Brutal Vows (Queens & Monsters #4)(5)

Under his breath, Kieran says, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Looks like Liberace hurled his lunch all over the bloody place.”

He’s right. It’s fucking awful.

I have to force myself not to turn around and walk out.

“Ah, Mr. Quinn!”

I turn to my right. A man approaches with his hands spread open in greeting.

He’s fit, of average height, and somewhere around forty. His dark hair is slicked back with pomade. Wearing a navy-blue pinstripe suit I can tell is custom made, a powder-blue tie with a diamond tie pin, a chunky diamond watch, and a gold pinky ring on each hand, he oozes wealth, privilege, and power.

His cologne reaches me before he does.

His smile is blinding.

I hate him on sight.

“Mr. Caruso, I presume.”

He grabs one of my hands in both of his and pumps it up and down like he’s a political candidate campaigning for my vote.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Welcome to my home.”

“Thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet you as well.”

He hasn’t stopped grinning or shaking my hand.

Ten more seconds of this shite, and I’ll break those Chiclets teeth of his.

“This is my associate, Mr. Byrne.” I extract my hand from Caruso’s death grip and gesture to Kieran, who inclines his head respectfully.

“Sir.”

“Mr. Byrne, welcome. And please, both of you, call me Gianni. I prefer if we’re all on a first-name basis, don’t you?”

I’d rather blind myself with acid, you wanker.

Kieran politely offers his name. I offer nothing. There’s an awkward pause while Caruso waits, but he gets the hint and suggests we retire to his study to speak in private.

After what feels like a death march through miles of echoing corridors, we arrive at the study. It’s probably larger than the law library at Notre Dame. We sit across from Caruso in a pair of leather chairs so uncomfortable, they had to be designed by sadists.

I haven’t been here ten minutes, and I’m already regretting the fuck out of this.

Until she walks in the door.

Dark hair, red lips, olive skin.

A black, low-cut dress.

Acres of cleavage.

Not only cleavage, but long legs and an hourglass figure that would make any man stupid with lust.

If he wasn’t too busy being turned to stone by the ice in her eyes, that is.

I’ve never seen an attractive serial killer, but I bet this is exactly what she’d look like.

“Mr. Quinn, Kieran,” says Caruso, gesturing to each of us in turn, “this is my sister, Reyna.”

I’m on my feet before I consciously make the decision to rise. Kieran stands, too, murmuring a greeting.

Reyna returns his hello and smiles at him, but when she turns her gaze to me, her smile dies.

She looks me dead in the eye and says, “Good afternoon, Mr. Quinn.”

It sounds like I’m going to eat your spleen for supper.

I’m not sure whether to laugh or ask what her bloody problem is, but go with a neutral greeting instead.

“Good afternoon to you, Ms. Caruso.”

My gaze drops to the ring finger of her left hand. It’s encircled by a small black tattoo, some wording in cursive too tiny to read from where I’m standing. “Or is it Mrs. something?”

I glance back up at her face to find her stony gaze turned to withering heat.

It’s a look that could melt steel. I’ve never seen such hot, wordless fury. It makes the burning lakes of fire in the deepest pits of hell look like cozy bubble baths in comparison.

All that heat and hate she’s blasting at me goes straight to my dick, which throbs in excitement.

Figures. The fucker only ever wants what he can’t have.

When she doesn’t answer my question long enough to make it uncomfortable, her brother answers for her.

“My sister is a widow.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

Like a switch has been thrown, all the heat in her eyes cools to ice. “Thank you.”

She turns and walks stiffly to the windows behind her brother’s desk, where she gazes out with her arms folded over her chest, sending a wintry chill over the courtyard below.

I’m surprised the windowpanes don’t crackle with frost from her nearness.

Kieran and I share a look, then take our seats again.

Caruso says, “May I offer you a drink, gentlemen?”

Kieran declines. But I think I’m going to need liquid fortification to get through this meeting, so I accept.

From a bottom desk drawer, Caruso removes two cut crystal glasses and a carafe of ruby-colored liquor I assume is wine. By the time I’ve swallowed a mouthful of the bitter shite, it’s too late.

It sears a path down my windpipe, singeing all my nose hairs in its wake.

Caruso smiles at me with toothy anticipation. “It’s Campari. You’ve had it before?”

A shake of my head is all I can manage. If I tried to speak, I’d retch.

Over her shoulder, Reyna throws me a glance. She sees the look of disgust on my face and quickly turns back to the window, but not before she can hide her small, satisfied smile.

Maybe I’ll burn the house down after I marry the daughter. The neighbors would thank me, no doubt.

Caruso’s still rattling on about the Campari, how it’s famous in Italy, blah blah fucking blah, but I interrupt him to ask when I’ll meet Liliana.