Bloody Heart (Brutal Birthright #4) - Sophie Lark Page 0,85
say to Simone.
Her amber-colored eyes flit up to look at me, and I see the flare of excitement in them. But it only lasts a second, and then she’s biting her lip, looking troubled.
“I . . . I have some jobs booked,” she says.
“So what. Come back after.”
“I want to,” she says.
“What’s the problem? Is it your family—”
“NO!” she interrupts. “It’s not them. I would never . . . I wouldn’t let that stop me. I don’t care what they think anymore.”
Her face is dark and almost angry. I’m not sure where that bitterness comes from. Maybe just regret at how they influenced her before.
I don’t care. I don’t blame her for that anymore. She was young. We both were.
“What is it, then?” I ask her.
Simone is looking down at her plate, ripping her toast into fragments.
“I have to talk to you about something,” she says. “Tonight.”
“Why tonight? Why not right now?”
“I have to do something else, first.”
I don’t like the mystery. I feel like Simone and I have no chance if we can’t be completely open with each other. I don’t want to be blindsided like I was before.
“Just promise me something,” I say.
“Anything.”
“Promise you won’t run away again.”
I don’t say it out loud, but if she does . . . I’m just going to put a gun to my head and fucking kill myself. Because I won’t survive it again.
Simone looks me right in the eye. Her face is somber and sad.
“I won’t leave you,” she says.
I think she’s telling the truth. But the enunciation of the sentence is slightly off—like she’s saying, “I won’t leave you.” Like she’s implying I might leave her instead.
That doesn’t make sense, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not going to fuck up our conversation this time around.
“Where do you want to meet tonight?” I ask her.
“Come to my hotel,” she says. “Nine o’clock, after Henry goes to bed.”
“Perfect. I’ll be there.”
Nothing could keep me away. Not this time.
I kiss Simone again, tasting the butter and coffee on her lips. Then I walk her down to the front entryway, so she can take a cab back to her hotel. I’m sure she’s anxious to get back to her nephew.
I’ve got my own plans for the day.
First, I’m supposed to meet Cal and Aida for lunch. And after that, I’m going to figure out what the fuck is going on with this shooter. I’ve got some contacts who track hired killers—if a contract was put out on Yafeu Solomon, they may have heard about it.
I’m meeting my sister at a restaurant on Randolph Street, close to City Hall where Cal has his alderman office. Aida’s in there half the time as well, meeting with councilmen and aldermen, teamsters and business owners, helping Cal broker the hundred different deals than benefit our families.
Cal was instrumental in getting the first part of the South Shore Development approved. Today we’re going over the permits for phase two, which should start next year, after our current tower block is finished.
So I spend the morning down at South Shore, making sure nothing’s getting fucked up past fixing then, right before noon, I drive over to the Rose Grille.
It’s a large, busy restaurant, with dozens of white-cloth covered tables, sparkling glassware, and baskets of fresh rolls with whipped honey butter. It’s a favorite spot for political types, since City Hall is right across the street. Almost all the diners have their phones out, tweeting or texting or whatever the fuck they do to try to stay relevant every minute of the day.
Cal and Aida are already seated when I get there. Aida’s punctuality has improved about ten thousand percent since she married Cal. I can see she’s already demolished half the rolls. My sister’s appetite was legendary even before she was pregnant, so I’d hate to see her grocery bill in the third trimester.
We’re sitting next to the large picture window at the front of the restaurant. The sun is glaring in my eyes. I try to lower the blinds.
“Why don’t you just sit on the other side of the table?” Aida asks me.
“He doesn’t want to sit with his back to the door,” Cal says, without looking up from the stack of permit papers.
Cal knows. It’s a commonality between gangsters and soldiers that you never sit with your back to the doorway.
The blinds are fixed in place and can’t be lowered. I take my seat again, pushing my chair back a little.