Tree Of Souls (Transfusion Saga #6) - Stephanie Hudson Page 0,51
the fuck was my daughter doing at a fucking chop shop!?”
“That, my friend, is precisely what I am about to find out, but I think we both can guess, seeing as she wasn’t driving your car when she arrived at the hotel,” I said pointing out the obvious.
“Gods in fucking Heaven, Amelia!” He cursed under his breath and I didn’t bother telling him that I had already uttered the same curse seconds after the reporter had told me who it was that Amelia had been trying to find.
“Let me know what you discover.”
“And the car?” I asked making him groan,
“Use your imagination and if that doesn’t work, write a fucking cheque, after all I know you’re good for it.” I scoffed a laugh before telling him,
“Fine but consider it a gift that I will be reminding you of when I am marrying your daughter.” After this I ended the call to the sound of his growl and allowing my frustration a moment’s reprieve after smirking to the thought riling my former King. A sound that despite the circumstances still managed to amuse me.
However, that amusement died the moment I started issuing orders which included calling the helicopter pilot and telling him to get the bird ready as I wasn’t wasting over two hours driving to Albany from the city. Which meant arranging yet another car to be waiting for me when I got to whichever pad was closest for us to land on. During which time I also called Dante, now with a new name for him to research,
A gangster by the name of Big B.
The moment the reporter had mentioned him an image of the blood on Amelia’s hands instantly came to mind and I hated where those reasons took me to, having a bad feeling in my gut. But then again, I also didn’t see any bruises on her in the image she portrayed back to me in the mirror and none were described when questioning the receptionist at the hotel.
Which was why, by the time I reached Washington Avenue and was sat across from the chop shop, I already had a pretty good idea of what I would find inside. Knowing Amelia, it would be broken bones and a red Ferrari.
“Do you have what I need?” I said as a way of answering the phone the moment Dante called me back.
“Oh yeah, I have what you need,” was his amused answer.
“Good, time to go and introduce myself then.”
“It would be rude not to,” he agreed with what I knew was a smirk. And my answer was a simple and knowing one…
“Indeed.”
Night had started to fall by the time I got out of the limo, telling the driver that I would no longer be needing the car and as I took one look at the double roller doors, I told him,
“I will shortly have alternative travel.”
Then I slammed the door and walked across the street up to the doors that I knew were locked. I decided against knocking and instead got right to the point. Something I did by reaching down and forcing them to lift, snapping the locks with the resounding echo of cracking metal as the doors started to crumple upwards. I felt the anger rolling through my senses and rage fueling my blood as it pumped around my body at a greater speed. Now I know I could have just walked inside and commanded every mortal to their knees, at the same time draining them of every memory that contained my girl.
But really,
Where was the fun in that?
No, this way it gave me the rare opportunity to expel some pent-up anger and frustrations. Which was why, when I walked through the now broken doors, I cracked my head to the side, relishing the snap of pain it rewarded. Gods, but I needed what felt like a whole day on the mats, fighting someone with skill. Because one look at the mortals in this garage and I almost wanted to roll my eyes. Although, the more I looked, taking in the details of each, I finally allowed myself a deadly grin.
My girl had done well.
Damn it, but I hated it when she was fucking right! She could take care of herself. Fuck, but just looking at these guys and now I was wondering if she couldn’t be classed as a dangerous weapon on the streets of the mortal world. Of course, it wasn’t the mortal world I was concerned about…it was my own.