Page 6 of Bound Bride
All of it hovers in my mind like a snapshot I can't shake.
She's as far from unassuming as one can get, but there's no going back now.
I press my lips together. The ghost of pressure from Rose's lips kisses me back, so I turn my attention out of the window and map out nothing but patterns in the raindrops battering against the glass.
In the end, it doesn't matter what Rose looks like or even what she's like as a person.
I just needed a name on the dotted line and some breathing space from generals who act like my influence and power in thisworld will disappear simply because there is no child to carry on the line.
Fucking ridiculous.
Thinking about it gets me heated, and that heat remains as we pull up outside of an old steakhouse that's closed despite the late hour.
My first meal in New York City was at this steakhouse, a meal so succulent that I ended up buying the place.
Now it has other purposes.
That purpose shakes his bloodied fist at me when I stride into the kitchen.
"Boss."
"Harold. Anything?"
Behind Harold sits a man with half of his face bloodied and swollen from the beating he's just received.
Bound to one of the dining chairs, blood trickles from his lower lip and splatters onto his bare chest where several deep lacerations weep crimson over dark bruises.
"No," Harold grunts. "Won't talk t'anyone but you."
Beside me, Ethan removes his beanie and twists it in his hands over the sink, sending a splattering of water down onto the metal. The noise makes our captive lurch suddenly and he lifts his head back to gaze up at the ceiling.
"You want to speak to me?" I move past Harold and gaze down at his ruined face. "What makes you think there is anything I want to hear from a man who has stolen from me?"
"I stole… nothin'," the man slurs through a mouthful of blood. "An' you?" He fixes his good eye on me and then attempts to spit, but the lack of force sends the blood trickling down his chin. "Your time is up."
I don't reply. I watch as he glances between me to Ethan and then Harold, then back to me.
"Fuckin' ruskies," he spits again. "Comin' here thinkin' you can take what's ours, what we worked hard for. Fucking bullshit is what it is."
"Take?" I tilt my head and glance down at my leather-clad hands. "I have nottakenanything from you."
"Yesh you have," he slurs wetly. "Fuckin'… fuckin' fuck you."
"Eloquent." I glance at Harold. "Who was he working for?"
"Italians," Harold replies.
"Interesting."
"They're coming foryou," the bound man snarls. "They're coming for you and you're gonna end up in pieces shipped back to where you fuckin' came from!"
I lean forward and grip the man's chin, pressing my fingers tight against his cheeks until his mouth purses and blood dribbles over my leather gloves. "You are very much mistaken. How weak must your family be if I have had this much of an impact in only one year? I bring my own product and find my own customers, yet you sit there and spew like I have taken something from you when in actual fact—" My grip tightens and the man whimpers when pressure increases against his jaw. "I have earned every single cent I have made since coming to this dark country. In one year, I have doubled my earnings with my own product andyoudareaccuse me of stealing? After my men found you with a truckload ofmyproduct?"
Every word is calm and measured, my tone cold and level, but each word lands with the force of a threat.
By the time I'm finished, my captive is trembling.
It's unclear if it's fear or suppressed rage that makes him quake like a leaf, and I don't give him a chance to tell me.
