Promise Me Forever: Manhattan Ruthless
: Chapter 49

I really need to get a new secretary. The current temp is driving me nuts. It’s not only that she isn’t Amelia—that’s hardly her fault—it’s that she’s fucking terrible at her job. She’s constantly messing up my schedule, she can’t spell for shit, and she can’t even work the stupid espresso machine. I told her I didn’t want to be disturbed today, but here she is, knocking on the door and walking in anyway.

“Miss Daniels, what part of ‘do not disturb’ are you struggling with?”

I’m being a dick, and I know I am. The poor woman looks terrified. I take a deep, calming breath and try again. “Miss Daniels, is there a problem?”

“There is, sir, yes. I have a man outside to see you. He’s very insistent, and he seems very upset, and … and I don’t know how to make him go away.”

I can’t help thinking that Amelia would have known. I nod curtly. “I see. And what would his name be, this insistent guest?”

“Oh! Yes, right—that would be Chad. Chad Poindexter. He said to tell you it was about Amelia? Isn’t that your former secretary? The one who left?”

Bristling, I manage to keep my face neutral. She hasn’t damn well left, at least not officially. And what the fuck is Chad doing here? Are they back together? If he’s come to gloat, he might find that he leaves my office through my eighteenth-floor window.

“Show him through, Miss Daniels.”

She sags with relief, and I straighten my tie as Chad walks into my office. He looks disheveled and distressed, but he still takes in the large room, the expensive furnishings, the stunning view. If I had to guess, this is exactly the kind of office he wants for himself. I wonder if he knows I’d give it all up in a heartbeat if it meant getting Amelia back.

“Chad,” I say coldly. “What can I do for you?”

As he gets closer, I see more clearly exactly how bad he looks. There’s a wild cast in his eyes, his jacket is badly creased, and he smells of stale sweat. Much as I can’t stand the man, he’s typically well-groomed.

“I need your help,” he says simply, dragging his hands through his hair.

“And why, exactly, would I be willing to help you, Chad?”

He meets my eyes, and his face crumples. “Because they’ve taken Amelia.”

I jump to my feet, sending my chair spinning away behind me, and close the distance between us. I grab him around the throat and force him back to the wall, holding him up against it as he whimpers and slaps at my hand. “What the fuck are you talking about?” I snarl. “Who’s taken Amelia?”

I realize he can’t talk and snatch away my fingers. He slides down the wall but manages to stay on his feet, rubbing at his neck and glaring at me. “A guy named Declan Boyle and someone else he works with. His cousin, I think. They have her, and they want half a million dollars to get her back.”

I step away from him as my brain kicks in. They want half a million. That means she’s still alive and their motive is strictly financial. And that’s good news because fuck knows money means nothing to me compared to my girl.

“How long have they had her?”

“Uh, a little over a day.”

“How long is a little over a day, Chad?” My tone is dripping with venom.

He checks his watch. “Twenty-six hours.”

Twenty-six hours. Twenty-six fucking hours? My fury threatens to swallow me whole, but I push it down. Killing Chad won’t do Amelia any good right now. I don’t ask why he took so long to come to me for help. I already know—pride. He was too arrogant to admit he needed me, and because of his ego, she’s been alone and suffering God knows what for twenty-six fucking hours.

I stride back over to my desk, and he limps behind me, still caressing his throat, the fucking coward. Sitting down, I rub the bridge of my nose. “Sit the fuck down,” I command, and he slumps into the chair opposite me. His tan face, fake white smile, and flashy shoes tell a story of success that he doesn’t come close to living up to. “Now tell me what the fuck is going on. Leave nothing out. And I warn you, do not mess with me right now or I will kill you. That is not a bluff or a threat—it’s a statement of fact.”

Whatever he sees in my eyes makes him gulp, and he nods. “Yeah, okay. You know I run an investment firm? We specialize in finding innovative new start-ups across the States, businesses run by the brightest and the best who⁠—”

“Chad,” I interrupt, exasperated by this dickwad’s ego. “Do I look like I’m in the mood for a sales pitch? I don’t give a damn about your shitty company.” I slam my fist down on my desk so hard he jumps. “I only care about Amelia.”

“I took their money, and they want it back,” he says, the words all running together. “She’s collateral.”

“You took their money as in stole it?”

“No! Of course not. They invested it. But, as I’m sure you know and as I tell all my clients, investments can go down as well as up and⁠—”

“Spare me. How quickly did this Boyle guy’s investment go down?”

Chad glances past me at the window, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath his collar. “Um, well, there were adverse conditions and the market was volatile and⁠—”

“Shut the fuck up. I get the picture. You messed up. You took money from the wrong people, and now because of your mistake, Amelia is in danger. Why her? You’re divorced.”

“I might have … uh, well, they’re based in New York, that was one of the reasons I was back in town. And I might have mentioned her, told them we were getting back together.”

“And are you?” I ask, blood pounding through my veins. Not that it matters. I’d still move heaven and earth to keep her safe. He shakes his head, a tight expression on his face. “No. I tried, but she wasn’t interested.”

I know he has more to say on that subject, that he probably blames me for the rejection rather than the fact that he’s a cheating dickwad who treated her like crap. “She’s a good judge of character,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him, relief flooding through me. She’s not only alive, she’s not with him. “And Chad, remember this—she’s your ex-wife. Once I get her back, she’s my future wife. You understand?”

He wants to argue, but maybe the memory of my fingers around his larynx helps him stay silent. He nods once.

“Good. Am I right to assume that Declan Boyle is Irish?”

“Yeah, I think so. He has the accent anyway.”

“And I’m guessing from the fact that he’s kidnapped an innocent woman that he’s not an orthodontist looking to boost his retirement fund?”

He shakes his head. “No. He’s, uh, a businessman.”

Right. A businessman. I know exactly what that means. And exactly who to talk to. I pick up my cell and find his name. He answers straight away.

“Drake. What can I do for you?”

That’s one of the things I like about Shane Ryan, the head of the Irish Mafia in New York. He’s all business.

“You know a guy named Declan Boyle?” I ask. A pause, the sound of music in the background, the clanking of metal on metal telling me I’ve interrupted a workout session.

“I do. He’s a fat fuck with a face like a bloated weasel. Why?”

“He’s taken someone. Someone I love the way you love Jessie.”

The music fades, and he’s obviously walking away. The mention of his wife has ensured I have his full attention. “What do you need from us?”

“For now, information. He’s asking for cash. Is he the kind who’ll stick to the deal? Will he hand her over if he gets what he wants?”

“Yeah, he will. He has money, enough for a fancy car and some of the trappings, but not enough for any real power. He’s also a squeamish coward, which is good for your girl. He’ll probably be working with his cousin Evan Finnegan, who’s more likely to be handling anything, uh, physical.”

I suck in a breath. If either of these Irish fucks has touched a hair on her head, I’ll make them wish they were never born. Shane obviously knows what I’m thinking and adds, “Try not to worry too much about that. Neither of them are heavy guys. Boyle is involved in gambling, and we tolerate him—but he’s not a violent dude. Talks a good game, but he’s soft. He once attacked Mikey with a fucking butter knife.”

What the fuck? His brother Mikey is the size of a fucking rhino, and you’d probably need a chainsaw to do any damage to him. “Why?” I ask, needing to know if I’m dealing with a psycho here. Amelia is not the size of a rhino, and the thought of even a butter knife touching her perfect skin makes my blood freeze.

“Mikey fucked his wife … At their wedding reception. Liam knocked him cold and stole his Maserati.”

I shake my head. That’s how it goes with the fucking Ryans. “Right. Good to know. If I come across this guy, will I be able to handle him?”

He snorts down the line. “Fuck yeah. In your sleep, pal. But he can be slippery, so maybe take something with you—a knife, maybe a gun. You need help with that?”

“No, that’s handled. Look, Shane, I’m going to pay the guy because I need to get her back safe, but you should know that once that’s done, I will be seeing them again. On less friendly terms.”

There’s a pause at the other end of the phone, and I wonder if he’s going to give me trouble. If I’m going to provoke some Mafia bullshit pissing contest by laying hands on someone from their macho world. If so, bring it on.

“I get it. I know I’d burn the fucking world down if anyone touched Jessie. Let me know if we can help. Now or when you pay him that second visit.”

He hangs up, and I make a second call, arranging for half a million in cash to be delivered to me in large bills. In most people’s worlds, it’s a lot of dough, and I see Chad’s eyes widen as I request it like it’s pocket money. I don’t live in most people’s worlds.

Once that’s done, I tell Chad to call them and set up the exchange. He obeys immediately and puts the call on speaker so I can hear both sides of the conversation. There’s some bullshit about swapping the cash for a location. It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to snatch the phone out of his hands and do it myself. It wouldn’t help. If this scumbag gets wind of the fact that Amelia means something to someone with my kind of money, the best-case scenario would be a price hike. I can’t even bring myself to consider the worst-case. It’s better if I keep my distance, at least for now.

Once it’s all sorted, Chad stands up and looks to me. The stupid fuck actually looks pleased with himself, like he’s played some vital role in rescuing her instead of being the crooked cunt who got her abducted in the first place.

“Done?” I ask. He nods and starts to talk, but I’m not really listening at this stage. All the rage, all my fear and frustration are rising to the surface. I stride around my desk and enjoy his confused look as I prowl toward him.

“You put Amelia in danger,” I say quietly, close enough that I can see the whites of his eyes. “Your greed put Amelia in danger. Your arrogance left her there for over a day. You are nothing but scum.”

He takes a step back from me and looks as though he’s going to bolt for the door. He’s not quick enough, and my left jab lands perfectly in the center of his smug face, sending him sprawling to the floor.

It’s the fucking least he deserves. I might yet kill him. Then I might kill the men who took her. Maybe I’ll even kill the guy who owns her apartment for not making it safe enough. And there’s a good chance I’ll kill anyone who goes anywhere near her.

But first, I’m going to get her back.