“Kayla!”
Her girlfriend shrugged. “It’s not unheard of and more common than you’d think in the world of the rich.”
She supposed that was true. The wealthy did live in an entirely different world than she did. Who knew what kind of debauchery happened behind those golden closed doors?
“Back to Derk.” Kayla pointed to the device. “I think you have your answer. Derk is in deep with the mob.”
She glanced down at the article then back up to Kayla, who nodded and grimaced. “Sorry.”
Holy hell. She didn’t just pick a bad one this time, she chose the ultimate bad boy. How had she managed to outdo herself?
24
Derk was plastered. Had been for four days straight. After he’d dropped Mac off at her apartment, he’d gone home, opened up a new bottle of JD and started to drown himself. What a fuckin’ idiot he was, going all goddamn moony over a chick. He hated himself over the feeling of loss that consumed him.
This morning, asshole Smith showed up, dragged his butt off the sofa and made him go on this ride-along to visit their mark’s house. They’d been seated in Smith’s expensive car for an hour. Though he managed to snag his near empty bottle of JD to keep him occupied. But that only lasted until the bottle emptied.
Now he felt his drunken state starting to dissipate. How was that possible?
“Fuck this shit,” Derk grumbled, climbed out of the car and stormed over to the home. He went straight to the front door, turned the knob…and what do you know, it was open. Maybe in a sober state, he would have thought twice about barging into the unlocked home of the unpredictable man they hunted. But since he wasn’t entirely coherent, no such luck.
Derk circled every room in the house but found nothing. It was as if the place hadn’t been lived in in months. Dust covered every expensive piece of furniture. A staleness in the air burned his lungs.
“Something isn’t right,” Smith said from behind him.
Derk wheeled around to find Smith with his Glock drawn.
“Don’t fucking tell me we’ve been watching an empty house for over a month,” he snarled.
Smith shook his head. “Not possible. We’ve seen cars in the driveway.”
He scanned the place again, stalked to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Empty. He went to the garbage can. Not even a bag lined the can.
“Fuck.” He raked a hand through his hair. They’d royally screwed this job up. How the hell had that happened? He and Smith were professionals. They didn’t make mistakes. They always had their head in the game….Mac.
Shit.
His mind had been so focused on getting into her panties that he allowed everything to become secondary. They should have seen weeks ago that the man had been playing them. That he’d been sending diversions to the house to keep them occupied and on a false trail, waiting for him to pop out of his hole. C.D. was probably so far underground they’d never catch him until he decided he wanted to be found.
Murphy was going to have their asses.
***
Nothing frightened Derk.
He wasn’t afraid of his immanent death. Getting shot? Been there done that. Looked down many barrels pointed at his forehead. He’d once faced a group of men who intended to beat the hell of out him until he bled to death. Walked away from that with just a cut over his eyebrow that left him with a nice, tiny war wound. Knife fight? Strolled away without a scratch. Hell, he didn’t even mind catching the flu. But seated in front of Derrick Murphy whose features turned dark and furious as he confessed their fuck up, made him rethink that there may be something he should fear.
Torture.
Because Mr. Murphy just promised to do things to him that he didn’t know were physically capable of happening.
“Why?” Murphy barked.
Derk glanced to his friend, who remained mute but unnervingly calm. Derk couldn’t answer Murphy without confessing about Mackenzie. If he came clean about his obsession, then he’d have to open up about all the other bullshit that occurred over the past couple of months. None of it focusing on the job he’d been hired to do.
Murphy leaned back in his chair, studying him. A king on his throne. A leader who’d behead his minions without losing sleep. Derk knew the man well enough to know Murphy was plotting. Always one step ahead.
Jack stepped up next to Murphy with a folder in his hand and handed it to the boss. But the man never touched it. Instead, Jack laid it on the desk. Derk refused to take the bait and look at the folder. Every move was calculated. Purposeful.
“I should pass this off to someone capable,” Murphy said smoothly. “But all that would do is let both of you off the hook.”