Page 12 of Dirty Game

Three times.

Never answer on the first.

On the fourth, I pick up.

“King.” My voice is quiet, steel on stone.

“Sir,” comes the voice from downstairs, security detail, loyal but not creative. “We have Marco Lombardi in the lobby. He’s making it very apparent he’s here to see his sister.”

I roll my tongue over the inside of my cheek, tasting the phantom of old copper.

“And?”

“He says if we don’t let him up so he can speak to all of us properly, he’ll start making noise. Media, cops, the works.”

Of course, he would. Marco’s never known when to cut his losses.

Like every Lombardi, he can’t see past his own reflection.

“Is Rosalynn aware?” I say, watching my own eyes narrow in the glass.

“She’s currently down here with him. I called the guest room before I called you sir, and I, uh… made the wrong decision. She came down straight away.”

Rage bubbles up within me.

How dare he?

“Hold him there. I’ll be down in five.” I hang up before I hear the yes, sir.

The glass in my hand is empty, but I set it down carefully.

My temper is rising, and if I don’t calm down before heading downstairs, I might kill this motherfucker.

As I head for the elevator, I brush my fingertips over the bloodstain on my sleeve.

Just a reminder. Some debts don’t wash out.

The elevator opens onto the lobby floor with a hydraulic sigh.

The air is colder down here, sharpened by the marble underfoot and the vaulted glass above.

Security lines the walls—my men, each one handpicked, each one bred for loyalty and nothing else.

They stand at attention, waiting for the signal to unleash hell or hold the line.

I give them neither.

Marco Lombardi is right where I expect him, posturing at the center of the foyer.

He’s bigger than the last time I saw him, bulked out with gym muscle and too many nights inhaling his own product.

His suit fits like armor.

But he’s not built for the type of violence my world demands.

You can always tell.

Rosalynn stands next to him, a couple of steps behind, held at the elbow in a grip so tight the tips of Marco’s fingers whiten with effort.