Page 6 of Beautiful Things Obey
So how do I convince a woman who has woven herself so perfectly into our underworld that only I can give her what she needs?
“Do you want me to talk to her?” Valen asks, which is short for really fucking scaring her. But I have a feeling that even that won’t work on Leonore Graves. Because she wasn’t intimidated by me, and I’m oozing with bloodlust right now.
“No,” I say, a little too clipped. “I’ll invite her to the office to discuss business.”
“Do you want me to send the invite?” he asks in an annoying tone that tells me he can’t wait to meet the woman nicknamed Grim in the underbelly of Boston. It’s short for Grim Reaper, ofcourse, yet it has more to do with her notorious scathing and unpleasant personality. Or so they say. If anything, it’s because he wants answers just as quickly as I do. Sometimes I get the urge to break his face, and it takes every ounce of my willpower to stop my fist from connecting with his twenty-thousand-dollar smile.
“No, I know exactly how to invite her,” I say. “I want everyone’s ears on the ground. The fucker who did this will pay, even if it starts a war.” I hang up the phone.
A small but deadly smile touches my lips. Leonore might think she can ignore me.
But I’m going to show her how wrong she is.
I stepout onto the street, and the cold hits my face like a slap. The rain's gone but the pavement is wet, and moonlight shimmers in the puddles.
I pause to light a cigarette, then pull my collar up and start walking.
The city can be a dark and dangerous place after midnight. But it is where I feel most alive. When the mask has slipped and the real city comes out to play.
This is when I think the best. When I am free to be who I am. Without the noise that surrounds me during the day.
I take a long drag and let the smoke bleed out between my teeth as I continue to move through the shadows.
A cat shoots across the street ahead of me and disappears under a dumpster with a cry. Steam curls up from the manholes and vents, white against the dark street. In the distance, a foghorn moans on the harbor.
Valen thinks I’m insane for my nightly walk. He calls it risky and reckless. But he couldn’t possibly understand that Ineedthis. That this is where I truly feel at home. In the cold, dark streets where danger lurks and sin is the currency.
I have a multi-million-dollar estate. A staff of many. An abundance of loyal soldiers. But here is where I belong. With the dark pulse of the city singing in my veins.
I cut down a side street where the streetlights don’t work. Three men lingering on the corner see me coming and step away. They know who I am and not to mess with me. Farther along, a woman dressed in tiny shorts and a glittery top steps forward when she sees me coming, but steps back just as quick when she sees my face and starts walking in the other direction.
The cigarette burns down to my fingers, and I flick it into the gutter and keep going, increasing my pace.
I round a corner, and the street opens to the waterfront. The harbor is black and flat, and the boats knock gently against the docks. Across the water, the city skyline glows.
From here it looks beautiful.
Which is a perfect lie.
Because I know what’s underneath. I know because my family built half of it. The good, the bad, and the fucking ugly.
And believe me, there is a lot of fucking ugly.
But this place is home and it lives inside me, right next to the dark creature who likes to come out and play when I need it to. Like tonight.
I turn my back on the water and keep walking down the small cobblestoned alleyway and further into the shadows.
The warehouse sits at the end of a pier, a dark silhouette against a moonlit sky.
Ignoring the stink of the low tide hanging heavy in the air, I push through the side door and step in.
Inside, two of my men stand near the far wall, guarding what I am here to see.
Jacob Wolka. Wannabe drug lord. The man who gave the order to kill my uncle.
Information I found out two hours ago through a reliable source.
He’s zip-tied to a metal folding chair and making a hell of a racket.
