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I leave fucking Jac Miller alone.
For now.
If Jac’s planning something, right now, it’s not my death. He’ll want me to step out and break the Quinate laws binding me. But I don’t have anything left. No family, nothing. There’s the Heart of Dark Desires but… What’s he going to do? Take it and wear it?
He can’t get near it.
“And I’m aware of the world of hurt out there. But make no fucking mistake, Damon, I’ll live my life. If someone wants to try and get me in a creative way, bring it on.”
“Hendrick—”
“I’ve got a Quinate meeting to get to. Do your job and I’ll do mine.”
* * *
If I could shoot the smug face off the blond rich fuck, I would. He’s only here, taking his father’s place because that asshole’s dead and buried. And Miller loves to hold court.
The splash and pomp of it all.
It drives me insane, just like the looks he keeps giving me. They’re laced with hate, arrogance, and the erroneous belief that because he holds the position of the speaker, he holds the power. He doesn’t. Every person at this table, high above Delacroix in the business sector, has equal power. It doesn’t work, otherwise.
But Jac’s never been a man of contemplation. He lives by extreme emotion, and he fucking loves the limelight.
Normally it wouldn’t bother me. Much. The darkness, shadows, and quiet give more room to get things done. Where Jac calls attention, I slide by it. Which makes the moments I do take the stage compelling.
“So, we’re agreed,” Jac says, leaning back in his chair, a nasty little smirk playing on his mouth. “We take out Anwar.”
The other members of the Quinate, Declan Kelly, Maximo Correia, and Ivan Jaroslav Marwood, don’t move. Maximo’s relaxed; he fucking hates Anwar so he could go either way. Ivan’s mix of blue blood and bratva makes him exceedingly avaricious, so I know he wants Anwar dead, but also the connections and money Anwar’s continuing to breathe brings.
And Declan… Kelly’s hot-headed with a cold center. IRA heritage, Irish mafia made. He’s got the same drive for attention as Jac, just he prefers to get it by dealing out death. When it warrants it.
He knows this doesn’t.
Or he’d have fucking blown Anwar into smithereens himself.
Kelly knocks back his whiskey. “Jac, there are other—”
“Other ways, Declan?” Jac asks, leaning back in his chair. “Like peace talks?”
Kelly leans forward. “Other fecking ways.”
“You getting fucking soft?” Jac raises his brows as he turns to Declan Kelly.
I stay quiet. Watching. Waiting. Kelly’s not a man to be undermined, something Jac does often with deliberate carelessness and often.
Maximo and Ivan share a look.
The Anwar family is trouble, and if the world were an easy place, taking them out’s a smart move. But the world’s anything but that, and a loud-mouthed, middle rung gun running organization like Anwar’s has tendrils and ties everywhere.
And Jac’s gaze is on me.
He knows this.
The fucker’s trying to manipulate.
“Anwar’s connections are the issue, not the Anwar family, you feckin’ piece of shite,” Declan says, tone light, meaning deadly.
“You hate the prick, Max,” Jac says to him, still looking at me.
