When Roses Collide

Chapter Forty-Two

Charles looked out at the approaching vehicle coming up his drive. "Who the fuck is that?" he muttered under his breath, squinting his eyes trying to identify the black vehicle. When it lumbered up to the front of the house, he cussed loudly. A shiver of apprehension snaked its way through his system at the nondescript SUV. Cussing again under his breath, he went back to his desk and sat down.

Scrubbing a shaky palm over his face, he opened the drawer and pulled out his revolver. Checking the chamber to make sure it was loaded, he slipped off the safety and stuck it into the hidden holster under his desk. Easy access if necessary. Taking a bracing drink of the shitty whiskey sitting on his desk, he sat back and waited as the doorbell sounded throughout the house.

A few scant minutes later, his incompetent maid knocked on his office door. He hated the sniveling woman his wife had hired. Just the sight of her made his stomach roll. She was old, fat and had zero tits. But that was exactly what his wife wanted, wasn't it? He snorted. The bitch probably figured he wouldn't fuck this one and dammit...if she wasn't right. Not that he had much time to pursue the pleasures of the flesh lately. Another light knock sounded softly and snapped his attention back to the door.

"Enter," he barked, brushing his hand over his gun one last time for reassurance.

"A Mr. Salvatore and Castello to see you, sir," the mealy mouthed idiot stuttered, ducking her head behind long, lanky brown hair.

"Show them in," he spat, wanting to get her out of his sight as much as he wanted whoever was lurking behind her gone.

Letting out a small squeak at his demand, she turned and showed two men into his office before hightailing it out, but Charles didn't have time to enjoy her fear. Two strangers dressed in impeccable dark suits strolled into his office as if they owned the joint.

Clenching his jaw, Charles nodded towards the two in acknowledgement. "Gentlemen." He motioned towards the vacant leather chairs in front of his desk, but only one of them took a seat. The other behemoth stayed by the closed doors. His arms crossed over his huge chest, his dark gaze missing nothing.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" Charles asked with a force smile. Relaxing back in his own chair, he tried to ignore the lumbering menace the man shot off in waves.

"Cut the crap, Rafferty. This isn't a pleasure trip. If it was, I'd be on a fucking beach somewhere drinking rum out of pineapple with a hot bikini clad bimbo in my lap begging to give me a blowjob instead of sitting in this Brokeback Mountain hellhole."

The guy by the door chuckled.

Charles eyed the lean man sitting across from him. His slicked backed hair and accent gave him away and he swallowed down the acid churning in his stomach. These two were from New York and obviously sent by his impatient investor. The babysitters he hadn't asked for.

"I sure as shit didn't request your presence," Charles said, picking up his drink and tossing the rest of the rotgut down. It burned into the lining of his stomach and he held back the wince of pain it caused. The last thing he wanted was to let these two paid guard dogs get a whiff of weakness.

"No, you didn't, but the boss did. So I don't give a fuck what you wanted." The man stood up and adjusted the cuffs on the sleeves of his jacket as he walked over to the bar. "Do you mind?" he asked, pointing to the wall of fancy decanters and bottles.

Charles stiffly gave his assent, watching as the guy took his time in fixing himself a drink. A small bubble of satisfaction coaxed its way up when he noticed he was pouring himself a shot of Macallan scotch. He had replaced the fine alcohol a long time ago with cheap grocery store swill.