Page 10 of Broken

Liam

I had come down with a slight cold after leaving the prison. It persisted for days, to the point where I was in bed, unmoving and unavailable for business. That meant leaving my cousin in charge of things; Valentin as my second in command was more than capable of handling Bratva business. The only thing on the agenda was a transaction happening with the Reapers, a motorcycle gang in the area. They had a shipment of guns coming in and Valentin being a weapons expert and enforcer was going to inspect them and either buy or not.

I had complete and utter faith in my cousin that he would make all of the necessary calls.

As for myself, I just needed to try and regain strength. My personal chef had been preparing homemade chicken noodle soup. I had given her my mother's recipe, but it hadn't tasted the same, although she claimed to be following it down to the very last teaspoon.

Tonight, had been the gala, and the noise had finally quieted down. My housekeeper had made sure to escort everyone from the premises, I was sure. As I steadied myself, I made movement to stand. When the room didn't immediately start to spin, I knew I might be able to make it downstairs to find myself something to eat.

Descending the stairs was easier than I anticipated, but I was still a little groggy. Holding onto the bannister, I made it without incident. The coolness of the wooden floor seemed to sooth my warm body.

I opened the refrigerator and stood there, momentarily being blinded by the light from inside it. A pain started behind my eyes and I brought my hands forward to massage my temples before closing the fridge door. There was nothing in there that would quell my appetite, which meant waiting until morning. I would have my chef make me one of her famous omelets.

I had just placed my foot onto the bottom stair when I heard a floorboard creek from the floor above. Pausing in my movement, I stood with one foot on the bottom step and a hand on the bannister.

Listening.

Where had that sound come from? Surely, someone hadn't dared to invade my house. Anyone smart enough knew this would be the wrong house to target for any reason. The nameSafaryanbrought fear into the hearts of men and women who were on the wrong side of the law.

I waited.

Slowed my breathing.

Waited some more.

And there it was.

Soft at first. Subtle even. But it was there. Another creak. Someone was in my fucking house, in my study.

I cracked my neck, readying myself for the next move. I needed to think smart. I had one weapon located on this floor. Whoever it was, was already a dummy.

Easing up the stairs, making sure to quiet my breathing, the weight of the gun made my arms feel almost heavy. I surveyed the hallway that led to my bedroom. Nothing. There was nothing in sight but more darkness. Nothing moved. There was only a hint of light coming from my study. The soft light seemed to flood from under the door, creating a thin milky line of contained illumination.

I inched along as careful as a walker on a tightrope. The bare wall seemed to add extra support to my weakened state. Mentally, I prepared myself that for whoever had invaded my home might be out to also kill me and not just rob me.

I took one final deep breath, blinked rapidly and placed my hand on the doorknob. I yanked it open quickly, gun pointed directly at my target. I came face to face with a woman dressed completely in all black. The safe in my wall that hung behind my mother and father's painted portrait had been cracked. The door to it was wide open and there she stood with my mother's pearls around her neck and a gem in her hands. The light from my desk was causing the Ruby to look as though it were spitting fire as light flecks danced all around the room.

"Well shit," she responded.

"You picked the wrong fucking house," I told her, gun still pointed.

"No," she replied, a smirk dancing on her features. "I picked the right one. Just didn't realize the owner was going to be home."

"Shut the hell up and replace everything before I kill you." I pulled the slide on the Glock back.

I had no problem killing a woman, especially one who had decided to steal from me. I took in her features. She was the color of warm coffee sprinkled with hints of cinnamon. Her dark hair had been pulled into a ballerina bun and the black clothing she wore left not much to the imagination.

She was fuckable.

Very.

But she had just broken into my mansion and now I had a gun trained on her, ready to blow her into Cook County General. My arm began to shake. The weakness was still coursing through my body. I was tired.

Unsteady.

She made a movement, her head tilted, and she spoke, "I don't think you'd be able to shoot me right now if your life depended on it."

"Try me, sweetheart," I replied a malice in my voice that I usually reserved for men that I killed.