Page 54 of Red Fury

What the hell is Fury up to? I’m not talking about his dick, either. I couldn’t care about that. What is this business meeting?

I grab my phone and open our message thread. All evening, I’ve been dying to know what he said in those texts, even though I told myself I didn’t care.

I stare at the messages, my anger flaring higher. That’s it? That’s his idea of an apology? A halfhearted “I’m sorry.”

Well, fuck that.

I start pacing the length of the room, my dragon stirring. She’s picking up on my agitation, my frustration at being sidelined yet again.

I could call him. Demand to know what this Black Blood meeting is about. But it’s clear where I stand with him now. We’re no longer working together. He made that decision when he chose suspicion over trust.

When he didn’t say a single word about this meeting.

Hedidtry to talk to me about something. Maybe…? No! It was too little too late.

Fine. If that’s how he wants to play it, then I’ll play by the same rules.

I’d already decided earlier that I was done sitting around waiting for intel to come to me. Done hoping that opportunities would present themselves. If I want answers, I’m going to have to go get them myself.

I move to the closet and pull out the little black dress I pack on every business trip, just in case. It’s a simple but elegant piece that hugs my body in all the right places, with a neckline that’sprofessional enough for business dinners but sultry enough for after-hours activities.

Tonight, I definitely need sultry.

I lay the dress on the bed next to the black stiletto heels I brought for the same just-in-case scenarios. The shoes add four inches to my already impressive height and make my legs look like they go on for miles.

If Fury and his team think they can cut me out of whatever operation they’re running, they’re about to learn otherwise. I’m going to Black Blood tonight, and I’m going to find out exactly what the hell is going on.

Whether they want me there or not.

17

Fury

The line outside Black Blood stretches around the block. It’s a sea of designer clothes mingled with desperate hope. There are several bouncers stationed at the entrance. They’re all built like tanks, dressed in black suits and ties.

“Wowza,” Thompson says, craning his neck to get a better look through the side window of our Uber. “Look at the size of those guys.”

Even by my standards, these bouncers are big.

“I hope we get in,” Thompson mutters.

The bouncer closest to the entrance has a tablet in his hands, scrolling in that bored fashion that comes from turning away hundreds of people every night.

“Don’t worry about it,” Webb says, straightening his tie as our driver pulls up to the curb. “We’re VIP guests. It won’t be a problem.”

The confidence in his voice doesn’t quite hide the nervousness underneath as he rubs his hands together. He wants this to go well just as much as I do, probably more. His career could depend on maintaining a good relationship with Kozlov.

We climb out of the car into the humid Chicago night, and I immediately scope the area out of habit. Multiple exits, good sight lines, but also plenty of places for trouble to hide. The kind of place that looks glamorous on the surface but could turn dangerous fast.

Webb strides toward the entrance. Thompson and I follow, and I can’t help but notice the way people in line eye us with curiosity. Especially me. At six-foot-eight, I tend to draw attention whether I want it or not.

They elbow one another and talk under their breath. I don’t care to listen in because, by now, I’ve heard it all before.

“Excuse me,” Webb announces to the bouncer with the tablet, his voice carrying that bureaucratic authority he’s perfected over the years. “We’re guests of Roman Kozlov. Laurence Webb, Robert Thompson, and Damien Marsh.”

The bouncer looks up from his tablet. “Let me check.” I catch the slight Russian accent in his voice when he speaks. “You say you’re on the list?” He seems dubious, like he’s heard this line a thousand times before from people trying to talk their way past the velvet rope.

“We should be,” Webb replies, though I detect a hint of uncertainty creeping in. “Check under Webb…Laurence Webb.”