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Midas snorted, patting Crow on the arm. “Relax, man. He’s fucking with us.” He looked Roman in the eyes, offering, “Five.”
“Five? You’re dreaming,” Roman told him.
By the time they argued back and forth, hammering out all the finer details, Roman was well satisfied he had made a good choice. He would get twelve percent of the profits from all future business endeavors The Midas Touch MC set up in Raz’s old haunts. And they would spread the word that it now belonged to them. Roman and his crew had nothing to do with it. It was a good deal, considering he had only wanted ten percent. And if Blaze, Raz’s blood brother, was anything like Midas seemed to think he was, Roman had dodged another bullet. It was a win-win.
“They seem like okay dudes,” Abel said as soon as they were alone.
“They do,” Roman agreed. “Still, I’ll have Luca do a deep dive into the club. Especially Midas. If something pops up, we still have time to pull the plug on the deal before we make it all legal next month.”
Abel poured himself a scotch, passing one over to Roman as well. “How is everything else?”
“Fine,” Roman replied. He hadn’t spoken to Angela since the phone call. But he had stopped by Lighthouse to talk with Sister Philomena again. Luca had confirmed that Roman’s father and their mother had been in town when the nun said. Roman had questions, to be sure. But he also just wanted to talk with someone who had known his mother, even if it was a short acquaintance.
“I gotta say, man,” Abel paused to polish off his drink in one swallow. “I applaud you for your restraint. I thought you’d be more impatient.”
Roman cocked his head, nursing his drink. “When have I ever been impatient in business dealings?”
“Not that.” Abel slashed his hand through the air. “About Morrigan and Angela. I thought you’d be chomping at the bit to spy on them.”
Roman’s focus narrowed to a pinpoint. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“They have a playdate scheduled,” Abel revealed. “I figured you knew.”
“A playdate?” Roman was stupefied.
“That’s what Morrigan called it, anyway. Remember how you told her to get to know Angel better? Well, she took it to heart. She invited Angel over for some girl time. I believe alcohol will be involved,” Abel said with a wince.
Roman was absolutely horrified. “Please, tell me you’re joking.”
Abel grimaced. “You didn’t know, huh?”
“No! I didn’t fucking know!” Roman snapped, slamming his glass onto his desk. He stood, striding out of his office and to the elevator, praying Morrigan hadn’t killed the woman of his dreams already.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Angela sat across from Morrigan at the bar on one of the private levels in the Omertà building. She was more than a little apprehensive. She didn’t know if she was being dramatic or not, but the other woman seemed a little... unhinged.
“What’s your poison?”
“Poison?” Angela questioned with a squeak. Was the crazy woman going to poison her right then and there? But she looked across the mahogany wood to find Morrigan holding up a bottle of Jack in one hand and a bottle of gin in the other. “I, ah, don’t drink,” she replied.
Morrigan’s dark eyes narrowed on her. “You don’t drink?”
“Nope,” Angela replied with more confidence.
“At all?” Morrigan pressed. Angela shook her head. “Why the hell not?”
She watched Morrigan pour a healthy glass of whiskey—mixed with air. “I don’t drink because alcohol lies.”
Morrigan tossed back the Jack in one gulp. She didn’t even blink, let alone wince. “What do you mean?”
She poured herself another glass as Angela watched in fascination. The other woman was smaller in stature than her. It would be interesting to see how well she could hold her liquor. “It lies to you. You’re so awesome, Angela. You can dance, Angela. Trust me, Angela, that’s a great idea!” Angela said in a high-pitched voice. “And all the while, you’re doing the running man in the middle of the dancefloor with your skirt tucked into your panties and your bra on your head.”
Morrigan’s next sip coincided with Angela’s explanation, and she choked, snorting whiskey and coughing up a lung. Angela rushed around the bar, smacking her on the back, praying the assassin wasn’t about to aspirate. As Morrigan bent over and wheezed, Angela thought, Oh god, I’ve killed Roman’s favorite killer!
Morrigan eventually settled, and she stood up, looking Angela in the eye. “I can promise you there will be no dancing. So... what do you say?”
Angela eyed the bottles of liquid for a moment before sighing. “Fine. Scotch. Neat.”
