Anyone who went up against Mab Monroe got dead in a hurry.
Jonah McAllister was more than just Mab’s lawyer — he was one of her top lieutenants, along with Elliot Slater, the giant who handled Mab’s security and brutally enforced her wishes. McAllister’s job was to deal with anyone who challenged Mab through legal means. To bury them in enough paperwork and red tape to drown an elephant so that they either gave up outright or were forced to when they went bankrupt trying to pay their own attorneys.
No, Jonah McAllister wouldn’t be pleased about my beating down his son. He, and by extension Mab Monroe, could make problems for me — problems that weren’t as easily solvable now that I was just Gin Blanco and not moonlighting as the assassin the Spider anymore.
“You sure you want to press charges?” Xavier asked.
“Most people don’t, after they find out who his daddy is.”
I stared at Jake, who kept blinking up at the ceiling.
My gaze slid over to Cassidy, who was busy looking at her shoes. She’d heard Xavier’s question, and she knew what the McAllister name meant as well as I did. Cassidy thought I was going to fold, and she didn’t want to see me tell the cops to let Jake go.
The image of the orange-red flames licking at Cassidy’s slender throat flashed before my eyes, along with her tearstreaked face. Reminding me of another place, another time, another girl desperate for me to save her, to convince her everything was going to be okay, even if I knew it wasn’t. That it would never be all right again.
The memories of my baby sister, Bria, and the horrible night our mother and older sister, Annabella, had been murdered, swam up in the back of my mind, a dark shark rising to surface. The memory sank its cold, jagged teeth into my heart. Fire, torture, destruction, death. All that and more had happened that one, fateful night seventeen years ago. My hands curled into loose fists, hiding the spider rune scars that had been burned into my palms — scars that were a constant reminder of my lost family.
After a few seconds, I uncurled my palms and flexed my fingers, working the tension out of them.
I focused on Jake McAllister again, remembering the sharp, sly way he’d stared at me. Two hundred dollars or not, he’d been ready to kill me and everyone else in the restaurant for nothing more than a thrill. I’d be damned if I was letting him get away with it — any of it.
“Fuck who his daddy is,” I said. “He almost slit that girl’s throat. I’m pressing charges.”
Xavier shrugged. “Your choice. Just don’t expect much to come of it.”
He clinked the silverstone handcuffs around Jake’s wrists and yanked the Fire elemental up to his feet. The abrupt motion snapped Jake out of his blinking trance, and he looked over his shoulder at the cop, then back at me. It took a few seconds for the reality of the situation to penetrate his thick skull.
“You called the cops? You’re going to pay for this, bitch!” Jake screamed.
He surged forward, trying to break free of Xavier and get at me. But Xavier easily restrained him with one hand.
Hard to break a giant’s grip.
But instead of staying where I was, I stepped around the counter and walked over to Jake. This time, I let him see just how cold and flat and hard my gray eyes really were. “You’re the one who’s going to pay when Daddy finds out you’re knocking over restaurants — or trying to. Piss poor job you did, all the way around.”
“Bitch!” he screamed again. “You’re gonna die for this! Do you hear me? You’re dead!”
Jake lunged forward again, but the giant cop jerked him back by the scruff of his neck — none too gently.
Xavier winked at me, and I smiled. I was starting to like Xavier. I’d have to slip him an extra C-note or two the next time I saw him working the door at Northern Aggression.
“Come on, Jake,” Xavier rumbled. “Let’s get you in the squad car so you can call your old man to come bail you out.”
Xavier pushed Jake McAllister and his friend Lance through the front door and into the back of a waiting cruiser. The other cop, the short guy, took statements from Cassidy and Eva. He’d just finished talking with the girls when the front door of the Pork Pit opened and another cop stepped inside. A tall Hispanic man with short black hair, bronze skin, and eyes the color of smoky whiskey.
Detective Donovan Caine.
The majority of cops in Ashland might be known for their apathy and avarice, but Donovan Caine was a rare exception to the rule. He fought against the rampant corruption, bribes, and payoffs most of the police force took to look the other way and actually tried to catch criminals. And the detective really did believe in all that protect and serve, touchy-feely stuff.
My path had first crossed Caine’s several months ago when I’d assassinated Cliff Ingles, his corrupt partner. In addition to forcing money and sexual freebies out of vampire hookers while he was on duty, Ingles had viciously raped and beaten one of the prostitutes’ teenage daughters.
Even among the scum in Ashland, Cliff Ingles had been a real prince, and I’d done him pro bono. My own sort of public service.
Donovan Caine hadn’t known how dirty his partner was and became obsessed with catching Cliff Ingles’s killer — me. Of course, the trail had gone cold, since I was nothing if not professional, but that hadn’t kept Caine from keeping the case alive and digging for information every few weeks.
Then our paths had crossed again — and in person — two months ago when I’d been framed for the murder of a corporate whistle-blower named Gordon Giles.
Some nasty people thought the detective had information that could implicate them in the subsequent scheme and cover-up, and they’d been beating it out of him when I’d shown up and taken them out. After that, Donovan Caine had reluctantly joined forces with me to find the real killer.
During the course of our investigation, we’d had a hot one-night stand — well, more like a hot one-hour stand — a couple months ago, but nothing since. The detective’s Boy Scout mentality was a sticking point between us. I found his morals admirable, if impractical, in a city as dirty, violent, and corrupt as Ashland. He found my lack of said morals and zero remorse for all the bloody things I’d done in my former profession disturbing, to say the least.
Still, the attraction between us had been intense, and the hurried sex we’d had in a supply closet had been fantastic.
I’d only seen the detective once since then, at my mentor, Fletcher Lane’s, funeral. Caine had come to offer his condolences and check up on me. I’d kissed him right there in the cemetery. Afterward, he’d bounded away from me like a scared rabbit.
I hadn’t seen or spoken to the detective since then. I thought about him a lot, though. More than I wanted to.
And now here he was in my gin joint, in my little corner of the city.
Donovan Caine sensed my gaze and raised his head.
Our eyes locked, gold on gray. My chest tightened, and the familiar heat flooded my veins, pooling in my stomach before sinking lower. I eyed the detective’s navy coat.
The wool fabric draped over his shoulders and hinted at his lean, hard body beneath. I remembered the feel of that hard body. His mouth pressed against mine, our tongues crashing together. Hands clawing at each other’s clothes.
The crisp, clean scent of him filling my nose. The way he’d murmured my name over and over like a curse — or the answer to a prayer — as he’d thrust into me, quick and hard and deep. Mmm.
The short cop saw me staring at the detective. He walked over, murmured something to Caine, and jerked his head in my direction. Probably pointing me out as the owner and prime witness. Most women, most left-behind lovers, would have stalked forward and demanded to know what Donovan Caine was doing here.