“It’s Aalyiah,” Rhett barks into the phone, no emotion to his voice. “Meet me in Cleveland.”
Beep, the line goes silent. He’s a man of few words.
A few words that have my heart surging, blood pumping, muscles tensing so fucking hard it’s agony. I grip the desk with both hands, hang my head low, and inhale steady, deep breaths.
My eighteen-year-old sister is the only person in this world I deeply care about. My little ray of sunshine. Her pretty, innocent face flashes before my eyes as I stop my brain jumping to the worst conclusions.
Rhett wouldn’t act so detached if the worst had happened.
She’s his little ray of sunshine too. The apple of Daddy’s eye. Heartless bastard or not, Rhett loves Aalyiah more than words could describe. She’s the only child he wanted. The one he meticulously planned with his late wife, and the one he’d give up his life for.
I’m a byproduct of a short, heated affair. Old Rhett had no idea he made a human until I was eleven years old and my mother died. She never told him face to face, but she made a note in her will, stating Rhett should take care of me after her passing. I didn’t find out about Rhett for another five years.
He didn’t respect my mother’s wishes. He paid my aunt to raise me, then knocked on the door on my sixteenth birthday: when I was old enough to learn the ropes.
I would’ve spat in his face but he brought a gift… the fucker who battered my mother to death. Rhett took me outside, opened the trunk and there he was—Francis Sawyer—all mine to do with as I pleased.
And I did.
In a beat-up warehouse on the outskirts of Columbus, Ohio, I spent twelve hours under Rhett’s watchful eye, torturing the man who killed my mother. I watched him die a slow, agonizing death, reveling in both the pleasure I got from his screams and the satisfaction from Rhett’s approval.
Looking back, I know Francis was a test… and bait. After that night, Rhett held me in the palm of his hand. We grew closer while he trained me as a ruthless killer.
Then, eight years ago, he sent me to work under Dante Carrow in Chicago, making me Rhett’s secret weapon, off the Ohio police’s radar.
The door to my office screeches open. Broadway’s distinct, light steps enter the room. “You good, Boss?”
“Rhett called,” I say, snapping upright.
Broadway’s one of the few people I trust unconditionally. One of seven in Chicago who know my last name isn’t Beckett like my mother’s maiden name.
It’s Willard.
We only entrusted the inner circle with that information. My father wanted to keep it on the downlow, hypothesizing that a certain level of anonymity and lack of immediate connection between us might come in handy.
It has a few times.
“You look like you’ve seen a fucking ghost, Carter.” Broadway’s analyzing gaze follows my every move as I snatch my car keys from the desk. “What did the old man want?”
“He only said Aalyiah.” I offer him the little information I have. “You’re in charge while I’m gone. Keep this place running smoothly. Report to me every evening and don’t fuck up.”
He nods, a solemn look crossing his features.
With a phone to my ear, I head out, taking the private elevator to the underground parking lot.
“I know.” Dante answers my call. “Rhett briefed me before he called you.”
“Then you probably know more than I do,” I huff, dread prickling my neck. “I’ll keep you posted if I can.”
He makes an approving noise at the back of his throat.
I’ve known the man for eight years so I can easily picture him in Delta, seated in the VIP booth, his green, calculating eyes following his wife’s every move despite an army of bouncers trailing after her like oversized guard dogs.
“Be careful,” he says before cutting the call, never one to trust my father.
“Always am,” I mutter, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat and burning out of the parking lot.
