by Jasmin Quinn
Hugo, the fucker, cost him a lot of money. Hugo was a trader of secrets and people, not one you shared confidences with because he would sell them to the highest bidder. Unapologetic, elusive, hard to track, came out of his shadows when he had something or someone to share. Always knew who needed what and always knew exactly how much his buyers would pay. One day, he’d cross the wrong person and die. He liked Hugo but wouldn’t hesitate to kill himself if the tracker crossed him. Jack shifted. Any other time, he would embrace the banter, but Mira was somewhere, in danger and he had to find her. “Didn’t you, Marsden?”
Hugo frowned, then collapsed into the chair across from Jack, dwarfing it with his big frame. “You’re in a bad mood. Lose your best friend?”
“Something like that,” Jack said, then leaned across the table, getting in Marsden’s space. “And I think you know where she is.”
Marsden grinned, his eyes flashing at Jack’s discomfort. “Tell you what, Jack. I’m gonna help you out because you didn’t shoot me outright when I walked into the room.”
Jack took a breath. “What do you want, Hugo?”
“Not a fucking thing. You already paid me for the name. I’m not greedy. You’ll find the fucker at your hotel.”
Jack’s fury almost exploded as Hugo said this. The nerve of the sonofabitch, keeping her right under his nose, at his hotel and casino. It was a prick move, but nothing less than he should have expected. He stood and headed for the door, forgetting about Hugo, forgetting to thank him.
“Hey, Jack.”
Jack paused, turned around and waited.
“He’s a dangerous fuck. Watch your back.”
Forty-Two
Mira sat stone still on the chair, not restrained by ropes, but it didn’t matter. Her eyes settled on the dark man sitting in front of her, a single glance from him freezing her. He was impeccable from his hair to his dress, to the way he crossed his legs and steepled his hands. He could have been Jack’s doppelganger with his black hair, the broadness of his shoulders, the strength of his body, his height. But she knew he was not. His name was Michael Black and he was a chameleon, one-minute convincing her of his good intentions, the next, a man with no conscience, barely sparing Shonan’s body a glance when he took her. Now she was here, looking into his hard, black eyes. She couldn’t see beyond the edges, to see what was beyond.
He’d asked her a question but her attention was drawn to the women who’d just entered the room. She was breathtaking and mesmerizing. Beautiful dark auburn hair set high on her head, curls falling exactly where they should, framing her face, teasing at her sexuality. Her expensive dress draped around her curves like she’d been born wearing it, hanging from her where it should, clinging to her hips, her breasts. Her legs were long and perfect, her height accentuated by the four-inch Louboutin stilettos on her feet. She’d dragged her hand across Michael’s shoulders when she’d entered the room, her perfectly manicured fingers digging slightly at his neck. He looked at her, his lips curving up, his face softening. Mira saw the love in his eyes for this woman, saw her return his adoration. She wanted to cry. These two were perfect.
The woman sat down on a chair on the opposite side of the small table, crossing her perfect legs. Michael was staring at them with longing. And why not? Even Mira felt her gut wrench at the goddess sitting in front of her. Her green eyes glanced from Jack to Mira and then she pursed her full luscious lips.
“This isn’t right, Michael,” she murmured, her voice was sensual, husky, but respectful. She was a little afraid of Michael.
“It’s exactly right, Isabelle,” Michael retorted. “It’s exactly the way to get to Creed.”
Mira wanted to tell him that he was wrong. Jack Creed was not the kind of man who let a woman distract him from his world. Jack Creed would let her die before he would do anything. And he’d expect her to take it like one his soldiers. Shut her mouth, no screaming, no moaning, no telling secrets while she died a vicious death. But she didn’t reveal her thoughts. Her silence would buy her a few more hours of life while Michael waited for Jack to arrive. And maybe, in the meantime, this woman, this Isabelle would be able to convince Michael not to kill her.
Isabelle shook her head, said softly, “This isn’t her fault. She’s an innocent caught in the middle.”
Michael snorted as he turned more fully towards Isabelle. “She’s his fucking attorney. She played the DA’s office, got Rob Creed out of prison. Pretty clever for an innocent.”
Isabelle’s eyes raked Mira. Mira almost felt shame at how poorly she compared – she knew her face was wan, thin, cheeks sallow, skin grey, dull eyes. Her hair hung limply, her suit still bloodied from Shonan’s death, still hanging off her like a dishrag. These past few months had taken a toll on her, even with Jack’s rules. She’d just began to climb out of her despair, just started reconciling with Jack, breaking down the barriers. And now this.
Isabelle said, “We both know what Jack’s like. It’s more likely he played her.”
Michael’s tone turned vicious as he snarled at Isabelle. “No Isabelle, I don’t know what Jack’s like. I wasn’t fucking him.”
Isabelle swallowed, her face red. Tears bloomed in her eyes, but she held them back. Mira admired her strength. “It wasn’t like that, Michael. You know it wasn’t.”
Michael squared his shoulders, dark eyes frozen on Isabelle. Mira was forgotten. She’d disappeared from their existence. It was the two of them, eyes filled with passion, anger. The air was thick with tension. “How was it, Isabelle? How was it when you ran back to your fucking ex-husband?”
His words punched Mira between the eyes and stole her breath as she stared at Isabelle. This woman in front of her was the woman. The Woman! The one who married Jack, the one who broke her heart. And no wonder. How could she have ever had a chance against this Isabelle? She felt pain clutch in her chest, her stomach. Her heart shattered and her tears came back with a vengeance, with sobs that were loud, hollow, uncontrollable.
She tried to choke them back, but she couldn’t stop them. Her heart shredded. The pain. Now she knew how much Jack lied to her. She remembered that day on the couch, both angry, him telling her that every time he fucked this woman, every time he closed his eyes, he saw Mira’s face. How could anyone believe such bullshit knowing that this woman, this Isabelle was once in his bed? This woman, this goddess – who he so cruelly dumped Mira for. No wonder. Mira was second best, would always be, she couldn’t compete on any level.
She brought her hands to her face, pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes. She understood everything now and a chill wind blew through as she realized she was a dead woman. Jack would not come for her, not be persuaded by this deadly man. And this woman, this Isabelle bargaining with Michael for her life. She didn’t want it. She didn’t want to be saved by the woman who ruined her.
They’d stopped talking when she broke down, distracted by her, watching her as she wept, her body bent over on itself, arms clutching her stomach as she tried not to vomit. She raised her head at their scrutiny, her wet gaze on Isabelle, her gut knotting in pain. “I don’t want your help,” she said as she sobbed. “I would rather die than have you pleading for my life.”
Her words seemed to spear the woman through to her core. Isabelle looked confused and hurt and Mira had the satisfaction of seeing that she’d also chipped away at Michael’s façade. Neither expected Mira’s reaction. Isabelle shook her head at Mira, “Don’t be a fucking martyr, Mira. Jack doesn’t deserve it. He uses people then discards them. I can’t imagine why you think you’re the exception.”
Mira narrowed her eyes. Isabelle misunderstood her intent. She wanted to tell Isabelle she was wrong about Jack, she wanted to tell Isabelle that he loved Mira, he promised her. But she wondered how much he promised Isabelle before their marriage fell apart. Then a knock on the door and a man entering, talking softly in Michael’s ear. Both Isabelle and Mira watched as Michael nodded and stood. “Ladies entertain yourselves. I’ll be jus
t a minute.”
Forty-Three
Michael Black was hiding in plain sight, at Creed’s hotel and casino. The smug bastard must be laughing his head off. Jack felt naked without his gun, but he knew he couldn’t walk into Black’s suite armed. Michael had Mira and Jack didn’t know enough about him to test how dangerous he was. When they’d parted in Vancouver, Jack had dismissed him as Isabelle’s new fuckboy. In spite of Black’s posturing, Jack made the mistake of deeming him a harmless unknown. And it was a mistake. He should have known better. Michael Black seemed like he was operating alone, but he was too confident, too out there to not have an army at his back.
Up until Hugo gave up Michael Black’s name, Jack would not have suspected that Black was behind the current attacks on his operations. He had Black pegged as the type of man who did his business directly – shoot the fucker in the face if there was a problem, like he had with Shonan. Not play games. Not a kidnapper of women. But he didn’t think that Black killed the lawyer, he thought Hector did.
Rage rippled through him as he thought about Hector. He needed men he could trust, didn’t know who else had been compromised. Wanted Hector gutted and hung off the fucking Statue of Liberty at the New York New York Hotel, if Black hadn’t killed him already. It’s what Jack would have done. If a man could be paid to betray his organization, then he had a price. Serious mistake by Hector, underestimating Black, but then isn’t that exactly what Jack had done? Wasn’t he about to pay the price?
His mind flitted to Mira and then skittered away. He couldn’t think about her right now, it made his gut churn, his hands shake and his eyes water. He had to stay neutral, keep his thoughts where they needed to be. He was about to walk into a firestorm unarmed. He didn’t care about his own life. He’d trade it for Mira’s. When he left, he told Rob to look after Mira. It killed him to say it, but it had to be said. Just in case. He was going to walk in alone, beg for Mira’s life and hope whatever he said was enough to set her free. He knew it would come down to this one day – mob life was grand, especially if you were on the top, but it was also dangerous and very few men died natural deaths.
But it was what it was. It was Jack’s life, the only one he’d ever known. His father died at the top of his game in a hail of bullets 14 years ago, when Jack was just 23 and Rob was 17. Vegas got ugly then because everyone including the men in their organization made a takeover bid for power. It changed both he and Rob in a brutal significant way. It was a war and men died by their hands if there was even a whisper of disloyalty. Andre was with them then, youthful like the two brothers, hardened and unmalleable by the time the conflict settled, by the time the Creed brothers came out on top in a way that rippled their power beyond Vegas.
He frowned as he sat alone in his car. Andre. The man who hired Hector, who swore that Hector could be trusted, who put the asshole in charge of guarding Mira’s life. Andre, the only one besides Rob who he trusted without reserve. Had trusted, he corrected himself. Andre knew how vulnerable Hector’s betrayal made him. Jack wondered what the big guy would do? Would he run, leave Vegas, try to hide? Or would he stay, face the consequences? Jack needed to know – Rob needed to know.
Rob was stronger than Jack. At 23, Jack had already gained a maturity, a set to his ways that couldn’t be altered by the pure violence that followed his father’s death. But Rob was still young enough to be influenced, changed, damaged irreparably, which meant Rob had no empathy, no remorse, no room in his heart for trust and, since Amber’s death, it seemed for love. Jack understood that. Should Mira die and he live, he would rampage through Vegas, taking down everyone involved, anyone in his way. Until he died like his father.
Jack slipped out of his car and approached the hotel slowly. He wasn’t stalling, not really. He was not afraid of dying. He was afraid that he’d walk into that hotel suite and find Mira dead. His terror for her life shuddered through him and his regrets choked him. He wasn’t a man who lied. Manipulated, yes, but not lied. He loved the woman, always had, since the day he laid eyes on her. The day in that boardroom, when he sat next to her, letting her sexuality caress him, lull him. He knew he had her heart, took advantage of it to free Rob. Used her even as he loved her, because he was so sure of himself, so sure that he could bring her back to him, so sure that she would fall into line because she loved him.
She had to know by now that she had him too, had to know that he would do anything for her. He would die for her if it came down to it. He stepped inside the hotel lobby. A rare appearance by Jack Creed and he was immediately mobbed by staff, checking on him, asking what he needed, offering everything. He waved them off, said he had a meeting. The casino and hotel were well-run by a management team who knew better than to fuck with him, so he generally stayed away, preferring the nightclub to this monstrosity. But not tonight.
He knew the suite number as he stepped into the elevator, alone because hotel security barred anyone from entering with him. The elevator doors opened on the 17th floor and Jack strolled out, hands in his pockets, expression impassive. Inside, his gut was kicking up a sandstorm, but no one needed to know that, especially Michael Black. The second Creed stepped off the elevator he was mobbed by two armed men. There were five in total, the other three checking the elevator and stairwell. Jack raised his hands up beside his head and said, “I’m alone and unarmed. Where Black?”
The men didn’t take him at his word, instead one held him while another patted him down carefully. Jack wanted to drive the Adam’s apple of the man holding him back into his windpipe. It would be so easy, the pup was young, arrogant and sloppy. He deserved to die. The other was more careful, would be harder to overcome, but Jack was not soft. Still, he didn’t act on any of his violent thoughts. Later, if there was an opportunity, he’d bury them all.
Satisfied that he was telling the truth, the asshole who appeared to be leading the motley contingent of thugs aimed a semi-automatic at Jack and pushed him inside the suite.
Jack looked around. Lavish, several rooms, but no Michael Black and no Mira. “Where the fuck is Black?” he snarled and was rewarded with the butt of the rifle to his gut. Oh yeah, that fucker is going to die, Jack thought as he folded over, his arms clutching his stomach.
“Sit the fuck down!” the asshole said, shoving Jack into a chair. “Get Mr. Black,” he said to the inexperienced future dead man.
After Jack regained his composure, he crossed his legs, and tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. Impatient, waiting to see his enemy. He didn’t really understand the motivation behind Black’s aggression, but he didn’t know Black. Mr. Mystery and again Jack cursed himself for his own arrogance, believing Michael a small-time player with no real ties.
Michael entered the room looking the same as he did several months ago, when they’d met in Vancouver. Immaculate in his appearance, suit, tie, short dark hair, coal black eyes. So much like himself, Jack thought, but also so different. Michael nodded to Jack, a satisfied smile creasing his face as he sat in a chair directly across from Jack. To his guards, he said, “Leave.”
The leader hesitated, and Michael swiveled his head towards the man, “I don’t need your fucking protection against this prick. Get out.”
Jack kept his expression neutral as he witnessed the exchange. Michael was angry, agitated. It was unexpected. Jack needed to keep his own emotions reeled in. He needed to be cooler than Michael, until he had the chance to kill him.
The room cleared, a door closed, and Jack spoke. “I hope Hector is laying at the bottom of a lake somewhere.” He wanted to ask about Mira, if she was okay, but he couldn’t betray his fear for her. It would give Michael too much advantage.
Michael stared hard at Jack, thinking what? Jack wondered. “It’s hard to find a lake in Vegas,” he said. “But yes, he’s buried.”
Jack leaned forward. “Why’d you steal my lawyer?”
Michael eyed him. “Is the what she is to you, Creed? Your lawyer? Just like Isabelle was your thief?”
All the things Jack wanted to say but didn’t. Instead, he said, “Have you hurt her?” He kept his voice soft, kept the aggression from it, but his heart was thudding in his chest and he wondered if Michael could hear it. Michael’s hatred of him was deep. He understood it. Isabelle came to him in her time of need, ran from Black. At the time, he felt the arrogance and satisfaction of winning over the maverick in front of him. But if Mira had done the same, what would he have done? He was not Michael Black. He led an empire with no room for petty vengeance. Men might die, Mira would definitely live to regret it, but would he upend his world to seek revenge? He hoped he’d never be tested.
“Is she dead, you mean?”
Jack nodded. He felt his composure crack, could tell from the look on Michael’s face that he saw it too. He inhaled, deeply, steadying, but said nothing. There was nothing more to say.
“She’s not dead. Not hurt. Your ex-wife wouldn’t let me touch her.” Michael snarled his words, his anger simmering close to the surface.
Jack let out a breath.
“Does it hurt, Creed? Can you feel the knife twisting in your guts? She’s not dead yet.”
“I want to see her.” Jack ignored Black’s derisive taunts. It was almost cruel how the tables had turned, Jack thought as he remembered the meeting in the Vancouver lounge, months ago, with Rusya Savisin and Anto Kharzin, Isabelle, Michael and himself. Then, it was him doing the taunting, showing his aggression, forcing Black to his knees. Now it was Michael’s turn.
“Why?” Michael sneered. “Do you need legal advice?”
Jack shut his eyes to Michael’s derision, then opened them again. “Isabelle and I were over the day after we married. She came to me in Vancouver because I manipulated her into coming. I had no interest in her and she sure as fuck had no interest in me. I wanted something from her, I wanted the names she stole before Savisin got his hands on them.” He wanted to ask if Isabelle was okay but knew that would be a wrong question to this angry possessive man. There was nothing in his heart for the woman he was once married to, but he didn’t want her hurt or dead by Michael Black’s hand.
