♫ Wreak Havoc - Skylar Grey ♫
Phantom returned before I could retaliate.
After a week and a half or so of losing my goddamn mind, he struck again, randomly and unannounced. And let me tell you, this K fellow was ballsy. Ballsy as fuck to be exact. Smart, too.
Crafty.
Resourceful.
I hated him. No, more like loathed him with a fierce passion. Loathed him more than I did my piece of shit father. His masked face haunted me day in and day out, haunted my dreams, too. I was exhausted, constantly on edge. But mostly, I was livid.
All I wanted was to rid myself of him, but if he’d proven anything in the last few weeks, it’s that he wasn’t going anywhere.
The million dollar question was—what exactly did he want from me?
There were obvious factors of course; the money, the power. But why target me specifically? Phantom could’ve chosen anyone in the world to pick a fight with. So why me?
And why hide while he was at it?
He had balls of steel when it came to intimidation tactics, so why not just be a man, period?
Why not face me directly and tell me he wanted a cut?
I’d have said no—obviously—because there’s not a chance in hell I was going to share something I shed blood, sweat, and tears for, but he didn’t know that…
Or did he?
I’d run across the thought several times, and no matter how much I tried to convince myself it just couldn’t be, I couldn’t seem to dismiss it completely either.
Was Phantom someone I knew?
Someone I may have burned a bridge with on the way up?
Sadly, no, he wasn’t, because it couldn’t be that easy.
I still had no idea who he was, even after Vic finally did his job. All we had to go by was a location. Oh, and the infamous K signature from his note, of course. Despite the lack of an ID, though, his supposed coordinates led us to some newly restored factory along the marina.
Noir Coast Distillery.
Was this really his place?
We’re about to find out…
“Ready?” I asked Roscoe and Vic, as we stood head-on before the enemy, ready to tear the place upside down until we found him.
Oh rather, until I found him.
If anyone was going to rip him to shreds, it was me.
I smirked. He wanted to chat, right?
Well, let’s chat then, motherfucker.
Roscoe and Vic yanked open the doors for me, allowing me to run in with a handgun lodged in each hand. Machines and conversations immediately came to a screeching halt as everyone—men and women alike—stopped what they were doing, their wide, fearful eyes trained on me in all my furious glory.
It was dead silent as I peered around the room, both Vic and Roscoe right on my tail again, rifles extended.
“Who the fuck runs this shit hole?” I gritted out.
At least ten people pointed up to an office overlooking the main floor. The blinds were drawn but I could just make out a shadowed figure standing beside the window.
My pulse quickened all the more.
Was that him?
“On your right. The stairs,” Vic commented softly in my ear. “Go, I’ll watch these guys down here.”
My gaze followed his directions, then up the zigzag trail of the rusty stairs.
Perfect.
“You guys remember the plan?” I asked them both, taking one last look around the first floor.
“Yup,” they answered.
“On my mark only… Cover me,” I ordered Roscoe, holstering one firearm at the small of my back as I sprung into action and hustled up the steps. The iron floor clanked beneath my heeled boots, growing louder and louder as I zeroed in on the door. Each step pumped in time with my heart.
“As you were!” Vic barked powerfully. “C’mon, nothing to see here!”
I heard, rather than saw them all scramble back to work just as I curled my hand around the cool knob.
This was it.
The moment I’d been waiting for.
And it turned out to be nothing like I expected…
Bursting into the office fit my vision perfectly. Falling dead in my tracks, however, did not.
My breath caught as my feet rooted themselves to the ground. This man, Phantom or not, he was...me. Only in male form.
A handsomely grim mug.
Intense eyes.
Hard lines to his jaw.
Almost every plane of skin tattooed in entirety, or at least it appeared that way beneath the all-black suit that fit him like a second skin. Even his face was tattooed. Two stood out most; a spider crawling down one side and the word compel scripted over his eyebrow, almost in the same spot I carried one of my own. I felt like I was looking into some weird mirror from an alternate universe and was completely taken aback at how strikingly good-looking he was.
“Take a picture, pigeon, it’ll last longer,” he mused, a deviously cocky smirk playing on one corner of his mouth.
That word, pigeon, and the amused fashion in which he’d spoken to me—with an accent like mine nonetheless—both shook me to my core, and yet rekindled my initial purpose for being here.
Fire rushed through my veins as I narrowed my eyes and started for his desk with determined strides. “First and last time you call me pigeon. I’m not a fucking bird.”
The handsome man chuckled, a dark, sexy rumble in his chest, and lazily reclined into his seat, crossing his arms behind his head. “On the contrary, Miss Mercier, you are quite the little bird. Not at all what I was expecting the Queen of Miami to look like.”
It is him.
“And what were you expecting?” I asked sarcastically, trying my hardest to seem as unaffected as possible.
“I don’t know…maybe some class?” His smirk spread further at the offended expression that fell across my face.
Oh hell no.
I could’ve killed him, right then and there, simply for being such a fool. But because I was so intent on finding out who he was, what he wanted, and how the hell he knew who I was, I swallowed his words down, the gun in my grasp burning my palm.
Wasn’t lost on me he had me bouncing from one emotion to the next in nanoseconds.
“I’m going to let that slide this time seeing as we have more important things to discuss than your low blow tactics. How’s that for some class?” I tossed back.
My answer was a sinister grin. Nothing less, nothing more. And it only served to irk me further. He wasn’t fazed. Not remotely.
“Who the hell are you?” I blurted out angrily, stopping at the foot of his space, my fingers twitching on the trigger.
Icy blue eyes dropped to my 9mm for a split-second before slithering up to my face. He just stared at me, studying me closely. That was hard enough in itself, but I wasn’t at all prepared to catch his tongue peek out and swipe along his bottom lip. And I sure as hell wasn’t prepared to feel it everywhere either.
“Roman. Roman King,” he purred, breaking through the overwhelming haze. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
K for King… Roman King…
Something about his name made my stomach flip wildly.
What the fuck is happening to me right now?
“Can’t say I feel the same,” I barely managed, shocked at my body’s reaction to toward this man.
“Let’s see if we can change your mind then, yeah? I did agree to a chat after all. What is it you’d like to discuss, Miss Mercier? Tell me everything.”
“Or we can just cut to the chase.” I leaned onto his desk. “I believe your time in Miami has come to an end, Mr. King.”
“Has it now?” He questioned on a chuckle, yet again way too amused for my liking.
“Indeed it has.” I swallowed as his scent hit me. Mahogany…and teakwood, with the subtle hint of some mouthwatering cologne. “I might’ve considered letting you accumulate the odd client here and there, because everyone has to make a living, but you decided to fuck with me—not once, but twice. I’m not very pleased about that.”
Roman shrugged, one-hundred percent unaffected by the bite in my tone. “You have what I want,” he explained, inching forward closer to me.
I had to force myself in place. “And that would be?”
“Everything.” He grinned, cocking his head to one side, wayward strands of his dark coiffed hair falling in his face.
Another swallow. “Define everything,” I demanded.
“Money, power, respect. You seem to have it all, and I want it.”
“But why me?” Why choose to screw with me?”
“Because you’re an easy target, love. Women are too emotional, and emotions elicit vulnerability. See where I’m going with this?”
He was absolutely right, and that right there was the tipping point for me. I hated that he was right. Women were vulnerable creatures, especially women who’d survived the deepest, darkest parts of hell.
Women like me.
“So why not just come forward and state your terms? Why was any of this necessary?” I asked, wanting to focus on anything but how right he was.
“Because I knew you’d never agree to anything my assistant offered you.”
“Yeah, you know why? Because I don’t negotiate with messengers. You want to tread my streets, you come to me, not send your minions to sway me to your liking. And you most certainly don’t take out my people either. What you did was wage a war, Mr. King, and let me tell you, you picked a fight with the wrong woman.”
“Ooohhh,” he cooed in mock horror. “Am I supposed to be afraid?”
“You should be,” I warned.
Roman laughed softly. “I’ll make a mental note for next time.”
“There won’t be a next time. You need to get the fuck out of here if you know what’s good for you.”
“Not going anywhere, pigeon. Get used to seeing this mug a lot, since you don’t want to play nice and share. All that can change, though. Just say the words and I’ll be out of your hair,” he said, bringing a hand of ringed fingers up to twirl an emerald strand around a digit.
I stilled at his unexpected touch, all but holding my breath as I eyed the ink adorning his skin. The words etched on that curve between his thumb and forefinger called out to me most.
Your throat here.
I almost whimpered aloud at the visual his tattoo offered. Heaven help me. “Nothing personal, King, but I don’t share with anyone,” I murmured, inhaling a shaky breath.
The air, thick and heavy around us, drowned out the conversation in entirety. He was just watching me again and I couldn’t stop myself from staring back either, completely hypnotized by the glow of glacial blues.
“And that right there will be what ends your reign,” he whispered, dropping his gaze to my lips…and mine to his, too. “Just remember we had this conversation when your throne goes up in flames. Remember you could have spared yourself imminent doom, Lux.”
The way he purred my name, how his tongue caressed it, dotted my skin with dozens of goose pimples, those small, thin baby hairs at the nape of my neck rising at attention. Still, I held my head high, reminding myself to breathe. “If anyone should be worried about imminent doom, it’s you. I wasn’t kidding, Roman. I’m not the woman to mess with.”
“Do your worst,” he challenged, like he still didn’t understand—or believe—the gravity of my words.
Suddenly, I was all for feeding into his childish little game. He truly wanted to war with me, then a war we would have. It was on without question.
“You can count on it,” I promised him, pushing off his desk and sauntering toward Roscoe by the doors. “Oh, and Roman?” The question came from over my shoulder.
“Hmmm?”
“Tag, you’re it,” I purred, snapping my fingers at Roscoe as I slipped past him and started down the way I came.
And just as I was pushing out of the distillery into another humid Miami night, Vic and Roscoe lit the place up without mercy, the rapid firing of their rifles sounding like fireworks on the fourth of July.