I only spare the piece of shit gun a glance, then aim at the target. Before I can pull the trigger, the clip falls out and lands with a clatter by my feet.
A dangerous chuckle escapes me as I turn to Juan-Paul, who looks like he’s about to shit himself. Sweat pours down his temples.
He shouts at one of his men, slapping him upside the head, then gives me an apologetic look. “It needs some work.”
I nod as I set the weapon down on the display case.
“Viktor,” Luca murmurs, worry lacing the word.
My eyes snap to Juan-Paul. “Who’s bright idea was this?”
“M-mine,” he stutters.
I reach behind my back for one of my Heckler & Kochs as I nod. “You had me fly out all the way here for this piece of shit?”
“I’m sorry, Sir. Just give me a couple of minutes to fix it.”
My fingers flex around the handle of my weapon as I bring it up between Juan-Paul and me. I nod at the Heckler & Koch. “Are you trying to sell me shit?”
“No, Mr. Vetrov. The men should’ve made sure it worked,” he throws the blame at the two men cowering behind him.
I turn the barrel of my gun on them, and they instinctively step backward. “Which one fucked up?”
“Viktor,” Luca mutters, sounding tired from keeping me out of trouble the past week.
Ignoring my best friend, I grit the words out between clenched teeth, “Who. Fucked. Up?”
Both men point at each other, and I let out a burst of laughter. When Juan-Paul start to laugh, I aim the gun at his right foot and pull the trigger.
With a shout of pain, he drops to the ground. I crouch down in front of him and press the barrel to his head. Locking eyes with the fucker, I say, “You promised me a modified Glock and didn’t deliver. Next time you make me fly out for nothing, I’ll end you.”
“Y-yes, Mr. Vetrov,” he stammers, relief filling his eyes.
I rise to my feet and mutter, “I expect a discount.”
“Of course,” he agrees. Not that he has a fucking choice.
When I turn my attention to Luca, he just shakes his head.
We leave the sweltering warehouse, and I say, “What a waste of fucking time.”
Luca lets out a sigh. “Like you had anything better to do.”
I did. There’s a fuck-ton of pain in my chest I have to somehow process.
“We had a deal,” I say as I hold my hand out to Luca. “Give me my phone.”
The fucker took it so I wouldn’t drunk-call Rosalie and beg her to come back.
He pulls the device out of his pocket and shoves it into my hand. I glance at the dead phone, then give Luca an unimpressed look. “You couldn’t charge it?”
He smirks at me. “Figured it would give Rosalie another nine hours before you start hounding her ass.”
“Fucker,” I grumble as we climb into the Jeep.
The flight back to LA is fucking long, and sleep evades me just to torture me.
Now that I’m sober, clear images of Rosalie fill my mind, each one a dagger to my heart.