“Of course she is,” Rosie snapped. “Her abusive, spineless, piece of camel shit husband kidnapped her son. Please tell me I’m the one that’s allowed to kill him.”
Keltan focused on her.
Luke rolled his eyes at his wife, then reached over to squeeze her hand because he was in tune with that woman and could hear the underlying emotion in her bloodthirsty tone.
“We’re not killing him.”
Rosie glared at him. “Is this some more of this weird New Zealand humor than I don’t get because I don’t get it and it’s not funny.”
Lance was happy that he was not the only one who thought that this was bullshit. And of course it would be Rosie, out of all of the men at this table that would have the strongest feelings about killing this roach. Because the men at this table were among some of the toughest he’d spent time with, but Rosie was in another ballpark.
You wouldn’t know the small, beautiful woman with all sorts of crazy hairstyles and outfits would spend her nights killing drug dealers and rapists, but that was kind of the point.
She was also a mother.
And there were fathers at this table, but Lance had learned that there was something different, something ferocious about a mother’s love.
“It’s not a joke,” Keltan replied, voice hard. As much as the man needed to stay professional, Lance knew he wasn’t happy about it either. They were not hitman for hire, not officially at least. But there were circumstances in which they agreed that death was part of their invisible service list. In cases of rape and anything to do with children.
“Of course it’s not,” Rosie hissed. “Because it’s not fucking funny.”
“Elena doesn’t want him dead. You meet her, you’ll understand,” Keltan explained. “She’s… different. Soft. Kind. She’s not a person that can have death on her conscience, not even when that someone has done all that to her. I’m gonna respect that. I’m gonna protect that. Because it’s rare in this world to find someone who doesn’t want revenge. Who doesn’t want to meet ugliness with worse.” He looked around the table, taking extra time on him and Rosie. “We’re all going to respect that.”
Lance gritted his teeth.
Rosie let out an impressive string of curse words, some even Lance hadn’t heard of.
Duke nodded.
“We got you, got her on this, brother,” Heath said, something moving in his eyes. The man had more experience with the kind of women who didn’t live in a world of blood and vengeance, who were thrust in there anyway. “You want me to get Polly in? Have her sit with her?”
Keltan nodded. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.”
And it was.
Elena was all kinds of dark right now, she needed some light. Some peace in this chaos.
Polly was that.
She would give the woman as much peace as she could. Though Lance knew the only true peace she’d have was her son in her arms. Which was why he knew chaos so well.
Chapter Three
Elena
“Tell me about him,” Polly said, her voice soft and kind.
Her entire presence was soft and kind. She’d come in about an hour after Stella, the receptionist showed me to the room above the Greenstone offices. It was a small apartment, clean, modern, like the rest of the place.
There was a small lounge area with a dusky gray couch, only slightly lighter than the color on the walls. It looked comfortable, not cheap like a lot of sofas in places like this. It looked like it might swallow you up, and your troubles too. Right now, nothing could swallow my troubles.
There was a big TV mounted on the wall across from the couch. It was sleek. New. On the coffee table, there was a neat stack of books, a candle burning, and coasters.
Framed artwork scattered the walls, it was all beautiful landscapes, some seascapes too. I’d wandered over to gaze at them because they were so beautiful, so full. The artist was someone named Lauren Mathers. Someone very talented, and someone I likely couldn’t afford.
Off the living area was a small kitchenette with a nice coffeemaker, a stocked fridge, and a small dining table. There were bedrooms down the hall, “if I felt like napping,” Stella had said.
No way could I close my eyes and do something like sleep when I wasn’t under the same roof as my son.
The bathroom had a big tiled shower and bath, nicer than a fancy hotel. Even though I’d only been to a fancy hotel once in my life, on my honeymoon, and we’d only stayed one night because we had to cut it short for a case.
It was all much nicer and trendier than my home. But it didn’t feel cold. Professional. The artwork, the books, the candles, throw pillows, all told me that someone had put thought into this.
It was nice for any other situation.