The Russian hurriedly ends the call.
“Clean this up,” I demand.
I don’t care how sloppy a job he does.
It’s not my warehouse.
Like Julian said, nothing here will trace back to us.
Lev nods. “Sure thing.”
I grin, loving that Aleksy’s easiest person to turn was his own underboss.
On the drive home,I pull over. I throw the door wide, hang my head out, and vomit until my stomach is empty.
A wave of dizziness hits me, and my body aches.
Somehow, I make it home without wrecking.
I drag myself up the stairs, feeling like I’ve been drugged.
Sweat drips from my forehead like a faucet.
For the first time in my thirty years, I don’t bother to change out of my clothes or lock my gun up before collapsing into bed … right beside my sleeping wife.
25
Either I’m dreamingof puking or someone is puking, is my first thought as I open my eyes.
I sit up, groggy, and peer over to find the sheets behind me messy, but no Emilio.
The sound of retching comes again as I stretch.
Definitely not dreaming.
I slide out of bed, head toward the bathroom, but stop when I notice Emilio’s gun on the nightstand.
It’s right there.
My golden ticket out of this marriage.
All it’d take is me squeezing the trigger andlet freedom ring.
No way would he leave his gun out in the open like that.
Is this a test?
Probably.
Shaking my head, I chicken out and walk to the bathroom. The door is shut, and I ease it open to find Emilio bare-chested and crouched over the toilet. His skin is pale and shiny with sweat, and his hair is stuck to his forehead.
He stares at me with glossy eyes before slumping against the wall.
Is he hungover?
Sick?
Now would be the perfect time to kill him.
