Page 33 of Heartfelt Pain (Ruling Love #3)

Ren

T he hotel is swanky but stuffy. The bar on the top floor is empty, except for one woman reading a newspaper next to a roaring fireplace. She holds it directly in front of her face.

Joan Stuart’s family owns the hotel. It’s supposed to be a charming mix of British coziness with high-class amenities. No doubt the whiskey on the table is top shelf. The BBC plays on one of the televisions above the bar where a man wipes a glass tumbler clean.

His head turns at the sound of my heels against the floor. At least until I get to the thick rug which is supposed to make the place feel more inviting. It’s not until I slide into the chair across from her, that Joan lowers the paper.

She’s blonde. The hair just dusting the top of her shoulders. She’s wearing a suit, but it’s not all crisp edges. There’s a softness to this plump woman with stunning blue eyes.

“I heard you’d hurt yourself.” The paper wrinkles as she sets it aside.

When she speaks, her voice is soft-spoken, and the English accent is a pretty trinkle. She’s who you want your neighbor to be. Or your grandmother.

The nice, kindly woman who might not be a stunning supermodel, but she’s pretty and soft and will offer you tea.

Or whiskey in this case. She nods to the barman.

“Is it bad?” she asks, glancing at my wrist. Trevino wrapped it again for me.

I pull out a silver lighter. It belonged to Aunt Macy. “Do you mind?” I light up before she can respond.

If anything there’s an amused look on her rosy cheeks. She shakes her head when I offer her a cigarette.

“I thought you Brits liked to smoke?” I inhale, filling my lungs. I can’t believe I went several days without the stuff.

“It’s horrible for your health, dear.” She smiles in thanks to the bartender who brings her a fresh whiskey and deposits one in front of me.

“Thanks,” I say to his retreating figure. “I’m surprised there’s not a dog in here? Like an Irish wolfhound or something.”

Joan hums under her breath. It’s a delightful noise. Everything about her is happy. “No, I left Ronnie the whippet at home. I’m afraid he doesn’t like all the noise in New York.”

“Aren’t you from London?”

“He finds it much more civilized,” she remarks.

What it must be like to be a whippet curled up in a million-dollar mansion with his own butler.

Joan says nothing as I flick ash into a tray the bartender set down. Smoking in bars is illegal in the city, but when you own the entire building, who cares?

And if anything, Joan is welcoming to her guests.

At least when she’s not trying to kill them.

“I thought it was you,” I admit, inhaling. “Very kind of you to take out all my exes. ”

A soft smile passes over her face. So this is what it’s like talking to a psychopath.

“You could’ve asked for a meeting.” I lean my elbow on the back of the chair, carefully keeping the lit cigarette away from my hair as I reach for the whiskey. “Bit overkill don’t you think, going for my eighth grade sweetheart?”

“I did feel slightly bad for that one.” Except there’s nothing to indicate that it’s true.

“You’re trying to make a move into New York? The whole Leopold debacle might’ve made you a few enemies.”

“Leopold made a few unfortunate decisions,” Joan says, her hands clasping together on the table.

“Your grandson went after Lev Zimin’s daughter-in-law.”

She nods, a placating expression on her round face. “It was never our intentions to get on Gia Akatov’s bad side.”

“Right.” I tap more ash into the tray. “It’s hardly good for business, pissing off the Russians. Especially, if you want to start up your own business as a broker like Aunt Macy.”

They’d made a few outreaches when I first took over. Some inquiries into whether I’d entertain offers. Cliff had advised me to tell them to fuck off, though, now I know the reason had more to do with his own efforts to take over the business.

I stub out the rest of the cigarette.

“It was the guy waiting in my hallway with a gun,” I say, “that threw me off for a second. Changed everything.”

But when Trevino explained it had nothing to do with me, I went back to the people I’d suspected from the beginning.

“You’re so sure you’re going to get rid of me, you already started hiring out work?” The fucking audacity. Maybe I should sit back and see how the Stuarts end up playing with the Russians. “Why Isolde?”

Why does she have a hit out on her?

There’s a motherly quality to Joan. It’s all fake, of course, but her sigh is like a mother having to watch her kid discover the tough side of life. “Isolde Mattheson did that all on her own. Made enemies that no one would want.”

Who? I’m desperate to know but can’t show it. Not that it matters. Joan Stuart knows how much my friend means to me.

“You hired a triggerman for a customer looking to kill my best friend.”

Joan appears unapologetic. “You know how it is as a businessowner. Turning away work is silly.”

“Your work is in England,” I point out, arms crossed. “Why the sudden urge to pick up territory in New York?”

“It’s good to branch out now and then.”

“And killing all my ex’s?”

“It wasn’t my idea. What can I say? My brother likes a bit of pizzaz sometimes. And you know men. I suggested we do exactly this. Have a conversation face to face. Make a fair bid.”

“Your brother knew I wouldn’t accept.”

She bobs her head. “Hence, the need to prod you a long a little. I said it sounded more like poking the bear.”

“I’ve killed for this job. What makes you think I won’t again?”

“You’re tired, sweetheart. I see it on your face. It’s tough, working on your own. And at the end of the day you’re a businesswoman. We’re making you a fair offer. A tidy sum. Something to retire on. That’s rather a lot considering you’re not even thirty yet.”

“And what will you do? Set up at Fujimori’s?”

“My nephew is good with people and he likes sushi. It’ll be a bit of change. It always is when new faces come in. But the Stuarts are known for their efficiency.”

“Are you sure about that? I’ve heard the O’Connells in Dublin are fucking with your supply chains.”

“Yes,” she admits. “But our goal to invest in America predates that bit of. . . nonsense. ”

I laugh slightly, lifting my whiskey to my lips. “Billions of dollars in real estate in London isn’t enough?”

“We’re ambitious.”

You’re fucking stupid.

I might harbor wild ambitions of growing, but even I know there’s a risk of popping like a fat balloon if you gobble up too much. No one will appreciate a territory grab by the Stuarts.

“Would you like another one?” Joan asks. She doesn’t mean the whiskey. My fingers keep playing with the silver lighter in my hand.

I light up again.

“It’s incredible what you’ve done,” she patronizes. “Adding to your aunt’s reputable business. We don’t expect you to go off the grid completely.”

“Right.” The cigarette stays by my lips. “I’ll open up shop in Columbus.”

“Crime is everywhere.”

“And what happens when you decide to move shop to the Midwest too?”

Are the Stuarts expecting something like manifest destiny?

“Oh no,” Joan breezes. “Vancouver perhaps, but that’s for the next generation.”

One thing I’ll say: she’s very good with the one-liners.

My chest lifts, straining against the blousy material of my shirt. I already miss the comfy clothes from the past few days.

“Would you like to talk specifics?” Joan asks.

“By specifics you mean what cut rate deal you’ll offer me?” Smoke escapes my mouth. “I suppose I can look forward to more dead bodies if I resist your offers?”

God, the fucking nerve of them. My ex’s didn’t deserve the treatment and I don’t like the outdated tactic.

“Who’s next?” I ask. “You’re already coming after my best friend. ”

She tuts under her breath. “No, no, Mattheson gained those enemies on her own.”

“On to Ben, then.” He might be dating Abe Fujimori, but it doesn’t matter. They’ll shift the business elsewhere. They don’t care about keeping the peace between the different criminal syndicates. “But then what? You saw what happened when Leopold went after Lennie Akatov.”

“You’re making this out to be much more nefarious than it is.”

I crush the cigarette into the ashtray. “You’re right.”

Joan blinks.

“I’m hangry.” I brush my hair back and finish off my whiskey. “I told you once to piss off. That I wasn’t going to sell the business. But it’s been five long years.”

Joan cocks her head to the side.

“Like you said, I’m tired. I never set out to get into all of this, you know. Aunt Macy sprang it on me from the grave. You didn’t have to go after my old boyfriends. It’s quite rude actually.”

“In hindsight I should’ve fought harder for a meeting.”

“You are welcome to make me an offer.”

“So it is true?” She glances thoughtfully at my bandage wrist. “You took a tumble and thought a few things through?”

I laugh, amused. “I tripped on my heel. Though, I suppose I should be thankful you weren’t nearby to trip me down the stairs. I’ve enjoyed the time off. And life has changed.”

“Has it?” Joan asks.

“I don’t want to be tired.” To constantly whirl from meeting to meeting. To struggle with Ben. And now I need to carve out time to figure out what the fuck is going on with Isolde.

I stand up. “At the end of the day I’m a businesswoman, though. Make me an offer. We’ll see how it compares to the others.”

Joan is much too skilled to show much of anything beyond a pursed lip.

When Aunt Macy died people lined up to try and take over the business. It’s lucrative.

“What?” I ask, innocently. “You’re not afraid of a little market competition are you?”