Page 11 of Heartfelt Pain (Ruling Love #3)

Ren

T he next morning I find Ben at Fujimori’s before me.

This is surprising because he and Abe did in fact show up at my place last night.

Abe, bless his heart, burst in like he would protect me.

All he found was a pile of laundry on the floor and a week’s worth of dishes in the sink.

The latter part confused him as he pointed out I almost exclusively eat at Fujimori’s.

Isolde spent the night, only because I refused to leave my apartment. She saw me get into my hired car this morning before heading off.

“Hey,” I greet. Abe and his dad haven’t begun their daily arguments so the place is quiet. The jukebox waits patiently for someone to pick a song. Ben’s got a cup of black coffee and his shirt sleeves are rolled up.

Ben’s my favorite person in the world. And I know I say that about all the people I love, but it’s true.

He’s more like a brother than a first cousin. We grew up running around in the yard together. Since we’re the same age we rode the school bus together. When we finally started to drive, we went to high school in his beat-up, dark blue Honda Civic. It broke down a lot, but Ben could always fix it.

That’s what he does. He’s patient, but not a pushover. Those two traits probably help him the most with his law career.

I never liked school. I didn’t feel smart enough. Until I owned my own business I never liked math. Now, I love going over a good spreadsheet.

Ben’s the smart one. No one blinked an eye when he not only went to law school but got a full ride. He could work at any law firm in New York. I truly believe that. But he started his own business and those first few years, after Cliff, he spent a lot of time holding my hand.

I needed help. And Bennie’s the one who got me through it.

“You need a refill?” I ask. He likes his coffee scalding and the moment it’s hot, but not burning, he stops drinking it.

There’s a light smile on his lips. He’s good-looking and many a lady have grown disappointed when they learn he’s gay. He runs a hand through his dark brown hair.

“I thought you had court this morning?” I ask over my shoulder. I pour myself a cup of coffee and bring the pot over to top his up.

“Thanks.” His voice is hoarse. Tired eyes and a pale face.

“What’s going on?”

He stares at me.

“Ben,” I prompt.

“You’re kidding right? Someone’s offing your boyfriends and then they show up at your apartment last night? And you’re asking me what’s going on?”

I clasp the hot mug in my hands, pulling warmth from it. “We don’t know if it’s connected.”

“Even if it’s not,” he reasons with a shake of his head. “Isolde told me Roman Zimin was there. ”

I don’t know which is darker. The cup of coffee in my hands or the shadows exuding from my cousin. “Yeah, he stopped by to ask a question.”

“A question?”

Specifically, he wanted to know if he could come, but that’s not what I tell Ben. “You know the Russians. They act like their time is more valuable.”

Ben knows it’s not a lie and I rush to add to my point while simultaneously moving the conversation forward.

“You know Boris Akatov wants us to run an analysis on the Irish.”

Ben rubs his lower lip, before reaching for his coffee. An air of studiousness overtakes the worry. “How do you feel about that?”

I take another sip of coffee, savoring the strong flavor. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Ben lifts his brows. “This the same woman who’s fulfilled nearly every request from all her clients? You don’t turn down work, Ren. Ever.”

“I thought you’d agree with me.”

“Oh, I do.” He takes another drink. “If the Russians want to take on the Irish, that’s their business. It’s not for us to decide.”

I nod. “It sounds fun, being a god to the criminal lords, but like you said, it’s not for us to decide.”

It puts us at risk. Having information and sometimes giving it out is one thing. Confirming whether or not taking out someone in a rival criminal syndicate is completely different. Some opinions need to stay close to the chest.

“Ren,” Ben says. “What was Roma really doing at your place last night?”

The coffee hasn’t helped my weary bones. “He wanted to ask me a question.”

It’s not a lie, but Ben certainly looks at me strangely .

“I sent him away.” It’s another truth. “You don’t have to look so worried.”

Ben carefully sets his coffee cup down. There’s a spread of documents in front of him. “I came here because you asked me to. Because you called me in the middle of the night after you’d shot our long lost cousin in the head.”

I study one of the tiles on the floor. No one kills in Fujimori’s. It’s the code. But I broke it five years ago.

“I fucking hate the Russians,” Ben says. “We might put up with them for business, but I don’t ever want to see you get dragged into their shit again. Not after what they did to you. And Ren, there’s some weird shit going on.”

Five dead bodies. One masked intruder. Roma showing up at Hartright.

“Yeah, you’re right.” I head back to the kitchen for more coffee knowing it’s going to be a long day.

And I’m not wrong. I’ve got back-to-back meetings and I’m ignoring how my lower back aches. I’m looking forward to taking off my high heels.

I decide to open the backdoor into the alley since I haven’t seen the outdoors since about seven this morning. The spring rain has mostly left.

I lean against the doorjamb, eating noodles on my afternoon break, when I spy Isolde Mattheson talking to a man.

He towers over her, and his blue suit is well-made. Dark hair and a watch that probably costs thousands are all the details I need to know who, and what, he is.

Isolde, wearing her typical tracksuit, nods at something he says. And then, almost awkwardly, the man lifts his hand. I’m not sure if he’s going for a wave, a pat on the shoulder, or a hug. Isolde dips her head in another nod and the man steps back.

I’m reminded of Boris, picking through the alleyway. This man easily steps over trash, but he has no business being in some sketchy alley. His life is one of boardrooms and penthouses and yachts.

“What the fuck is Hadrian Hallow doing here?”

It’s hard to surprise Isolde, but her chin jerks up, her blue eyes stark against her pale skin.

“Do you know him?” I ask around a bite of noodles.

When Isolde first arrived in New York, she made sure to learn all the names and faces of important people, shadowy figures or not. But she doesn’t rub elbows.

“He used to date my sister.”

Of all the strange things happening lately, it’s this bit of information that nearly knocks me over.

Isolde doesn’t talk about her sister. Not much. I know the bare details. How someone raped and killed her. And how Isolde then killed that someone.

I would’ve never in my life thought there’d be a connection between her sister and someone like Hadrian Hallow.

And that there’s still a connection.

“Is everything all right?” I ask.

She shrugs. A second later adds, “It’d have been my sister’s birthday today.”

Oh God.

My insides shrivel up and die in shame. I had no way of knowing, but it seems like something I should’ve been aware of. Should I ask Abe to get a cake? It can’t magically fix anything, but would it be a proper way to honor her?

Before I can ask, Isolde’s already moved on.

“I’ve got an errand to run. Ben says you’re free the next couple of hours.”

“You checked my schedule?” Via Ben?

“Hi,” a new voice greets.

Lennie appears and Isolde whistles.

“Look at you,” I gush, stepping back so she has space to duck into the alley .

Lennie blushes at the attention. Her trench coat is open, showing off a cute blue dress. It’s paired with white sneakers.

“Seriously, I wore it to work, it’s not that nice,” she mutters.

Long gone is the girl too scared to wander into a book club. Lennie speaks with confidence. She’s calmer and doesn’t hesitate.

And now that she lives in the city, she pops into Fujimori’s more.

“Elijah had a meeting,” she explains. “Thought I’d stop by for dinner.”

She glances at the empty bowl in my hand with a smile.

“Isolde has an errand,” I say.

“You want to come?” she offers.

“This about dead bodies again?” At our startled look, Len adds, “Abe told me.”

Damn it, Abe.

She crosses her arms, motherly disappointment exuding from her. “Why wasn’t I asked to go to the junkyard?”

“You wanted to see a dead body?” Isolde asks. As if Lennie hasn’t seen dead bodies before.

“I want to be included in whatever fucked up adventure this is,” she retorts.

“Adventure,” I sigh. “I quite like calling it that. Makes it sound a lot less bad.”

Isolde closes her eyes, her chest lifting with a breath. When she opens them a second later, she’s back to business. “Right, let’s go.”