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A hard lump forms in my throat.
I know exactly what he wants.
Rising to my feet, the sun feels warm on my face once more. It’s decided. As I walk the path out of the rose garden, I feel a little lighter in the mind but heavier in my heart.
My virginity is a high price to pay, but my freedom is priceless.
Lorcan
My eyes flick between the pliers resting in the open drawer of my desk and the industrial padlock on the drink’s cabinet on the other side of the room. A few specks of rusting blood on the jaws remind me that these pliers are usually used for breaking fingers, not padlocks.
I promised Antoin I’d keep my head straight while we come up with a plan, which means not getting black-out drunk. He had Eileen lock up my liquor and now I feel like the fat kid whose mom has to lock up the treats in a cupboard. But I’m tweaking like a crackhead, fingers itching towards my torture tool to smash it the fuck open.
I don’t like having a clear mind. Because when I do, all I can think about is her.
For want of a distraction, I rise to my feet and stride across the office to the window. The sun’s rising on my city, and directly below, my men are guarding the front door to the building. We’ve doubled down on security while we get our game plan straight. But how can I think of winning a goddamn war when all I think about is Murphy’s daughter.
A growl rumbles deep in my chest, my eyes flicking instinctively to the cabinet.
I’m too erratic for plans, always have been. They come and go, passing through like a bad smell on a breezy day.
I’ll blow up the Bratnovs and make an example out of them. No, I’ll plan a sneak attack.
I’ll claim Poppy’s innocence the second I lay my hands on her. No, I’ll wait and savor every second.
There was one plan I had that lingered around longer than most.
Telling Poppy who her father really is.
I’ve been looking forward to it since the day she sliced my cheek open like a pack of deli meat. It was the reason I didn’t crush every bone in her body; I was going to crush something even better—her heart.
There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that Marcus Murphy would come looking for his daughter, which was when I’d tell her who her father really is.
But he never came.
He’s crueler than I thought.
There’s no liquor haze to dumb the cocktail of anger and guilt swirling in my veins. It’s all-consuming, eating me up.
If I can’t turn to the bottle, I’ll have to turn to the man himself.
* * *
I see him arrive. A small, fat speck of a man rolling up outside the building in a beat-up Civic. A snarl quivers on my lips as I watch him spread his arms and legs, allowing my men to pat him down.
When he disappears into the building, the wait is on. I pace the carpet, up, down, up, down. Waiting to hear the elevator ding, for Eileen to buzz my phone and let me know that my visitor has arrived.
My eyes fall on the pliers in my top drawer. Depending on how this plays out, there’s a high chance I’m going to be using them for their intended use, snapping fingers.
When Marcus Murphy emerges in the doorway of my office, my heart races with hatred. It’s ingrained into every fiber of my being and has been since my early twenties. It takes every inch of self-restraint not to slam his goddamn head against my oak desk and chuck him out of my window in a body bag.
“Mr. Quinn,” he says solemnly, lowering his eyes to the carpet and clutching his hat to his chest. His suit barely fits him; too long on the arms and legs, too tight around his bulging stomach. “When your office called, I came right away.”
“You want a medal for timekeeping?” I stab in the direction of the chair opposite. “Sit.”
He does as he’s told.
“I haven’t been in this office in years,” he says quietly, scanning the room.
