I don’t have some answers soon enough.
Freeing my mobile, I notice I’ve nothing from my fiancée. She doesn’t seem to fancy me much, at least not enough to ring me or message. Nevertheless, I brush it aside and send a quick text to T, letting him in on the latest. Which happens to be not a motherfucking thing. Grrr, I grumble to myself. Rereading the message I sent him has me wanting to squeeze that numpty all over again. Perhaps I’ll go for squeezing his bullocks off this time around. I wonder if he’d come up with results then? Fucking tosser.
I type out a quick message to Ismerlda while I’m at it. May as well be the first one to break this ridiculous phone silence she seems fond of.
Me: Dinner, tonight?
Staring at the screen for a few beats, her reply never comes and it further irritates me. It looks like it’s going to be one of those blasted taxing days. Fuck it. I prefer to take matters into my own hands anyhow.
“Andre!” I shout, and the fella practically comes running. At least he doesn’t trip. That’d be a real travesty, falling at my feet in front of the crew moving about. Andre’s not a small man by any means either, but he knows his place—as my dog. “Fetch the car. We’re paying my fiancée a little visit. It’s time those bloody businessmen know who she belongs to and who’ll kill them should they cross me.”
“Yes, Mr. Macintosh.” He nods and shifts for his desk. He grabs his keys and straps on his Glock under his suit jacket.
“This isn’t a bloody school outing. Hurry the fuck up and get on with it, bloke.”
His head bobs as he jogs out the door. He knows better than to call me until the car’s warm and directly in front of the door. I may be a gangster, but I’m still an indulgent arse when it comes to luxury and being a bit spoilt. I’ll get dirty in a blink, but don’t fuck with my comfort. It’ll only get you on my shit list and eventually slaughtered.
We make it to Ismerlda’s building in about forty minutes. The traffic in this damn city can be unreal when you catch it at the wrong time, and we happened to get lucky today. I toss the receptionist my license. I’m legal in the US, thanks to my mate helping me get everything started. It took years, but eventually it happened, and I was finally privy to everything the Americans are. Dual citizenships are a grand thing to have when you’re in my line of work.
“I can call their floor, but there’s no guarantee of you going up today. I don’t have you on the appointment list nor the preapproved visitors log.” She types away on her computer, sparing me a quick glance, but nothing more.
My brow hikes. The two men I sent to work with Ismerlda today are upstairs in her office at this very moment, so I shouldn’t be surprised the ground floor isn’t wanting to buzz me up right away. It wouldn’t be a big deal if I walked in with one of the senior employees, but apparently showing up without one is an issue. I’d be pleased with this turn of events if it were any other bloke and not me. I’ve never done well with barriers—I tend to forge my own path through them—and this may end with me taking someone’s badge and scanning the lift with it until I have Ismerlda in my sights.
“I’m her fiancé,” I counter, attempting to remain polite. It’d take nothing at all to shoot her buttoned-up tits, along with the two pigs stationed on opposite sides of the expansive entryway. They aren’t real bobbies or anything, just the pricks you rent who put on a uniform to pretend they’re bad arses. I doubt they’re even armed, as Chicago is positively bonkers when it comes to their gun laws. I have a few strapped to me, however. I never leave home without my trusty firearms.
“I don’t have you on my list. I apologize,” she responds without any mirth in her tone whatsoever.
I cast an irritated glance to Andre and bark at the vexing woman, “Don’t just bloody sit there! Call her!” Did I mention I’m not a patient man before? Well, I’m not, especially when rudeness is involved. I’ll bloody well hurt your feelings.
“I’m going to have to ask you to calm down, sir. I’m only one person here,”