“And you will be too if you call anyone. Take me to him,” I demand.
“I think he’s dead,” the man replies, turning around to lead me to the kitchen.
I jump over the counter, purposefully knocking the phone onto the floor onto the customer side so that the man won’t call the police while I’m not looking. The last thing I need is more people waving their guns at me.
I rush to the back of the kitchen with my short counterpart, stepping on his heels a number of times in an attempt to get him to move faster. I understand that he has short legs, but he acts as though we have all the time in the world to get to Dean. In reality, he’s probably just afraid to see the body again, but I’ve seen enough of them for it not to phase me. I forget that not everyone is as fucked up as I am.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter as the image of Dean sprawled out on the black and white checkered tile floor of the kitchen comes into view. I think their sanitation rating is going to go way down after this little incident.
Dean lies on the floor, his dead eyes wide open, and his mouth leaking with blood. He’s been stabbed to death, sliced so many times that his guts are shredded in a pile outside of his stomach. It’s a horrific sight and one that disturbs me, not because of how gruesome it is, but because of how easily it happened. Someone is attempting to pick us off, one by one, and they’re doing a pretty damn good job of it so far.
I kneel at the body, searching it for any details that might hint at who did this. Of course, I come up with nothing, and there aren’t any cameras in this establishment. We don’t film ourselves laundering money, after all.
“Is he dead?”
I turn my head to see the man from the counter with his hands clasped together, his face wrought with worry. I shake my head. “Obviously still alive. I expect him to make a full recovery.”
“R-really?” he asks.
“No,” I reply with an eye roll, standing up. “Are you mafia, or are you some random civilian that Dean hired off the street?”
“Mafia?” he asks, looking even more worried now.
“Jesus, Dean, what the actual fuck?” I ask to the dead body at my feet. Why on earth would he hire someone that has no idea about the money laundering operation? I always make sure my men are criminals before I hire them. I wouldn’t want them to rat me out to the authorities if they found out what was going on.
“Alright, buddy,” I say, placing my hand on the man’s shoulder. “You’re going to have to come with me.”
“I don’t want to,” he says, trying to jerk away, but I grip his boney shoulder with my hand so that he can’t leave. I’m about three times his size, and I’m sure he knows it’s no use fighting with me.
“I’m not going to hurt you. I just need to have someone brief you before we put you back on the street. As far as you should be concerned, none of this ever happened,” I explain.
He shakes his head, words spilling out of his mouth faster than he can properly pronounce the words. “I don’t even know Dean, or you. I don’t talk to cops.”
“Well, you were about to call them a minute ago, so I doubt that very much. As I said, you’re not going to get hurt, but I need to take you with me.”
He relaxes his body in defeat, accepting his fate much easier than most people do. I like that. He’ll probably be easy for my men to shake up and ensure that he never speaks a word about what happened here. It’s really not all that hard, especially if he has a family.
“Alright, let’s get the hell out of here,” I say, leading the man toward the rear exit of the restaurant. I’ve had a busy day, and I’d like to get back to Honey to see how she’s doing. I just hope she hasn’t gotten too riled up at the office.
Chapter Fourteen
Honey
I feel more like a prisoner than a wife right now, pacing around the bedroom like I’ve been locked up for years. It’s only been a few hours, but it feels like a lot longer with all that’s on my mind. I wish Carter would see sense in granting me my freedom, but he claims he doesn’t want me to get hurt. Maybe he just doesn’t want me to run away from him.
I wasn’t planning to. I actually kind of like him, as strange as it is. He’s good-looking, has a sense of humor, and he understands the kind of life I live. I mean, how many men would agree to marry a woman who has spent her whole life in the mafia? I gander, not many.
So, in that regard, I’m lucky. I’m allowed to be optimistic in light of my shady circumstances.
I turn around as I reach the wall, walking back to where I came from. I’ve been doing this nonstop since Carter left for work, and at this point, I’ve about burned a hole through the floor with my bare feet. I’m bored and irritable with nothing to do. I can’t live like this.
Just as I’m about to complain to one of the bodyguards outside my door, I hear footsteps approaching the room. Unsure of what to do with myself, I jump onto the bed, lying sideways on the mattress as I hear the sound of a key enter the lock on the door. Thank god, someone has come to check on me.
The door swings open, and Carter steps inside, bringing with him the fresh scent of the city streets, and the sour smell of cheap noodles. “Sorry to keep you here like this,” he says, closing the door behind him. “Henry told me you weren’t interested in
