Page 15
Paulo grabbed a trash can and dumped his handful of cookies in with a grimace, then held the can out for the others. “Cleanup,” he muttered.
But his men weren’t fooled. They knew him too well.
He pulled out his phone, dialing with his thumb. Rosa answered on the first ring.
“She used salt instead of sugar,” he said without preamble. “Don’t let her know,” he ordered, voice sharp. But there was a softness under it, a rough tenderness he couldn’t hide. “I don’t want her feelings hurt.” Running a hand through his hair, he added more quietly, “She looked so damn proud. Is there a way you can get rid of the rest of the dough without her realizing?”
Rosa didn’t hesitate. “I’ll handle it. Don’t worry.”
He grunted his approval. Around him, his men exchanged knowing looks but wisely said nothing. Their boss might bark like a drill sergeant, but every one of them had seen the truth in Paulo’s eyes. He was protecting Madelaine as fiercely as he protected them.
Relieved, Paulo ended the call and slid his phone back into his pocket, leaning against the wall of the security office. One of the guards wordlessly handed him a glass of water, and he took it gratefully, downing the liquid in long gulps. Anything to dilute the taste of salt.
“Thanks,” he muttered, his voice rough. Turning to Mick, he asked, “Where did you toss them?”
Mick smothered a grin behind his hand. “I put them in the trunk of my SUV. I’ll have Johnny drive them to a dumpster on the west side of town. No one will find them, I promise.” Then the guy grinned. “Maybe I should send them to Calvino.”
Paulo’s eyes narrowed. Calvino, the new boss in Minneapolis, had enough enemies already after Enrico Bianchi had gone to prison. “Minneapolis isn’t necessary,” Paulo growled.
The others chuckled, but he didn’t join in. He knew he was making too much of a few ruined cookies. But he couldn’t shake the memory of the look on Madelaine’s face when he’d taken that first bite. She’d looked so pretty. She didn’t need another failure. Not now.
“Just…make sure they aren’t found,” he ordered.
“We’re good at hiding bodies, Boss. A few cookies shouldn’t be a problem,” a guard quipped.
The laughter that followed chased him out of the office. Paulo muttered under his breath about idiots and how there’d be more bodies to hide if anyone screwed up hiding the damn salt-cookies. Still, amusement pulled at his mouth as he jogged back up the stairs.
At the top, he paused, one hand on the doorknob. He inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly.
Madelaine. She’d nearly broken his neck trying to clean. She’d sliced her hand open on glass. And now she’d almost poisoned him with salt-cookies.
And yet…she was absolutely intoxicating. The warm curve of her smile, those wide eyes, the sway of her perfect ass as she walked down the hall, haunted him. At night, he lay awake, his mind filling in images he had no business imagining. Madelaine in bed, warm and sweet, her hair a dark halo against the pillow. Madelaine in something silky and short, strutting toward him, her lashes lowering as her lips curved in a pout that begged him to…!
Paulo caught himself, heat coiling in his gut. Madelaine wouldn’t strut. She wasn’t the type. She’d blush, hesitate, gaze up at him through those lashes like she was offering him a gift.
That’s when he remembered the security cameras. He glanced up, catching the unblinking eye of one pointed right at him.
With a growl, he lifted his hand and flipped his men off. Their laughter was probably echoing through the office, but he didn’t care. He shoved the door open and strode through.
He had no room left in his head for their jokes. All his thoughts, every damn one of them, were tangled up with Madelaine.
And where the hell was Ronan Kean anyway? Why hadn’t he popped up somewhere by now? Paulo had people looking for him, actively searching for the bastard’s lair. But they had found nothing.
Chapter 11
Ronan muttered a string of expletives as he shoved the filthy, sweat-soaked blankets aside. His muscles screamed in protest, but rage pushed him forward. “Damned undignified way to travel,” he snarled, climbing out of the suffocating hole he’d been crammed in for three days.
The stench of diesel and salt water hit him first, then the noise. The grind of cranes, the bellow of men calling orders, the clatter of chains. For a moment, disorientation clawed at him. Then he remembered sneaking onto the ship heading to the United States. His contacts at the port had ensured that he’d slipped through the security checkpoints without a problem.
As his brain started working, the familiar chaos of the New York harbor came into focus. He knew these docks. He’d walked them as a king before, stepping off private jets or slipping into blacked-out cars. Never crawling out of a cargo hold like some beaten dog. The realization curdled in his gut. This was another reminder of just how far he’d fallen.
Most of his men had sold him out. Cowards! They’d bent the knee to the new Crooked Sons leadership, betraying the very man who had built their empire. Traitors, every last one of them. And traitors bled.
The Crooked Sons was his organization. He’d built up a group of men from nothing and turned them into a power to be reckoned with around the world. Drug supplies, weapons deals, the strip clubs, the brothels. He’d scouted for the broken women no one else wanted, the desperate ones clawing for a way out of their rat-infested villages. He’d promised them a better life. And he’d delivered. Delivered them straight into his system, where every moan, every dollar, every drop of sweat lined his pockets.
A cruel smile tugged at his lips, heat stirring in his loins as he recalled the way he’d taught them their place, taught them to serve the men he sent their way. If the girls tried to run, well…their corpses were a warning to others who hoped to challenge him. Attrition was simply the cost of business.
Weapons, women, drugs…the trinity of his empire. And those bastards dared to rip it from him. He’d been the one to grease the palms in the prisons, to feed the families of fallen brothers, to ensure no soldier of The Crooked Sons went forgotten. Every ounce of blood and loyalty that gang possessed had been created or bought by him.
