Golden Burn (Songs of Crime #1)

27. Odin

27

Odin

‘Desperado’- Rihanna

I haven’t seen Etta in almost twenty-four hours and my entire being seems to be at war with itself.

I convinced myself it’s for the best last night when I came home to an empty room. My brain was fine with the prospect of staying away from each other. Cerbera displayed behavior I could never have predicted, and I was adamant that keeping our distance, snuffing out our desire, would mean Cerbera could never use it against us.

But when I removed my suit for clothes that weren’t so suffocating, the smell of Etta’s perfume wafted into my nose, clinging to every piece of material I owned and making my stomach ache.

I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t.

Her pillow lay next to me all night, indented with her shape. The memory of her sleeping form haunted me like a specter every second of the night. But not as much as the sheer hurt that crossed her features when Cerbera told her—told us —about her clinic burning to the ground. And the way she raged at me, her fury a powerful force as she threw her weight against me and battered my soul with her misery.

“It’s all your fault.”

It is. I know it is.

But there’s nothing to be done but move forward, adjust our goals, prepare for any and every outcome possible, and hope we all survive.

The night after Gen died, I thought about how I was going to kill Gregory Lombardo every day. It took me ten years to enact it.

Cerbera, however, won’t last a week.

As soon as the wedding is over, I’m going to sign the contract with his blood.

I’ve communicated this to Dom on several occasions throughout the day, as we got a few things in order. We called the local police about the clinic’s destruction to fact check and were devastated to learn that Cerbera had been telling the truth. I’m glad Etta wasn’t there to hear it, because Dom and I were both struck by the horror of it, the brutality, even after all we’ve seen.

It made me all the more enraged.

We then spent time with Ford doubling protection and extra security measures, including hiring the latest technology and extra manpower to make sure the wedding goes off without an issue.

When Ford leaves to take Harriet wedding dress shopping, I’m tempted to come along, offer my support.

“It’s all your fault.”

I quickly decide it’s not an option. The best chance of talking to Harriet is waiting until she’s calmed down. This afternoon I plan to speak to her and I hope she’ll let me stay because I’m going crazy thinking about her and the way we left things last night. If I’ve learnt anything since becoming a widow, it’s that you never go to bed angry, because you might not wake up in the morning to apologize.

Dom and I spend the afternoon scouting the wedding venue and tipping owners and residents a hefty amount of cash in the buildings that surround us, so that if they notice anything suspicious in two days time, they’ll report it to us instead of letting it slide.

I don’t want to believe Cerbera will hire snippers to kill us or, God forbid, plant a bomb in the building. I don’t think he’s the type to kill his own people to get to us, but I can’t rule it out.

Cerbera loves causing chaos, but he loves money just as much. And without funds, he has no freedom to run crazy or the means to hide it. Without me and my empire, he has nothing.

When I return to the hotel, it’s late, past dinner.

I’m hoping to find Etta in the room, still angry with me, of course, but not as fired up. But when I arrive, I find the hotel room empty. Hollow.

Instantly, I pull out my phone and call Ford. It goes to voicemail. Ignored or unheard.

I try again. No answer.

My blood pressure spikes, my lungs feel rough inside my chest. I try not to let worry dig into my system, but it’s becoming more and more difficult these days after everything that’s happened. Paranoia seems to be one step behind me at all times. I try calling Dom and he answers after the first ring. “Where’s Ford and Etta?”

“Aren’t they at the hotel?”

“No, and Ford isn’t answering my calls.”

That sends alarm bells ringing. “I’ll track his car. Give me a second. ”

While I wait, I head into the bedroom and find a dozen shopping bags open, and the contents spilled all over the floor. Sparkling dresses and strappy heels. Lipsticks and makeup palettes and earrings. The bathroom is a mess of blotted tissues, plastic wrappings, and countertops with tiny droplets of foundation.

Etta put makeup on and went out with Ford. Etta dressed up in something fancy and went somewhere she didn’t want me to know about.

My vision turns white as I realize that Etta has thrown herself into danger yet again. Has she not learnt her fucking lesson?

Dom’s voice comes through the speaker on the phone. “He’s parked near the Shari Vari PlayHouse.”

“The club?”

“It looks like it.”

“Thanks.” I hang up the phone and head back out into the main section of the penthouse suite. There’s no way I’m staying here while Etta is out. I’m going to have to drag her back here by her ears and punish her properly. And there’s no fucking way my feelings are this serious, but as I speed off in one of the agent’s cars, it’s really difficult to deny it.

I see Ford first.

He’s sitting in the driver’s seat of a black BMW, watching the front of the nightclub fill with expectant patrons dressed to impress strangers from around the world. The music thumps from within, repetitive and loud, and a few of those waiting to get in sway their hips to the rhythm it bleeds into the night.

I don’t knock or even brush the car, but Ford spins to face me as I come up to his side. From the look he gives me, it’s obvious he’s been expecting me.

He opens the door and gets out. He hasn’t even reached his full height before I clock him across the jaw with a balled fist. Ford staggers back into the car and rubs the spot I hit. Working his jaw side to side, he says, “Well, I guess I deserved that.”

“Ignore my calls next time and we’re done.” The words are impossibly hard to say, but they exit my mouth anyway, ripping the muscles around my lips and almost causing me to grimace. Internally, I’m begging Ford to never make me panic again. I hate being this guy. I hate how much it sucks to be angry at him.

He nods. “Alright.”

“Where is she?”

He jerks his head toward the building. “Inside.”

A low pressure begins to build in my stomach, like steam in a sauna room with no cracks to slip through. “You’re a fucking lunatic for letting her go by herself.”

“She’s okay. I went in not even ten minutes ago. I’m tracking her vitals.” He hands me his phone that currently shows Etta’s heartbeat. It’s elevated, but not excessively. I fist my hands into the pocket of my pants when the temptation of pulling the gun at my hip tugs too hard at my patience. Ford will be the death of me. If Etta gets hurt tonight, I don’t know who I’ll hate more. Him or myself.

“She just wanted time to herself,” Ford says.

“Well, time’s up.”

We both head toward the entry. The closest security guard sees the deadly expression on my face, the expensive suit and shining Rolex, and knows I’d have him fired if he even looked at me the wrong way. He lets me through with a cliche greeting. “Welcome to the PlayHouse.”

The stench of alcohol hits me with the force of a slap. The music, too, penetrates my eardrums and muddies my senses. The nightclub is three levels, packed to the walls with human beings holding drinks or another person’s hand. Every time someone presses against me, whether it be intentional or a mistake, I want to spin around and shove them.

The panic is turning to acid in my stomach. And as I make my way through the writhing masses, my assumption that she might be in danger is replaced by the thought of her touching someone in the club. Feeling pleasure at another person’s fingertips.

My jaw tightens.

This possessive, primal urge is nothing new, but it’s awakening after such a long slumber, stronger than before. It’s wrenching control and doing what my conscious mind doesn’t want to. Staking a claim.

After scouring the lower level, it’s clear Etta isn’t here. Moving with a pace that sets my heart into a frenzy, I climb the stairs to the next level, where a soothing summer mix is pumping through the speakers. People mouth the words and slide their bodies around. The lights flicker neon pink and blue, hitting certain faces and illuminating their features. I stay on the outskirts and hunt for any sight of black short hair.

She’s not on the dance floor. Not at the bar, either.

I change tactics and search the outer rim of the room, my heart in my throat thinking of her pushed against a wall with a man’s face buried in her neck and her legs wrapped around his waist. When that once again proves fruitful, I make my way over to the railing so I can peer down at the floor below. A different vantage point.

Somehow, despite working against the odds considering how packed it is. I find her within seconds. How could I not? She’s capturing in a way that no one else is.

Etta stands by herself, leaning up against a wall, arms crossed, hidden from the larger crowd. Either side of her is a cluster of women sipping their drinks. Men hover around them, waiting for any gaps to appear so they can slither in. Despite wanting to plow them all down, I’m rooted to the spot.

She peers up at the ceiling as if searching for the sky that isn’t there, and I want to see what she sees. I want to hear what she’s thinking. I want to know if my presence consumes her as much as she does mine.

Minutes pass as I watch her from above. Even though she’s in the shadows, the metallic dress she wears sparkles like a disco ball under the lights, sending out rainbow rays that hit my suit, almost tickling my skin.

Several people approach her, making flirty comments, I assume. She shakes her head every time, denying them a moment. Some try to push, bolstering their swagger, but she holds her ground, turning away. And I’m so glad she does, because if any of them made her feel uncomfortable, I would shoot them without hesitation.

Nothing deadly. But satisfying, nonetheless.

I’m saved from making a scene when Etta peers up one more time before her face scrunches and she starts to move. She barrels through the crowd, dodging and weaving. I want to take off after her, but I watch a few seconds more to follow her direction.

Halfway across the lower floor, a man grabs her wrist and spins her around. A growl slips from my throat as I reach for the gun behind my back.

Etta rips her arm away furiously. She screams at him over the speakers and yanks her hand out of his grip. The man is pissed, but he lets her go, laughing with his friends as he slaps her ass as she tries to retreat.

I run, shoving partygoers out of the way, so I can reach Etta. But I’m not fast enough. There are too many bodies and not enough space.

By the time I reach the man who assaulted her, he’s still laughing. I grab the drink from his hand and smash it against his nose. He howls as the glass cuts his face, spilling blood onto his ridiculous polo shirt. One of his friends throws a weak punch in my direction. I dodge it and slip behind the crowd forming.

There’s a heavy metal door in the direction Etta fled that leads outside. I step through it and out into the putrid alleyway.

I don’t see Etta. The lights from the main street aren’t directed this way enough, which creates pockets of black shadows that are impossible to focus on. Wishing for the aid of both my eyes, I follow the sound of her heels clicking against the stone, the cooing of her voice as she calls to something.

Then I follow the sound of her screams.