Raw, стр. 32

I’m not sure what to do with this information.

So I do nothing. And something.

I change the subject. “You do realize that it’s only two weeks ‘til your birthday, right?”

Completely on to me, she rolls her eyes, “Yes, mum, I do, but don’t even try to change the subject, girlie.” Smiling a sly smile, she whispers, “What’s he like?”

She’s dying to know. I can feel the want coming off of her in waves.

Thinking, I sigh and melt into my chair. “When it’s good, it’s the best and most beautiful thing I’ve ever experienced. So good, that it makes me feel bad for people who haven’t had the honor.” She smiles big and I add, “But when it’s bad…it’s bad, Nikki. A goddamn Greek tragedy. It’s horrific. And really fucking scary.” Stirring the coffee that no longer needs to be stirred, I whisper, “He scares me.”

I watch as the smile falls from her face. She now wears a look of anxiety.

Reaching across the table to take her hand in mine, I tell her honestly, “But those good times…” I sigh dreamily. “I’ll take the bad just so I can have the good. Because the good is outstanding. So, if you must know, I’m going with the flow and taking it as it comes.”

Nikki still looks worried, but her eyes have turned dreamy.

That’s what I love about Nikki. She’s a total romantic at heart.

“Okay, girlie. You’re smarter than anyone I know, so even though I worry about you, I know you’ll do what’s right for you. But promise me one thing: if it gets too intense, you’ll get out, regardless of how good the good is.”

I immediately reply, “I promise.”

And then I wonder why I just lied to my best friend’s face.

The kid’s got another five minutes to get here or he’s fucking fired.

And that would be a shitty way to start your first day.

He hasn’t called, even though he’s running late, and I’m officially pissed off. If he doesn’t know he’s in deep shit, he’ll soon find out when he gets here.

Suddenly my phone chirps.

Lexi: How’s Michael’s first day going? Please be nice to him. He’s a good kid, Twitch.

My anger fizzles marginally.

I don’t know how she does it, but she just does. My own form of anger management.

And she’s afraid of you.

That sudden unwelcome thought pulls a furrow from my brow.

Me: I would tell you if he showed up.

Her reply is immediate.

Lexi: Please don’t do anything rash. I’m on it.

Just as I hit reply, my office door opens and in comes Michael, head down, trudging into my office.

I quickly type to Lexi.

Me: He’s here. Stand down, mama bear.

Standing, I tell him, “Nice of you to finally sho—” My words cut off mid-speak when he walks closer to me and I notice the fat lip. Standing, I meet him halfway; my brow bunches as I use my fingers to gently lift his chin. Steeling his jaw, he closes his eyes tightly and allows me to inspect him.

One black eye, a broken nose, and a busted lip.

Shit.

Someone took their fists to him. They knocked him around good. I wonder how bad his body looks right now, but I won’t ask. I’ll leave him with what he has left of his dignity. The kid has done what I asked and bought himself new clothes and got a neat, short haircut. The new jeans are ripped, his new sneakers scuffed, and his bright white polo shirt is blood-stained and filthy.

Letting his chin go, I place my hands on my hips and sigh, “What happened, boy?”

He speaks without emotion, “I was told to give you this.”

Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out a folded piece of paper, smeared with droplets of blood. I take the paper and search his face. Blood trickles down his broken nose and drips onto the Persian rug in my office. As soon as he feels it, he places his hand under his nose, catching the blood, and he whispers fearfully, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

Walking over to my desk, I pull a handful of tissue out of the box and hand it to him. He takes it with a shaking hand and I ask, truly confused, “You scared of me?”

Placing the bunched tissue on his nose, he answers, “Should I be?”

Honesty. “Yes.”

Nodding, he looks me in the eyes. “Okay. That’s good then. I am scared of you.”

I like this kid. His smart mouth would normally annoy me. But with him, it doesn’t. Unfolding the note, I look down and read.

You want a war, you got one.

I know the answer before I ask, but I feel I have to confirm this. War is a big deal. To some.

“This from Hamid or Frank?”

Frank’s a pussy. He would never do something like this. His power was handed down from his father. I know for a fact he doesn’t want the position he was given. I mean, he is a mob prince. He’s an Italian mob prince who’s in love with a Russian mob princess. If I were him, I’d fucking shoot myself.

Michael looks at me through wide eyes and I sigh, “Hamid, you stupid fucker.”

This is definitely more Hamid’s speed. He works off fear tactics. Which is not unlike myself, but my presence alone instils that in the people around me. I don’t ever have to prove it. And if I do, they usually lose. Their lives, I mean. Hamid is an Iranian, sly fucking rat. He’d attack you while your back is turned. The guy is power hungry. Fuck drugs. Power is his drug of choice. And one day, it’ll be the death of him.

Narrowing my eyes at my new PA, I ask in interest, “If you had a choice to do something to Hamid without there being any consequences, what would you do?”

Michael’s eyes darken a shade. “I’d take his eye out. With something rusty. And blunt.”

My lips tip up at the side. I knew I liked this kid.

Pulling out my phone, I ignore the message received and call Happy. As soon as he answers, I keep my eyes on Michael and tell my business partner, “We got an issue that needs to be dealt with. Pronto.”

Happy responds, “What’s up?”

“We’re taking the kid off site for…” I smirk, “…training. We need ten men. Armed with something visible. Something big.”

Happy laughs, “Oh shit. Someone’s gonna get fucked up.”

Smiling, I bite the tip of my tongue. “Hell yeah. You down with that?”

Happy turns serious, “You know I got your back, bro. Always.”

And he does. I don’t know where I’d be without Happy or Julius.

I simply respond, “Ten minutes.”

Placing the corner of my phone in the dip in my chin, I hold it there a moment, lips pursed in thought.  Pointing the phone at Michael, I tell him, “Get your face sorted. We start training in ten minutes.”

The look of disbelief on his face is funny. So funny that I chuckle, walk over to him, and clap him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. You’re gonna love it.”

I walk out of my office wearing a grin.

Taking three SUV’s over to the warehouse being used to package Hamid’s gear puts on enough of a show that the man comes out to greet us himself.

Hamid stands at the delivery dock wearing a cocky smirk, black slacks, and a black shirt. His hair spiked in a youthful style, there is nothing about this man that would lead to you guessing his background. His pale skin, green almond-shaped eyes, average height, and black hair shows nothing of his Iranian culture.

As all three cars come to a stop, and all ten visibly-armed men, plus one beaten adolescent exit the vehicles, I swear he begins to sweat.