Vengeful Eyes: A Cane Novel 3 Read online

  Vengeful Eyes

  A Cane Novel 3

  Charlotte E. Hart

  Rachel De Lune

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Also By Hart De Lune

  Also by Charlotte E. Hart

  Also By Rachel De Lune

  About Rachel

  About Charlotte

  ©All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written consent from the author, except that of small quotations used in critical reviews and promotions via blogs.

  Vengeful Eyes is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  VENGEFUL EYES – A Cane Novel 3 ©2019 HartDeLune

  Charlotte E. Hart • Rachel De Lune

  Cover Design by Rachel De Lune

  Book design by LJDesigns

  Editing by H.A. Robinson and Rox Leblanc

  Chapter Illustrations by L.J. Stock, LJDesigns

  eBook Formatting: L.J. Stock, LJDesigns

  Acknowledgments

  Rachel

  Cane book three! Who would have thought?

  Well, considering it was hit or miss if Charlotte would ever be able to plan, I think we’re pretty lucky to have made it this far. And I am extremely fortunate to get to write with one of my best friends. Even if she makes me mad every now and then!! Three full books in this amazing world. We’re so lucky that our readers have been so supportive and love the Cane novels as much as we love writing them.

  Thank you to everyone who has supported us on our Cane adventure. Lea and Katie – you did have us worried for a while, but we absolutely love the time and effort you put into making Vengeful Eyes the best it can be. Hugs to both of you.

  Heather and Rox, you always ensure our words are on point. Thank you!

  Lou, you continue to amaze us with everything you do. Thank you thank you thank you!

  Bare Naked Words, you ladies are awesome and always ensure that our releases are as big as possible. Thank you for your continued support.

  And now for you to enjoy the latest HartDeLune instalment. Enjoy!

  Charlotte

  As always, writing with Rachel had been a joy. A few cross words here and there, but hey - that's dark romance for you. Perfection never comes until after the darkest hours. And anyway, truth be told, we love each other too much for utter tantrums to occur. Huge snogs to her for planning my arse, again. She deserves a medal. As does Leanne Cook for being my everlasting champion.

  One

  My hand trails the back of her neck, guiding her through the entrance of the lobby and out onto New York pavements. She’s such a delicate flower in my hand, malleable. Valuable to me. She’s my truths.

  And lies.

  The fingers squeeze tighter, just enough that a small whimper sounds from her lips. I smile at that and remember her screams, the way her throat fits so effortlessly around me. Nothing more comes from her, though. She gently braces against me and continues walking, her long strides owning the floor. Not that she does. I do.

  “What time will your meeting be finished?” she asks. I twist her to me, one hand reaching for the door to the car. It will be done when I’m damn well finished. That's how this shit works.

  “Later. Get in.”

  She slides her ass in with a grace no other woman compares to. Tanned legs pull in after, knees together and ankles crossed. Perfect, as always. She’s everything a woman should be and more. Charming. Hardened. Always proficient in her glare and constantly aloof in her stance. Stunning.

  And mine.

  I kiss the back of her hand and slam the door closed, anger flaring towards the next event that needs discussion. It’s become a fucking priority in the last half an hour—something that needs tending and delivering with my own touch to ensure the world continues to understand the merits of not trying to fuck me over. “Goodnight,” I say, watching the car pull away.

  Goodnight and good luck.

  That might be what she needs after this shit is done.

  My feet turn back into the ornate lobby, my eyes uncaring for any danger that might follow me. Nothing would dare. Not here. Not anymore. I own this city, have done for years, my father before me crafting the start of this empire. Politicians kneel. The underworld tows itself in whatever direction I choose to take it, and the rest do as they’re told without conversation or rebellion. There's no need for fear anymore. No care for anything that might attempt threatening me. We're calm now. Smooth. Untouchable.

  “Mr. Vico,” the doorman greets me, nodding as he swings the glass frame wide for me again.

  “Joe.” I slip him some bills on the way past, not sure why, but his wife is cute. Fuckable. Perhaps I’m interested in her. “You watch the Yankees?” He nods and smiles, grasping the money.

  “Have a good evening, Mr. Vico,” he calls from behind.

  My hand tips at him, a half wave letting him know he did well. Precise. Smart. In accordance with what I desire of the place I own. Not that I own the building, but I own the guy who does. He pays monthly for the privilege of owning floor space in my city, and in return, he gets to run it as he sees fit. If that's done well, he's allowed to keep paying me. Wheels turn smoothly.

  It works for me. Him, too.

  Not that he has any choice.

  It’s classy, though. He's successful. It's filled with luxury and decadence. Crystal chandeliers on the ceilings. Italian marble lining the floors. And wealth populates the guts of the place, all of the people bowing and scraping to him, and therefore me, constantly.

  I. Own. It. All of it.

  It’s the same in the next place. And the next place. And the next. That’s how it works in New York. Has done since my father died and I became the next Vico in line. Life turned to stone for me then. Not that it was pleasant before, but the mask dropped fully into place and delivered heartless thoughts to anyone who dared breathe wrong. That's the way he trained me. The way he taught me.

  And now it's who I am.

  The shame of it is, there is a man in the private room I’m heading for who’s questioning that. We’ve been here all night. Talking. Negotiating. Discussing what he, or they, might be able to offer me so they can creep into my turf some more. He’s American bred but Yakuza in nature, sent here to talk to me about allegiances. I don’t join up with anything but the woman I just sent home—Hope Winters.

  My eyes swing back along the lobby before I turn for the privacy I need, imagining that dress and her curves inside it. She’s the one thing I do join with. The only thing. I fuck into her like she’s part of me, for some reason enjoying the feel of her around me. I haven't worked that shit out yet. Whatever the reason is, though, the fuck in this room I’m approaching dared t
o look at her.

  And that pissed me off.

  “Boss.” Danelo glances at my features as I take my jacket off and hand it to him, giving a nod regardless of my lack of response. I don’t need to answer. He saw it, too. He watched the leer of interest coming from the guy as we left the room and understands what looking at her means to me. She’s no one else’s but mine, and the scum inside this room just blew whatever offer he might have thought prudent out of the fucking window. Stupid.

  He opens the door for me and then closes it behind me, his body pressed against it to stop anyone walking in. Not that it would matter too much if they did. I’d own them in an instant, too. Money and threats buy everyone's tongues from them.

  “Vico. Get your pretty girl off?”

  I half smile and watch the guy, giving no answer as I move to sit at the table again. Dessert first. Always room for dessert. It’s a weakness I choose to ignore.

  “She’s gone home.”

  “Business then?”

  Business. I undo my cufflinks and roll my sleeves up, losing my tie after the restriction around my wrists has gone. All day. Every day. Shirt. Tie. Vest and suit. It’s the appearance needed for my standing in this society, something only she sees beneath when she takes them from me at the end of the day. The dirt sits there under these clothes. My past. She gets to see it inked into my skin and feel it under her touch.

  All of it.

  This fuck sits at my table dressed in the same, all of it trying to emasculate me in some way. Quinn Cane was right. They are arrogant little fucks. Pushing. Creeping in. Trying to force a path that isn’t there. I wasn’t sure at first. Thought maybe they were worth talking to irrespective of his desire for cooperation, but not now.

  Not after this.

  I take a spoonful of my dessert, cream easing my dry mouth of hatred, and look at him as he begins discussing terms and feasibilities again. He pushes a file at me, the blue folder heaving with paperwork and documents. There's a mark on the front of it—their seal, crossed swords over a dragon's tail. It’s artistic, if not fucking ridiculous.

  “If these were signed, we could hold up the east side, let China Town expand its distribution. It would be easier for you to. . .” My brow furrows, as a sour taste invades my senses, and I look at the plate below my hand. “…manage the west side without interference from. . .” The word brings my eyes slowly back to his.

  “Interference?”

  “I mean. . . I didn’t mean that.” Yes, he did.

  I stare, waiting for answers he doesn’t have to give anymore. There’s nothing left for him in this room now, unless some sign from God intervenes. Discussions are done here. Finished.

  “The hierarchy would just allow you to. . .” My head tilts, the word annoying me more than the last one.

  “Allow?” I question.

  “Yes. I mean that they would. . .”

  He doesn’t get the rest of the words from his mouth. Black is all I see. I’m at his side before he dares breathe another fucking word, the back of his neck in my fingers as his head slams down against my table. Mine. All mine. He dares come in here, look at her, and then talk of hierarchy?

  He struggles in my hold, arms flailing as if he might be able to outmaneuvering this Hell he’s walked into. He can’t. And won’t. Nothing does once it’s looked at her.

  “Should have done your homework.” My hand twists him over, my knee pinning his chest down as my other hand grabs at his jaw. “Shouldn’t have looked at what wasn’t yours.”

  His eyes flare, fear travelling through them as I increase the pressure and then push him further into the middle of the table so I can get up on the dick. That’s what he is—a dick. This was finished the second his eyes looked at her legs, over the moment a smile tipped his dirty lips.

  I reach for my plate, grabbing at the spoon. He struggles again, his body quivering and thrashing beneath me. He’s strong, might have been useful if he hadn’t been so damn stupid.

  “Did you like what you saw?” My arm crushes his windpipe, increasing the pressure and shoving him again to emphasise my point. “She’s exquisite, isn’t she?” More shaking beneath me. More panting breaths and trembling lips. I shunt in harder, my weight countering every move he’s trying to make. “I don’t like people looking at her.”

  He stills a bit, remorse flashing for his stupidity. It means nothing now. It’s happened. Too late to take it back or apologise. I brace harder, my thighs squeezing together to give me leverage, and then bring the spoon to his eye. He won’t look at her again. He won’t look at anything again, and the first dig of metal into slick orbs of fear prove it.

  The metal gouges the flesh, scooping to the back like a grapefruit that needs feeding out. It’s precise, levelled by a hand that’s done it time and time again, regardless of the shouts of pain coming from beneath. Empty is what these eyes of his will be now. Empty and fucking hollowed of stupidity. Maybe he’ll be alive when my vengeance is through; maybe he won’t. I care nothing for the end result as I rip at his face and squash his other cheek into the table, only that he won't see.

  His grunts and screams mangle out through his throat as I dig in again. I hardly hear it. I’m lost in my own world of disgust, barely registering his objections. It has me tilting my head, though, my own eyes staring into what’s left of his, getting real close in. This is the last thing he’ll see. Benjamin Vico. He’ll remember it if he lives, remember the look of animosity lining my brow, because this is how the game is played when someone dares enter my realm to question me.

  The squelch that comes as I pry the final eyeball free has me smiling and loosening my hold on him immediately, as his body goes lax. I land on the floor and stare for a minute, rubbing my beads around my wrist, and watch the look of him grasping the air for help. None will come. Not until I'm ready to release him. Guess he'll crawl home, back to the Yakuza cunts he came from. Beg them for forgiveness maybe. I snort. He'll get none there either.

  I search the table for a napkin, wiping the spoon and my fingers before walking back to my chair and sitting to finish my dessert. It’s done for now. Finished.

  Just as it should be.

  He wails and rolls around, hands scrabbling for something to help him until he crashes against the chair and tumbles to the ground below. Then he crawls around my feet, perhaps searching for the mutilated globes I’m staring at. They’re bloody and defaced from my torture, lifeless and unable to see anymore, crimson sprayed on the white cloth around them. I take another scoop of my dessert, wondering if they’ve somehow retained the ability to register me, transferring the image to his brain. Interesting thought.

  “Stupid,” I mutter, another spoonful of dessert following the word until my plate is cleared. Stupid and reckless.

  Still, at least they've got a message coming one way or another.

  I've sealed that with blood now. Just for them.

  Fuck off.

  My sleeves come down again, cufflinks re-threaded as I stand and place the napkin over his eyes to lift them up. She can have them as a gift, a reminder of how she should behave and what’s coming for her if she doesn't. Not that she will. She’s too perfect for that.

  He can go back and show the fucks who sent him what dealing with me is like. Interference? Allow? Both words mean nothing to me but a threat, and with that comes death or carnage.

  No one interferes with me. No one allows.

  I do what I want, when I want to.

  Including her.

  Two

  “Do you need anything else tonight?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “See you tomorrow, ma’am.”

  I close the door on Torino and let out a small sigh. There’s no time to relax, even after I’m alone. Benjamin expects me to be at my best—at his beck and call—at whatever time. That means the four-inch Louboutins and my figure-hugging dress stay on, and I wait.

  My fingers smooth down the fine silk I'm wearing, and I twist to the mirror to check
the waves still cling to my blonde tresses. I’ve earned these clothes in a way, worked hard for them. I smile at the floor length reflection, pleased with the image on show, but all the beautiful garments that hang in our perfectly ordered wardrobe are chosen with a single-minded intention.

  To please Benjamin Vico.

  The apartment is pristine, as it always is. My heels sink into the plush carpet as I walk from the stark lobby to the living room's warmer tones. Everything has a place, including me. The bedroom is the only room where a touch of me has been allowed. I’m present there. Benjamin said it matched my eyes when he had it remodeled, light blue. It isn't a sweet offer of love, more a show of his possession.

  My light blues move towards the study door. Locked, as usual. It’s the room where only few venture. In two years of living with him, I’ve only ever peered inside from the doorway. I made one mistake early on and dared to venture in. Never again. I suppose total honesty hasn’t been completely forthcoming from either side.

  I wistfully travel around my home, surveying what I’ve accomplished. The bank of glass windows at the end of the living space provides a contemplative vista over the world, Central Park spread out beyond the smaller buildings below. It's dark now, lights twinkling over the park. It’s pretty, if not shrouded with the clouds that cover my life.

  The waiting is a form of torture. Minutes. Hours. Days. Not knowing when he’ll walk through the door is the hardest, but he always will, and tonight I have a feeling he’s not going to be in a calm mood. The way he looked at that man as we were leaving makes it a certainty. Everyone even remotely associated with Benjamin knows he’s possessive, dangerously so, and that there will be consequences if people don’t respect that. It’s an interesting thought considering what I used to do before he found me. And now look at me. I’ve found that when I want for nothing and have everything provided for me, the time passes much more slowly. It often gives me far too much room in my own head to think over the events that led me here.