Page 1 of The Count
One
Mercy
Isurveyed the array of bullets lined neatly in the safe, trying to remember which size fit the gun perched on the edge of my desk. A testament to how often I felt the need to take the small handgun from its compartment behind my bedside table.
But the current usurpation of my territory and business warranted a new level of violence—or protection. As did the looming meeting with the man—The Count they called him—who meant to throw me out “with the other women where they belong.” Remembering one of my guys telling me that almost made me wish I owned a bigger caliber gun. A knock on my office door rushed me into closing the safe before choosing and tucking the weapon into my desk drawer.
“Come in,” I called. The door opened only a few inches, and Ashley, my second in command, the face to the legal size of my business, poked his head in and then every inch of his 6’5 frame. He closed the door softly, took the seat opposite my desk, and waited. The leather arm chair enveloped his long lean frame. Fretfulness poured off him in waves. I rarely brought him here as the media often followed close behind. I let the seconds stretch for the fun of it. I had a certain reputation for being a heartless bitch. Any chance to reinforce that image, I snatched. How else could a 5’0 even forty-year-old woman keep charge of an empire? I certainly wasn’t going to let a man do it. As many of them had learned over the past twenty years.
“Have you heard why I brought you here?”
He shook his head. I got up and poured him a drink. I may be heartless, but I wasn’t a monster, well, mostly.
I handed it to him and sat on the edge of my desk, which required a little hop. His eyes strayed to the flash of thigh revealed by the cut of my pencil skirt. Then he darted his eyes to mine in panic.
“Drink and calm the hell down. You’re giving me anxiety.”
“It’s 10 a.m.,” he managed after clearing his throat heavily.
“And you probably haven’t been to bed yet by the smell of vodka wafting off you.”
He shrugged and then threw back the three fingers of whiskey like it was cold, leftover coffee. I’d have been impressed if his hand didn’t shake as he did it.
Never one for sparing someone’s sensibilities, I launched straight into the problem. “Someone is making a move on my territory, and he might actually take it.”
His hands shook harder, and I removed the glass from his clutch before he dropped it. I poured more whiskey in the glass and tucked it back in his fingers. My skirt was too expensive to be cleaning up after him.
“Does that mean…”
“Nothing for you at the moment. Only a select few even know we have a connection. I need it to stay that way.”
He nodded hard, and a pang actually squeezed my chest. I’d been working with the man for ten years. Since his predecessor disappointed me so thoroughly.
“Ashley, I’m going to protect you. Continue business as usual unless you hear from me directly.” I considered this. “Or Taylor…” My right hand, and the only man I’d ever instilled my absolute trust.
He nodded again, heavily, and I wondered how he got away with all the charm and smiles…barely speaking…ever. His skin looked a little green, so I made him another drink.
“I’ll call your car. Don’t let me down, Ash. You are one of the few men I don’t absolutely hate. If you do…” I leaned in so I could look directly into his honey brown eyes which melted women’s hearts across the globe. “You’ll regret it, deeply.”
He nodded again, stood, sat the glass on the edge of my desk, and buttoned his suit jacket. Each button met its hole slowly, and I watched him wrestle with something. I refused to prompt him. Anything he needed to say would have to come from him. I mentally encouraged him to grab his balls and just speak. He didn’t, but I expected that too. He fled my office, and I chuckled…so very predictable.
I considered checking the safe again, but I needed more seasoned help. I hit the button on my phone and called out, “Taylor, get in here.”
Seconds later, he strolled in. Unlike Ashley, Taylor didn’t fear me. I’d never given him a reason to. Yet.
I replaced the gun on the desk, and he didn’t ask questions. He threw back the rest of Ashley’s whiskey and then picked up the gun and inspected every inch. Then turned a blank look on me.
“I can’t fucking remember what goes in it.”
He snorted, opened the safe, and filled it in a few seconds. “It’s a .38.”
With a final inspection, he handed me the gun grip first. I rolled my eyes at him. “Cause I keep my tape measurer in this skirt.”
I took the weapon, jerked the hem of said skirt up my thighs and strapped the gun into the holster. He watched with heated interest, and continued, until I folded the black wool in place again. We tried that once. It was a bad idea on both our parts, and we left it there.
He helped himself to another glass of my whiskey while I sat behind the desk. “So what should I expect today?”
It was his way of asking how many bodies he’d have to clean up later.
