Page 108 of Beautiful Revenge

And that voice hits me in the chest like a wrecking ball.

“Fuck,” I mutter into the phone.

“Devon,” Ozzy calls for me. “Do you think Turner is talking about the Humphries guy?”

I don’t answer. For the first time in years, I don’t give a shit about Victor Turner. It’s the other voice on the line that captures all my attention.

There’s no way.

It can’t be.

When I say it’s an impossibility, I mean it with every fiber of my being.

It cannot fucking be. My brain knows it, even if my gut disagrees. World War III might as well be breaking out between them.

Fact versus emotion.

“Devon, did I lose you?”

“Fuck,” I repeat, not able to form complete thoughts. “It can’t be ... there’s no way...”

“What the hell, Vic?”

“It’s about time you answered. We need to talk,” Turner growls.

“How many times do I need to tell you? Don’t fucking ring me.”

“Let’s not forget who funds your entire fucking life. If I want to talk to you, I’ll fucking talk to you.”

“Make it quick.”

“What kind of imbeciles do you have working for you? You shot my man.”

“First of all, I didn’t shoot anyone. Malloy was stupid to put himself that close to a target. He knows when my people have a clear shot, they’re damn well going to take it. That’s on him.”

“They shot my man,” Turner repeats in a thunder. “He’s contracted for me for years, and now he’s lifeless in some meager medical center with more attention on him than any of us need. We know from the taps that the local Chief of Police is anxious for him to wake up to question him. That can’t happen, and you know what I mean,” Turner growls.

There’s a pause before the other voice on the line asks, “Should I take that as an order?”

Turner’s tone lowers. “Too much is at stake. Fuck, everything is at stake. I never should’ve taken the Madison job. It’s been a shitshow from the beginning, and now Humphries is a royal pain in my arse. He’s so desperate, I’m about to cut ties for good.”

“Job security for me.”

“This is on you!” Turner roars. “Make the entire thing go away and do it on your own fucking dime. And when I ring you, answer your fucking phone. Got it?”

There’s another pause before he finally gives in and relents. “Got it. I’ll talk to my team and send someone. Anything else, boss?”

“Humphries and Malloy will talk. I want them gone, and I want it done by you,” Turner orders.

“Me?! There’s no way?—”

“Oh, there’s a fucking way. Find it, and make it happen. I want it done in the next forty-eight hours. I’d demand it be done faster, but this is me being rational since you’re on another continent. I won’t entrust this to anyone else. It’s your mess, you clean it up. And if you don’t, consider yourself part of the mess that will be eliminated.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? After all we’ve been through?—”

“Try me ... see if I’m serious.”

“I can’t go to Winslet. You know that. Donnelly has set roots there. We might’ve put him out to pasture, but he was one of the best. I can’t risk being anywhere near him. Hell, he almost took you down. Of all the places in the world, I cannot go there, dammit.”