Page 6

Paulo glared back. “What?”

“Nothing, boss.” Andy turned his eyes back to the road.

Paulo looked out the window, sinking deeper into the leather seat. He wasn’t going home for her. He wasn’t going to check if Madelaine had eaten dinner or if the chocolates had been delivered. He definitely didn’t care whether she liked them.

Hell no.

But still, the anticipation thrummed harder.

Chapter 4

Leonid Krylov lowered himself into the chair with a grunt, the effort making his joints crack. His gnarled, arthritic fingers stroked the gold wolf’s head carved into his cane, polishing the metal with the oily sweat of his palm.

“Where is my future bride, Mr. Keane?” His question was soft, deliberate. After more than eight decades on this earth, he had learned that true menace required no shouting. Whispers carried farther than shouts, especially when laced with the promise of cruelty.

The man across from him didn’t flinch. Ronan Keane had seen too much violence in his sixty-some years to be easily cowed, but Leonid could smell the man’s desperation. It clung to him like rot. Leonid’s thin lips stretched into a smile, the kind that made most men sweat.

“I’ll find her,” Ronan said with brittle confidence. “Our agreement stands. The wedding night is just delayed.”

Leonid’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Where. Is. She?” His tongue flicked briefly over his yellowed teeth as he savored the question. And anticipation of the wedding night.

Keane bristled. Scars and burns mapped his hands, each one a memory of violence survived. But survival didn’t erase weakness, and Leonid knew it.

“She’ll be there,” Ronan snapped, irritation seeping through his bland tone. “Just make sure the money is transferred to my account the moment my daughter finishes her vows. I know I’m slowly being pushed out of my organization, but I still have men loyal to me.”

Leonid’s laugh was no laugh at all. It came off as more of a wet, rasping cackle that reeked of decay and old lungs. “You’re no longer the leader of your merry band of men, are you, Keane?” Leonid sneered. “The Crooked Sons is under new leadership now. Loyalty dries up quickly without money,” he croaked. Then his voice dropped, sharp as a blade. “And you’ll have no money unless you hand over your daughter.” He slammed his cane against the floorboards, the crack echoing. “I need an heir, Keane, and my time is running out.”

“My daughter has been well trained,” Ronan sneered. “I want an heir as well. I have a legacy to pass down.”

Leonid wheezed another laugh, foul breath escaping between his grotesque teeth. “You need me to impregnate her for that legacy. Everyone knows you can’t sire a child after that errant knife took your balls.”

Ronan’s face darkened with fury, his body tightening as though he wanted to launch himself across the table. But one glance at the silent body guards behind Leonid, hulking brutes with dead eyes, made him think better of it. Leonid almost hoped he would try. His bodyguards would carve him like a Sunday roast before he could take three steps, and Leonid would relish every moment as he watched it happen.

“My balls aren’t up for discussion, old man!” Ronan snapped. “My daughter will be delivered, as promised. I expect the transfer the very instant she says ‘I do.’ If you try to delay…” he leaned forward, eyes icy cold, “…I’ll snatch her back so fast your shriveled excuse for a manhood will never recover.” His grin was savage. “Then you’ll have to find another fool willing to sell his daughter for the dubious honor of lying under you.”

Leonid’s rheumy eyes glinted. “Shriveled?” His laugh rattled, turning into a cough. “My cock works just fine. Ask the wench I paid last night. She said she liked the way I bit her.” His voice dropped to a hiss, gleefully obscene. “Your daughter will like it too.” He leaned back again, shrugging one shoulder dismissively. “Not that she’ll have a choice.”

“If you can get it up, then what the hell do you need my daughter for?” Ronan snapped.

Leonid’s laugh rattled through his chest. “Because I need a legitimate heir.” The desperation in his tone scraped at his pride, so he forced his tone low again, smooth, commanding. “My child will carry my name, the sanctity of marriage, and the blessing of the church. Not just some whore’s bastard.”

Ronan gave an indifferent shrug and leaned back in his chair, as if Leonid’s plan disgusted him. “Whatever you say, old man. I’ll deliver, but make sure your funds are ready. I have plans.”

Leonid rolled his rheumy eyes, the motion exaggerated, mocking. “You think my money is going to buy back your men? They left because they didn’t trust your leadership. No amount of wealth is going to buy back respect.”

Ronan’s jaw flexed, fury tightening his scarred face. “I’ll get my power back,” he snarled, eyes dark with ruthless intent. “Just stay out of my way and make your babies off Madelaine.”

Leonid’s lips peeled back in a distorted grin. “Your activities bore me. Your daughter, however…” He tapped his cane against the floor, the gold wolf’s head glinting in the lamplight. “She is my concern. Get her to the church and force the vows out of her mouth, or I’ll make sure the last scraps of your manhood are buried beside your ruined balls.” His voice dipped to a hiss. “Then you’ll be nothing more than a bitter old eunuch with no legacy and no daughter.”

Ronan surged to his feet, his fury so raw the veins stood out in his neck. Leonid savored it, his thin smile betraying far too much glee. He tried to hold it in, to keep his expression neutral, but the tremor of delight gave him away. Watching Ronan stomp out of the room, Leonid thought he looked less like a feared gang leader and more like a child denied a toy.

Chapter 5

As soon as Ronan stepped out of the building, his men surrounded him, a wall of muscle guiding him toward the waiting line of SUVs. Their efficiency usually pleased him. Tonight it barely touched the fury boiling in his gut.

“I want that man’s head,” he snarled as he slid into the backseat. The door slammed, the engine roared, and the convoy pulled smoothly out into the Paris night. For a moment, the clean execution of their exit gave him a wave of satisfaction. His men still knew how to obey. Still knew who held command.

But the old bastard’s words echoed in his ears, each one a poisoned barb. Leonid Krylov hadn’t just issued a threat. He’d made a promise. Ronan knew the decrepit monster had the money and the men to make good on it. That knowledge sat heavily in his chest, bitter as bile.