Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 129676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 648(@200wpm)___ 519(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 648(@200wpm)___ 519(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
No, he wouldn’t. He’d probably take extreme pleasure in it.
I glared at him dispassionately. “The rumors are true then. You’re an angry, useless drunk. What a cliché.”
“Sit the fuck down before I put a bullet in your skull.” Achilles pointed at Tiernan with his cigarette. “I’m the only one here with a loaded weapon, and I don’t take kindly to people threatening my guests on my property, with the shards of a tumbler that cost me two hundred bucks, no less.”
Tiernan sank back to his seat slowly, tauntingly, never breaking eye contact.
I caught Gia glaring at me with alarm. This wasn’t going how she’d hoped for.
“Blackthorn.” Vello turned to me. “Stop wasting everyone’s time. You killed five of their soldiers in less than five months. It’s understandable they’d want compensation.”
“They burned my yacht.”
“You’re insured through your ass,” Luca deadpanned. “Give them something to work with.”
“The best I can do is pay for this asshole over here to get his dick wet in a low-grade whorehouse.” I pointed at Tiernan with my cigarette. “Maybe that’ll loosen him up.”
“Who knew all Tate needed to find his sense of humor was a megalomaniacal Irish mobster?” Enzo gleefully carved a skull into the table with his knife. “He’s a hoot tonight.”
Tiernan played with the shard of glass in his hand, a small smile on his lips.
“We’ll take your three cargo ships. The ones docked here in Brooklyn,” Tyrone offered decisively. “We need them for shipments. They’re old enough that it’s not a financial strain on your end, and peace will be restored.”
“Have you lost your plot, Da?” Tiernan impaled him with a glare. “He should be giving us a spot on the board of GS Properties and a blow job for our troubles.”
I knew any reasonable man would accept Tyrone’s offer. But I wasn’t reasonable. And I definitely wasn’t letting his son off the hook after trying to kidnap my wife. Twice. It wasn’t about Daniel’s murderers anymore. It was about Gia. I wanted them to know no one went after my wife.
“You’re getting jack shit,” I drawled. “I don’t respond well to pressure from below.”
“We’re going in circles.” Luca put out his cigarette in an ashtray, immediately lighting another one. “Tiernan, Tyrone—Blackthorn isn’t gonna budge on this. I know the man. He’s as flexible as a three-day-old corpse.”
“And just as charming,” Achilles contributed. “You do what you will with this information. But this is his best and final offer.”
“His best and final offer is nothing.” Tiernan yawned, and I had a feeling he was the same brand of crazy motherfucker as Achilles. Two peas in a fucked-up pod.
“Incorrect.” I put out my cigarette. “The alternative is war, and trust me, you don’t want to go there. Cut your losses. Move on. Don’t ever get near my wife. Great deal.”
Tiernan bowed an eyebrow. “You won’t win this, Blackthorn. What I lack in resources I make up for in cruelty. I won’t be the first to blink.”
“Why did you come here if you didn’t want to strike any sort of deal?” Tyrone turned his attention to me. He wasn’t like his hotheaded son. In another life, we could’ve gotten along.
“Mainly to piss your son off.” I hitched a shoulder up. “See up close where I want to stab him. He wears his heart on his sleeve, and if he isn’t careful, that heart is going to end up as taxidermy in my Staindrop cabin.”
I was lying, of course.
I didn’t have a cabin in Staindrop. It was a shithole.
I had a cabin in Vermont, and I actually did need to decorate that wooden wall.
Tiernan stood up again and leaned across the table until our faces were an inch apart. His eyes glinted with madness. The violence dancing inside them told me he was the worst kind of a crime lord. The type who saw killing as the destination, not a means to an end.
“I want to be clear on one thing.” He dropped his voice to a whisper, fingers splayed across the table. “If you walk out of here without giving us a concession, something to show for our trouble, I will come after you and all that’s yours. That’s not a threat, Blackthorn. It’s a promise.”
I stood up slowly, prolonging the moment. All eyes clung to us.
“Do your worst, Callaghan. I’ll do the same. May the best man win.”
I was eighteen when I checked on Andrin again. By that time, I was no longer scrawny, awkward Gabriel Doe. I was Tate Blackthorn, lacrosse star, Harvard darling, the mysterious son of a real estate mogul, a prodigy, the most handsome Prince Charming on New York’s social roster.
A quick Google search was enough to reveal Andrin’s destiny, and it wasn’t what I was expecting.
Three months after I moved out of the boarding school, Andrin found his death in a suspiciously unfortunate skiing accident. Suspicious because fucker didn’t ski.