Avenge :Romanian Mob Chronicles(79)

I don’t know how long I sat, but when he touched my shoulder, I was surprised, though I didn’t flinch. His fingers barely grazed me, but they seared nonetheless. There was nothing unusual about it, the touch like countless others, but here, from him, it felt unique, so acutely different.

So good.

Warmth filled me, a tingling that started in my most secret places and spread, had my breath coming in short huffs, every nerve ending at attention, seeming to strain to the point on my shoulder where his fingers connected with my skin, the barrier of my shirt seeming insignificant in the dizzying and unfamiliar rush of heat and awareness his touch stirred.

Then it was gone, over as quickly as it began.

I turned suddenly, met those dark eyes, ones I was still halfway convinced could see into my soul.

“Take care of him,” Anton said.

Then he turned, left me sitting rooted to my spot, mouth gaping open.





Eight





Anton





Why did you touch her?

That thought was my constant companion as I drove from Christoph’s to my own house, changed, and then went to the meet destination. Going to the house had been a whim. I’d had some notion that seeing Christoph would center me, remind me of the rules and promises I had dedicated my life to.

It had, in a way, but the effect was muted to almost nothing when I touched her, my fingertips tingling where they’d rested against her shoulder. I hadn’t even touched her skin, but the contact had my body alive, all of it wanting her.

In those few moments, I hadn’t seen an interloper, a caregiver, a distraction. All that had been there was a woman, one who I desired with an urgency that bordered on need, one who tested my equilibrium without even seeming to try.

I’d shown up several hours early, and now waited, consciously turning my mind from Lily—the nurse, I corrected quickly—to the task at hand.

That dampened any thoughts of the nurse and reminded me of how bad this had the potential to be. I’d always thought Christoph Junior was the smart one. We’d had many a drink over Petey’s antics, had talked about whether the renowned Constantin intelligence had simply skipped over him.

But Christoph Junior was quickly proving my original opinion wrong. Sure, he had always been spoiled, petulant, but I hadn’t expected anything less. He was the first son—first legitimate son—and had been accustomed to being treated as such. This, though, this was pure hubris. A tiny taste of power had gone to his head, and right now, I was stuck making sure he didn’t make a mess, knew it would fall on me to clean it up if he did.

A stir of activity drew my attention, and I watched as four guys went to the designated spot. No surprise they came in numbers. I would’ve done the same, not that I would have ever put myself in this position.

Still, I watched, observing. They seemed off, nervous. And they shouldn’t have.

Despite the recent upheaval, the Peruvians were no strangers to the drug trade. At worst, this should have been an average, ordinary day. That it wasn’t told me all I needed to know.

So I waited, watched, making sure I was unseen. And as the minutes passed, their agitation increased. More than one phone call was made, and though I couldn’t quite hear them or understand what was said, I sensed the urgency in the call.

At two, an hour after our scheduled meeting, a black SUV pulled up, and a man emerged.

He had cop written all over him, and after a quick conversation with the four, he got back into the car and sped off.

It had been a setup.

Just as I had suspected.

In that moment, I was more than grateful for my natural caution, knew that waiting here at the meet location, observing who was there before I offered myself up on a silver platter, had been my salvation, at least tonight.

I shook my head in disgust, grateful that I had listened to the instinct that had told me to be wary. I waited for forty-five minutes after the Peruvians left, and then I drove, headed directly to Christoph Junior.

He wasn’t at the club, so I went to the house, hoping he was there despite the hour. All was quiet, still, though I sensed an undercurrent of tension in the air. I walked down the hall toward the old man’s room, and when I heard Christoph Junior’s voice, low, insistent, filled with anger so like the anger that coursed through me, I knew I had to act.

I ran down the hall.











Lily





“What are you giving him?”

I glanced over at Christoph’s son, who stared at me with scorn and suspicion.

“Fentanyl. Something stronger for the pain,” I said as I continued to fix in place the gel patch that contained the pain medication.

“Why? You think my father is weak?”

His words had a dangerous edge, one that was out of proportion to the conversation, and one that put me on edge.