his phone. “It’s in your inbox.”
I check, irritation flaring. “Where’s my wife?”
Chuckling, he sips the steaming-hot mop water they call coffee. “Nope. Tell me the grand scheme first. Then you get the address.”
I blow out a breath and do something I never thought I’d do in a million years. I tell the truth. “Fine. I suspect my uncle is trying to set me up for an epic fall,” I admit, more candidly than I should.
But when it comes to Kennedy, my heart insists on running with scissors all day long—carefree and blind.
Knox grins like a moron. “Try not to blow up all of Chicago while taking Andre down.”
“No promises.” I smirk. Are we...bonding? I shake off the thought in disgust and lean in, my composure regained. “Now, the address.”
“820 North Halstead. Apartment 5b.”
My vision narrows, and it takes every ounce of restraint not to pull the trigger. Whatever bromance was blooming between us gets killed real fucking fast. My voice drops to a lethal whisper. “That’s your place.”
