The Devil's Beauty (Crime Lord Interconnected Standalone Book 2) (17 page)

Glancing back once to make sure no one had spotted her, she darted forward, keeping to the balls of her feet as she sprinted for the trees. Her main and only focus was disappearing in the dense maze before they realized she was missing. Then she’d wait until it was brighter and find her way to the main road. That was the plan.

“Hey!”

The gruff boom splintered the very seams of her existence. It cracked against her retreating spine like a whip and she nearly screamed.

She’d been spotted. The exclamation was followed by the thunder of feet that masked the beating of her heart. She tried to run faster, pumping her legs until they burned, but her captors were faster and caught her before she could make it. A hand closed around her arm and she was wrenched back. Still disorientated, she had no way of stopping herself when she collided with her captor’s chest, nor was she fast enough to dodge the sharp prick in her shoulder before everything swam together.

The last thing she heard before the world collapsed in on itself, was, “Don’t be stupid, Cruz. What is one more girl?”

“Are we to believe that this isn’t the Russian’s agenda to push their way to more territory?” Theresa Maynard leaned back in her chair to scrutinize the room more closely with her cold, blue eyes. “If we had known we could toss names into the nominations, I could have selected at least five of my own men for the position.”

“What difference does it make?” John Paul cut in. “There are only five chairs. It would have been one of us regardless.”

“Nevertheless, why them?” Those pale eyes bore into Dimitri. “Why you? What do you bring to the table? Why should we even consider—?”

“My son has been invaluable to all five houses at any given time,” Elena interjected. “Even yours. Need I remind you it was Dimitri who saved your company billions of dollars when your own man turned on you during that drug bust two years ago? He has connections. He knows how to make problems disappear. That is beneficial to the Syndicate.”

Theresa’s gaze lowered. “Be that as it may be.” She cleared her throat. “I don’t feel like this is in the south’s best interest, giving the west so much power.”

“I won’t be part of the west once I take the northern seat,” Dimitri interjected. “My position would change for the good of all five houses.”

“And you will show no favoritism to your own mother?” Theresa arched a pale, finely shaped brow. “Is that what you are saying, Mr. Tasarov?”

“I am saying that my only priority is the security and leadership of this organization,” Dimitri said evenly. “You will not find anyone with my deep connections or my intolerance for disruption of balance.”

She peered from him to Marcus Lozano and Elena. “Disruption of balance.” She chuckled. “That one might be new.” She folded her long, slender fingers on the papers open before her. “It’s a difficult chair to fill. Killian McClary had been cut from a very refine stock and he was … exemplary. You will never be able to fill his shoes.”

Dimitri never balked. “I don’t intend to. I have my own shoes.”

Marcus shifted in his seat, stifling his snicker behind a cough. John Paul pinched the bridge of his nose, but said nothing.

Dimitri ignored them all, except the woman watching him with a shrewdness that would have made most men sweat. He never so much as batted an eyelash.

“I am not convinced this isn’t some takeover organized by the west.” Her gaze fixed on Marcus. “Where is your father, Marcus? Shouldn’t he be here as he is the head of that chair you’re currently occupying?”

“You are wasting our time now, Theresa,” John Paul cut in before Marcus could speak. “William Lozano hasn’t claimed that chair in nearly a decade, as you are well aware. You are simply attempting to misdirect the meeting from what it’s truly about.”

To her credit, Theresa never so much as flinched at the accusation. “The terms of claim are perfectly clear, only chair holders can pass their seats down to their chosen heir of that region. You can’t simply lay claim to whichever territory you desire.”

“With the exception of death,” Marcus piped in. “Killian is dead. His seat has been empty nearly two months, two months where we have found no one and every day that passes, we are losing control of the city to that …
puta
Devil and his fucking flowers!” Color rise hot and high on Marcus’ face. “I have lost billions. It needs to stop!”

Dimitri felt no guilt for the money he’d stolen over the months from Marcus. A truce didn’t mean he would turn a blind eye to the families Marcus has left homeless to fill his own pockets. The Dragons were a big crew, the second biggest to the Russians, and they were under the impression that they were untouchable. Dimitri had proven them wrong. Fifteen times.

“He is one man, why has he not been found and skinned in the streets?” Elena demanded savagely.

His mother had been a bit easier to take from. It was probably cheating that he knew all the passcodes to her warehouses, vaults, and hideaways, but it was satisfying all the same watching her flip a table—literally.

“Yes.” The single phrase was said with a calm that crackled like brittle ice. Sharp, red talons clipped hard on the round, onyx table. “That is something we must discuss.” Delicate nostrils flared once before Theresa focused once more on the topic at hand. “For the moment, let’s settle this matter first.”

“Killian had no heir,” John Paul continued as though the subject had never swayed from its path. “He has left no one to rule in his stead.”

“But he would have chosen Dimitri,” Elena insisted.

“Would he have?” Theresa sneered. “And why would he have, Elena?”

“Because unlike others,” Dimitri cut in before his mother could open her mouth. “I have no intention of changing the way he conducted business. I will continue his methods in controlling and cleaning the streets once more. I will keep all illegal traffics clear of the city.”

“And why would we want that?” She splayed slender hands. “Perhaps it’s time for a change.”

John Paul’s mouth tightened. “Is that the south’s agenda? Or yours, Theresa?”

Theresa allowed them a half smile. “The south has no agenda. We merely do our best to maintain the order.”

No one was fooled by the coy demeanor, but John Paul allowed himself to lean back in his chair. Still tense, but not as aggressively.

“Despite the objections of the south, the majority rules in this case. Of the five houses, excluding the north, three have agreed to sponsor Dimitri as head chair of the north. That puts the odds in his favor and automatically elects him, as I’m sure you are familiar.”

Theresa studied the gold head of her pen as though it were the most fascinating item she’d ever seen. The light from the wall of glass behind her caught the delicate curve and winked. In her small, manicured hand, it almost reminded Dimitri of a scepter, small, but wielding all the power in the world. He wasn’t sure she could actually kill them with it, but she was the type of woman who would try, and do it without getting blood on her crisp, white two-piece suit.

Theresa was beautiful the way the first glimmer of winter was when everything was white and sparkly, and held the excitement of Christmas. But she was also just as cold, just as bitter and sharp. She was vengeful and cruel. Her beauty stopped above the milky white of her complexion, the silky lines of her white-blonde locks, and the frosty, blue gems that sat in the center of that flawless, heart shaped face. Her aura pulsed with the same frigid fury as a meat locker.

Against her Snow Queen façade, Marcus was dark with a wavy mop of curly black hair that always reminded Dimitri of an oil slick. It was forced back from a face too young to be sitting in a seat of power. Brown eyes were dominated by heavy brows and a broad forehead. He wore a navy blue suit that sat aligned with his narrow shoulders in a perfect fit.

That was the thing Dimitri dreaded the most—the suits. Everyone seemed to be wearing one. Including Elena, who normally thrived in her baggy dresses and clunky jewelry had on a pair of gray trousers and a pale, green blouse. Even John Paul had pulled on an elegant suit of black and a white dress shirt. Dimitri was the only one in dark trousers and a dress shirt only. He’d rolled up the sleeves to his forearms and left two of the buttons undone. It wasn’t to be a rebel. He was just comfortable.

“Be that as it may be,” Theresa rose, gathering her papers as she did so. “This is a matter I would need to discuss with my father.”

“Hold on.” Marcus shot to his feet before Dimitri could even attempt a response. “What about that asshole stealing our money?”

The papers were set down gently, but with authority and Theresa regarded the room once more.

“A bounty,” she said simply. “One million from each of us for the person who catches this … Devil, and brings him to us.”

“And start a witch hunt?” John Paul countered. “That’s just asking for idiots to get involved.”

Theresa blinked her eyes very slowly. “And what is your suggestion, Morel? Nothing? Let him waltz into our homes, or warehouses, and rob us blind?”

John Paul said nothing.

“I say we set a trap,” Elena piped in. “Lure that bastard in and kill him slowly. Piece by piece and then send each one to his mother in a box.”

Dimitri tried not to shift uncomfortably.

A fine line of disgust wrinkled Theresa’s pert nose. “As … thorough as that may be, perhaps a less … graphic approach.”

“The trap thing might work,” Marcus said. “We put word out that there’s a shipment coming out, then we wait.”

“I can agree with that,” John Paul said.

Theresa took longer to respond. She stared from one to the other, her devious little mind churning.

“Very well,” she said at last. “Do it. The south will offer what it can in support.” Her papers were back in her arms. “Meanwhile, I will bring the other matter,” she shot Dimitri a quick glance, “to my father and be in touch.”

No one stopped her when she exited the room. No one spoke until the crack of her heels had disappeared into the elevator. Only when the steel doors had shut did the space seem to breathe.

It was a spacious room crafted of marble and glass. It held only a single, round table in its center and five leather chairs. It wasn’t the most impressive room he’d ever been in, but it was one of the most boring.

“That went well.” John Paul rose, fingers fastening the single button on his blazer. “There is nothing Theresa, or her father, can say that can change the rules.”

“It’s a stalling tactic,” Marcus said, pushing back his chair. “She’s enjoying her position of power a little too much to simply hand it over that easily.”

As leader of the south, Theresa was second in the chain of command until the north had a leader once more. That made her temporary head of the organization. Dimitri couldn’t blame her for wanting to hang on to that a while longer.

“Stupid whore,” Elena muttered. “Never liked her.” With a shake of her head, she turned to Dimitri. “The chair’s yours,” she said definitively.

Dimitri said nothing. Not because he was ungrateful, but because he knew why his mother was so excited about it. He just couldn’t tell her how wrong she was if she thought he would allow her any sort of leeway into his territory. Not until after he’d been elected. That went for Marcus as well. Things would change once Dimitri was in charge.

Marcus left after clapping Dimitri on the arm. Elena followed him into the elevator without another word to Dimitri. In the metal box, she fished out her phone. She was texting when the door closed

Then there was no one but the one man who wanted Dimitri dead.

“Where’s Ava?”

Dimitri turned to face his father. “Safe.”

If the assurance was supposed to pacify him, John Paul seemed immune. He studied Dimitri with an expression just short of loathing.

“I should kill you,” he said in a tone that vibrated with the urge.

“Who do you think made me like this?” Years of suppressed rage broke through Dimitri in a whirlwind of fire and pain. “I may be a monster. I may be evil, but at least I acknowledge it. I know what to expect when I look in the mirror. Can you say the same?”

John Paul was quiet for a lot longer than Dimitri had expected. Truth was, he had expected to get shot. Instead, the other man tipped his head back and regarded Dimitri with a curiosity he hadn’t in the past.

“What you know and what you acknowledge mean nothing when your core is rotten.”

It didn’t matter how old he got or how often he told himself he didn’t care—it hurt. It stung with the same unforgiving spear as it had when he’d been a child and wondered why no one loved him. He hadn’t felt evil, but it had to be true if everyone said it. It just hadn’t been as easy to accept. Once he did, he didn’t know how to stop.

“You will get her when I get my chair,” he said instead. “She’s safe for now, but I can’t promise she’ll stay that way.”

With that, he turned and started for the elevator. He stabbed the button and cursed inwardly when the doors didn’t open immediately.

“I don’t believe you’ll hurt her,” John Paul called after him. “Not when you loved her once.”

“Once,” he agreed stiffly. “Then I was reminded that monsters don’t fall in love. We don’t get a future.” The door opened and he stepped inside. “Beauty can’t save this beast.”

John Paul didn’t stop him, nor did he take the elevator. He remained where he was even as the box closed.

Dimitri pulled out his phone the moment the doors pulled open in the grand foyer of Arrow Holding Corporation, the hub of the Syndicate’s business dealings. called Robby’s phone, expecting the doctor to be awake and watching over Ava. Instead, he was barely focused when he answered. His voice was a garbled mash of words Dimitri couldn’t understand.

Dimitri frowned. “Where’s Ava?”

“Is … is … you know?”
the man slurred groggily.

“Robby!” Dimitri snapped into the receiver. “Where’s Ava?”

Robby giggled.
“Pie.”

Dimitri hung up and ran to his bike. He dug out his keys and punched them into the ignition.

It was a twenty-minute drive back to the doctor’s apartment. Dimitri made it in ten. He parked in some random spot and darted upstairs. He used the keys he’d taken from Robby and opened the door.