Corrupted Queen - Nicole Fox Page 0,4

will be consequences.”

He nods and leaves.

Why are you running, Alexis?

This question has plagued me every day. Our relationship was tense in the week leading up to her abduction, but I rescued her. I sacrificed myself in her place. I could have easily died that night, and now I have three painful reminders of that fact in my shoulder and both legs. But do I get even an ounce of gratitude? No.

I miss Harry. I never gave much thought to having kids before he came into my life, but now I can’t picture my life without him. His laugh is an instant stress reliever. I loved watching him discover the world, the look of wonder that seemed permanently etched on his features.

I miss Alexis, too, but then I think about how she manipulated my feelings to get behind my defenses and snoop through my things, and I try to push down any emotions I have for her.

Even so, I worry about them both.

I am just about to open my laptop and get back to work when my phone rings. It’s Antonio, informing me that he’s brought the bomber and they’re now in the cellar waiting for me. I thank him and tell him I will be right down.

Though the bombing was bad, interrogating the culprit will be a welcome distraction from the failed capture of Alexis. I rise from my chair and massage the muscles in my legs a little before making my way down to the cellar.

Antonio is waiting there with a couple of guards, and they have already strapped the bomber to a chair in the center of the room. Antonio is passing a knife back and forth between his beefy hands, and he hands it to me when I reach him.

“His name is Ian Smith,” Antonio tells me.

“Ian Smith.” I take the knife and walk to the prisoner, lifting his chin with the flat of the blade. “I don’t know if you’ve been living under a rock, Ian, but Patrick Walsh and I have called a truce. He is going to be very upset with you for bombing my store.”

Ian is a slight man with almond-shaped green eyes. He narrows them into slits and spits on the ground by my feet. “Patrick Walsh can suck my dick.”

I cock a brow, removing the knife. “Is that so?” I look back at Antonio. “What do you think Patrick will say when he hears that, I wonder?”

“I don’t think he’ll be very happy,” Antonio replies.

“What do I care?” Ian growls.

“Our truce means I can’t kill you,” I reply. “But he can, and I think he’ll certainly be inclined to if he finds out what kinds of things you’re saying about him.”

This takes the wind from his sails a little, and his posture sinks. I smile.

“Why did you bomb the store?” I ask. “Do you have a personal vendetta against me?”

I do not recognize this man, so I find that unlikely, but why else would he go through the effort of contravening Patrick Walsh’s moratorium to damage my business? Especially when, in doing so, he has almost certainly forfeited his life.

“Being loyal to Patrick Walsh means being loyal to you. I remain loyal to Andrew Walsh. The Irish have fought the Italians my whole life, and I will not bow down to you pasta-munching guidos now.”

“Interesting.” I look back at my men, who share similar expressions of surprise.

I suppose I can understand how Andrew Walsh inspired such loyalty. Under his leadership, the Irish experienced a brief period of dominance over us. And now it is over.

“Are there others like you?” I ask.

Ian shrugs.

Maintaining a neutral expression, I swiftly deposit the blade of the knife into the meat of his thigh. Ian screams.

“I don’t think you heard me.” I wrench the knife free, holding it at his eye level as ruby drops of blood drip from the edge. “I asked if there were others like you.”

“Yes!” Ian groans. “There are others!”

I wipe the blade on Ian’s shirt and step back to Antonio, lowering my voice. “Hand him over to Patrick and tell him what we’ve learned. Remind Patrick that attacks on our territory from any Irish, no matter which Walsh they follow, are in direct violation of our treaty and it’s up to my discretion whether I choose to retaliate or not.” I hand him the knife. “Hopefully, that will incentivize him to root these insurgents out.”

I leave the cellar, climbing the stairs to the main floor and then up again toward my