Exiting the shower in my own home and grabbing my own clothes makes me feel alive. No jeans or t-shirts like my temporary alter-ego wears.
Finally all me.
I ignore the black waistcoats and pants, sick of the color. I skim over green and brown, too, pulling a rouge navy set off one hanger, and crisp, white, immaculately pressed shirt off another.
The jacket stays in the closet. I never wear suit jackets. They’re as uncomfortable as jeans.
Ten minutes later, I stand in front of the mirror smearing ointment over my new chest tattoo, courtesy of Koby who popped in earlier with his equipment.
He’s a self-taught, excellent artist. He started at fourteen, opened his own studio at eighteen, but only lasted three years as an upstanding citizen. His family’s ties with the mafia won him over and the rest is history.
Since he joined my crew three years ago, he’s the only man I trust with needlework. Tonight, he completed his tenth tattoo on my skin, but never was he this focused on keeping a straight face.
“Is that… blood?” he asked when I yanked my t-shirt off, showing him the two red lines.
“It is. Make sure the color matches. I want it to look exactly as it does now.”
He took pictures and spent ten minutes preparing the design, glancing at me over the laptop screen every so often, one eyebrow raised, a question on his lips. Probably more than one.
It wasn’t until he had the equipment ready that he finally caved and asked whose blood it was.
“Hailey’s,” I said, keeping the details to myself.
Clever as he is, he got to work, but he did wonder. I saw it in the way he kept pinching his lips together to stop asking where the blood came from or why I wanted it on my chest forever.
The reason is simple. Actions speak louder than words. Hailey’s so insecure she wouldn’t believe me if I simply told her I’m hers. The tattoo is permanent, it’s a statement.
Tattooing two red lines should’ve taken twenty minutes tops, but Koby spent almost an hour perfecting every detail.
Not that there were many.
Now, I stick second-skin foil over the two-inch ink, and shimmy into my shirt, buttoning up in front of the mirror. I roll up my sleeves to mid-arms, leather bracelets and a silver watch contrasting the tattoos wrapping my wrists. I slide my signet rings on, flexing my fingers.
“Someone’s pleased,” Broadway chirps after I descend the metal staircase, my shoes tapping against the parqueted living room floor. “Looking sharp, Boss. I almost didn’t recognize you earlier. You ready?”
“Not quite.”
I fetch my IWB holster from the desk drawer, and grab my Glock, taking a moment to appreciate the feeling of cold steel in my hand. Campus rules forbid me from carrying at Lakeside, so my gun’s tucked under the mattress. I have another in the glovebox for emergencies, but I’ve not had a reason to use either. I missed the power that comes with a concealed weapon.
Flipping the safety back and forth, I tuck it into the holster in the small of my back, adjusting the waistcoat. Hiding a gun without a suit jacket isn’t easy, so the small Glock is what I carry day-to-day.
As much leniency as Chicago’s finest offer Dante’s men, Chief Jeremy Smith insists we don’t draw attention, and a proper holster goes a long way toward that goal.
“Now we can go,” I tell Broadway watching him press the elevator button.
My home is a loft in the heart of the city. High ceilings, bare, brick walls and one of those old steel-gated elevators that takes us straight to the parking lot.
“I kept her running for you but she could use another spin,” Broadway says, eyeing my Corvette.
“You’re driving.” I hurl the keys at him, yanking the passenger door open. “I’ve spent twelve hours behind the wheel, and I’m doing the same tomorrow.”
He runs a gentle hand down the hood, concealing the smile trying to break out across his face. “Would be ten in this.”
That it would.
The Pontiac, as good as it is, isn’t fast. While my Corvette wouldn’t look out of place among the other expensive playthings at Lakeside, it’d be too easy for Vaughn to run the plates and connect Carter Beckett—my mother’s maiden name—to Carter Willard, son of Rhett Willard.
I don’t need that kind of trouble. Hailey’s a piece of work without adding her overachieving father into the mix.
Broadway fills me in on what I’ve missed—thankfully not much—over the past month the whole drive to Delta. His cunning smile doesn’t slip my attention, but I don’t ask.
He’ll vomit whatever’s littering his mind when he sees fit.
And he does once he parks in the underground lot.
“Koby told us you got new ink.”
“Did he now?”
How unsurprising.
I exit the car, whipping myself left and right to ease the tension in my lower back. “Are you braver than him?”
“Braver?” he repeats, eyebrows drawing in.
“He didn’t have the balls to ask why.”
Broadway smirks, calling the elevator. “The why is obvious. You don’t tattoo a girl’s blood on your chest for shits and giggles. You’re done, Boss. Hearts and kisses. In too deep for comfort.”
It’s not a question, so I don’t answer.
We enter the elevator, Broadway with that shits-and-giggles attitude, his mouth threatening to split at the corners.
“Interesting kink, I admit,” he continues. “I might have to try it one day. See what the fuss is about.”
“Try what?”
“Blood play.”
“You think I cut her?” The idea alone makes me shudder. “It’s not that kind of blood, Broadway.”
It takes a second before his gag-reflex comes into effect, making me chuckle.
“Not period blood, either.”
“Oh,” he mutters, wondering what it could be, his mouth permanently fixed in that small o.
Any second now…
“Shit!” His brows hit his hairline.
There it is.
“You mean—”
“Yes,” I cut in. “Now swallow whatever else you want to say.”
With visible difficulty, he does as the metal door slides open to reveal Delta’s ground floor. After weeks of relative quiet, the bass pumping from the speakers is deafening.
I navigate the room, people moving out of my way, some bowing their heads, others darting off.
A moment later, we’re in the VIP area on the balcony. Dante’s already there, sitting on one of two white leather half-moon couches facing each other. The area is separated from the rest of the club by a pane of bulletproof glass that muffles the loud music thumping throughout the building.
With a tumbler of whiskey in hand, Dante talks with Jackson, their girls notably missing, probably dancing downstairs, watched by two bodyguards.
“The prodigal son returns,” Nate, Dante’s—as I call him—left hand, cheers when I approach the table. “Good to see you, man.” He pats my back, question marks shining in his eyes.
There are men at the table who aren’t inner circle, so he checks his tongue, taking a seat while I shake hands with everyone. Before I’m done, a waitress comes over with a glass of bourbon for me and a Coke for my designated driver.
“Let my wife know I’ll be back in an hour,” Dante tells the guys not invited to the private meeting. A hint of a smile twists his features as he adds, “And tell her Carter’s back.”
“Sure thing, Boss. We’ll keep an eye on the girls.”
Dante nods, a silent yes, you will implied. “Koby and Ryder?” he asks when I fall into step beside him.
“Broadway will fill them in. The V brothers arrived unannounced earlier, so they’re otherwise occupied.”
“My allies prefer your club?” Dante cocks an eyebrow, pushing the door to his office at the back wide open, amusement lacing his tone. “Must be the Red Room.”
Hardly.
If it’s business related, their visits are always planned weeks in advance, but sometimes they show up to unwind. Dante purposely omits the fact he made me Vince and Vaughn’s main point of contact three years ago, tired of the mayhem they cause whenever they roll into town.
I don’t mind. Their kind of crazy aligns well with Ryder, so the meetings are always a breeze and I log out once they start humping everything that moves.
Before I take my usual seat in the leather chair, Jackson slips his hand into my pocket, pulling my phone out, a finger pressed to his lips as he stares me down.
I frown, watching him stomp away and hook up my phone to his laptop. Everyone’s silent, expectant eyes on me but it takes me a while before I understand.
They think there’s a bug on my phone.
A cold sweat slithers down my back, my mind working overtime, running through all possibilities. Have I ever left my phone unattended? Who the fuck would bug me?
“We’re good,” Jackson says, staring at the screen. “It works on calls, texts, and emails. It doesn’t listen, so we’re fine.”
“You found a bug?” I snarl, moving to stand behind him. “How did it get on my phone? How did you know it’s there?”
“I heard cracks on the line yesterday,” Dante says. “I’ve been bugged enough times to distinguish a shitty connection from a poorly installed bug. We had no way of checking whether it was listening all the time, so I couldn’t get Andres to warn you. I needed you here.”
Fuck. That’s why he sounded so odd.
“Sit, Carter,” he adds.
I sink into the leather chair, downing half my whiskey. “How did it get on my phone?”
“I’m working on that,” Jackson mutters, tapping the keyboard. “I can tell you it was installed yesterday.” He frowns at the screen. “That’s… fuck. You opened a server, didn’t you?”
My eyebrows draw together, then shoot up when it clicks. “Rhett. He sent me a server link to those files about Vaughn.”
The fucking bastard.
“Yup,” he confirms, tapping away. “One of the files is infected. Looks like your old man doesn’t trust you.”
I run a heavy hand down my face. “He’s pissed off things aren’t happening faster. I bet he’s checking I’m not leading him by the nose.”
“We can’t remove it without him knowing,” Broadway states, crossing the room. He opens a filing cabinet, pulling out a metal box. “If it isn’t meant for Rhett’s ears, it goes through one of these.” He drops two burners in my lap.
“His ass is on fire,” Dante muses. “He’s scared, Carter. I don’t think this is about trust. He’s worried you’re piecing the puzzle together and figuring out some things he doesn’t want you to know.”
I massage my temples. “Jackson, move the folder for Hailey’s phone bug onto this one.” I toss one of the burners his way. “I’ll only load new recordings onto my phone once I’ve checked there’s nothing there that Rhett can use.”
Dante’s right. Bugging my phone proves I don’t know everything. Rhett’s scared and trying to stay one step ahead.
“While you’re here,” Nate starts. “The more we dig, the less sense this case makes. Nothing adds up. We have three different versions of the accident.” He lifts a hand, bending his fingers in turn. “Rhett’s, Vaughn’s to Hailey, and what I found in the police files. Do you know where the accident happened?”
“According to Rhett—”
“Then you don’t.” He tosses a thick file across the table. “We got our hands on the black box from the silver sedan and traced the entire ride.”
I open a map with red Xs drawn here and there.
“Those mark the houses. Hailey’s…” He points at one X, then drags his finger lower. “Rhett’s… and Alex’s. Now this—”
“Rhett’s warehouse,” I finish for him.
It serves as my father’s dirty business spot, the place where he tortures and murders those who step out of line.
“The blue line marks Alex’s journey from his house. He stops about a mile from the warehouse, then travels across the city, all the way here.” He taps a black X. “Where they crashed.”
“Rhett said they crashed not far from this bridge,” I point to it. “That’s the other side of the city.”
“It is,” Dante agrees. “He leans over the table, pointing out a spot not far from the crash. “This happens to be the police station where Vaughn works.”
“You think Alex was taking Hailey there?”
“It’s possible. What interests me more is why he was here.” He taps a street near Rhett’s warehouse. “The car was stationary for three minutes. He must have picked something up.”
“Or dropped something off.” I scrutinize the map, visualizing the streets and buildings. “There’s a private, high rollers’ bank one street over,” I say, my mind whirring. “The evidence.”
Shit. Alex dropped it off moments before he died, and Hailey was with him…
The missing puzzle pieces fall into place as I fill in the blanks. When Alex realized they were being tailed, he probably told Hailey how to access the deposit box.
She knows. She just can’t remember. The information is there, lost in the labyrinth of her healing mind.
“Don’t get excited,” Dante warns, leaning back in his seat.
The handle of his gun, tucked into a shoulder holster, glistens in the dimmed lighting. Since the day he brought his wife home from Moscow, he’s worn two guns.
I wonder how many he’ll wear if he ever has kids.
“If that’s where the evidence is you won’t get anything out without a password,” he continues, sloshing the whiskey in his glass. “You might need Alex’s eye or finger, too. Places like this deal with all kinds of people; they’re used to threats. Their security would make you blush. Guns blazing is not the way to go.”
“I know, but I also know this whole fucking endeavor isn’t pointless. Hailey knows where the evidence is. She probably knows how to access it. It might be her fingerprint we need.”
“It better be,” Rookie pipes in. “It’s been weeks since Alex died. Eyeballs disintegrate fast. It’s cold outside, which might have slowed it up, but I doubt any part of him is usable.”
“I guess we’ll find out,” I say, glancing at Broadway. “You’re going to Ohio. Dig the fucker up, cut his hands, gouge his eyes then get it all on ice.”
He pulls a disgusted face at me. “Rookie just said he’s probably rotted.”
“Probably isn’t definitely. The sooner you grab the parts, the more chance we can use them. We might not need to, but I’d rather have the option if Hailey remembers and confirms the evidence is in the bank.”
“So you want to go in guns blazing?”
“If we have no other choice… yeah. Rhett bugging my phone proves he’s desperate and desperate men—”
“Do desperate things,” Dante agrees.
“Fuck my life,” Broadway mutters. “I’ve done a lot of shit for you, but never grave robbing.”
“First time’s a wild thrill,” Rookie chuckles. “Make sure you wear gloves and a mask. Dead bodies reek.”
“How about instead of patiently waiting for Hailey to remember, you—”
“Don’t,” I clip, glaring at Broadway. I know where he’s going with this and for his sake, it’ll be better if he backtracks immediately. “Don’t even fucking suggest it.”
“I’m not suggesting anything drastic, Boss. It’s been almost two months. She’s fine now, so how about the truth? Tell her who you are. Tell her who Alex was. Tell her about Aalyiah. There’s no risk of brain damage if you start pushing.”
My hands clench into fists but, before I snap, Dante shakes his head. “If he tells her who he is, he’ll lose her trust. There’s no telling how fragile her memories are. If he starts pushing and she jams up—”
“She’ll forget,” Broadway finishes for him in a resigned tone. “That’s a good thing, though. Isn’t it? The evidence won’t ever see the light of day.”
“That’s if it’s in that bank,” Jackson says, handing my phone back before opening a cigar drawer. “We have nothing that confirms it. I can poke around their firewalls but I doubt they’d still be operational if anyone could hack into their system.”
I’ve run every possibility through my head while I’ve been at Lakeside, and it looks like everyone else has been doing the same.
“If the evidence is there and Hailey never remembers how to access it, it doesn’t mean it’s safe,” I say. “Vaughn was the one who sent Alex undercover. He knows there’s evidence, so we can’t be the only ones looking.”
Dante nods slowly, surrounding himself with a cloud of smoke. “He’ll move heaven and earth for a warrant. The guy’s smart. It might take time, but he’ll get it and the bank will have to comply.”
“So what?” Broadway, leans forward, resting both elbows on his knees. “Back to patiently waiting and hoping Hailey will remember? How long before that’s no longer an option?”
“Not long,” Jackson says, jutting his chin toward the file. “There’s more there.”
I run a hand down my face, tired of this game. There are too many things I don’t know. Too many lies flying around every which way, and too many unavailable options for revealing the truth.
My involvement with Hailey has closed another door. Broadway has a point, pushing her would be easiest. There’s little risk to her mind, but little isn’t none.
She’s mine. I protect her. I don’t fucking hurt her.
A picture of a man I know all too well slips out of the file. The surroundings are blurred, but Noretto’s face is clear, a phone to his ear, cigarette hanging from his lips.
“Now this is why I called you here.” Dante juts his chin at the picture. “The word about Alex infiltrating your father’s organization got out. It’s all rumors for now, but I told Rhett to vet his people. Looks like there’s a rat in his ranks.”
That’s a problem.
A big problem.
Whenever someone in our world gets investigated, all their acquaintances are on edge. You never know what the feds will dig up, what connection they’ll make, and how many will go down with the main suspect. My father doesn’t have allies like Dante does. He has people he does business with. Ruthless people all over America. People lacking a code of honor. Small fish aspiring for the big pond.
“Sooner or later, someone will connect the dots, Carter. Someone will try to put their hands on the evidence to ensure their safety and maybe bury your father.” Dante takes a purposeful pause, staring me down.
I know what he’s thinking. What he’s implying… Hailey’s the easiest route to the evidence.
“I doubt anyone yet realizes Hailey’s mixed into this,” he continues. “But Vaughn’s drawing attention by running around like a headless chicken.”
I snatch the picture off the table, pinching the corner between my fingers. “Noretto has the most to lose, the most to gain, and an added flavor of revenge as the cherry on top.”
With the word about Alex spreading, finding the evidence will turn into a rat race… and I bit my own fucking legs off when I gave in to Hailey.
I won’t hurt her.
I won’t jeopardize her memories, health, or safety.
I won’t risk losing her.
My father’s enemies won’t share my sentiment. If they realize Hailey’s involved, she’ll become the target of every shady fucker Rhett ever dealt with.
The only people I can count on are in this room. We’re all friends here, not a bunch of criminals in a hierarchy; we’re a close-knit group where trust matters more than who ranks where.
My place as the right hand didn’t come until four years ago when my predecessor, Spades, bowed out after becoming a father. It’s unusual for made men to wave bye bye, but Dante made an exception for Spades. He let him off duty and helped him relocate to sunny Greece.
I earned my spot not just because Dante trusts me with his life, but also because I’m one of three people he trusts with his wife’s life. I took three bullets for Layla five years ago, shielding her with my body when a street gang raided Delta, thinking taking out the queen would force the king to abdicate.
Layla was downstairs, dancing, when the shooting started. Without thinking, I jumped over the balcony railing, barely keeping my legs from breaking on impact. I pulled her behind me when her bodyguards dropped dead.
It took Dante less than ten seconds to reach us. Ten seconds during which I killed four and took three bullets.
Hailey traced her fingers over the scars—the first person I let do that—I doubt she realized they were bullet wounds or she probably wouldn’t let me touch her.
“Talk to me, Carter,” Dante says, breaking through the cluster of my thoughts. “You’re tense.”
“Can you blame me?”
“Not at all, but this isn’t your usual kind of tense.”
I accept a drink from Rookie, taking a long, measured sip. “I went down there with so much hatred toward Hailey…” I crack my neck, easing the tension Dante’s kindly pointed out. “I never considered hurting a woman before Rhett said she was responsible for Aalyiah’s death.”
“Is she, though?” He cocks an eyebrow while everyone else remains silent.
“Exactly.” I smirk, enjoying how well he knows me and how similarly we think. “The more I learn, the more certain I am that Hailey’s as much a victim as Aalyiah, if not more.”
“You have a soft spot for her,” he states. “Don’t let it grow out of proportion.”
This is where I expect Broadway to throw in his three cents: too late, Boss, he’s already done for, but he doesn’t say a word, eyes boring into mine. I think he’s a little afraid of Dante’s reaction.
“Keep a level head,” Dante continues. “She’s a tool, Carter. Means to an end…” He tilts his head, looking me over. “But…”
There it is. I don’t have to tell him because he knows. He sees it in my actions and the tone of my voice. He knows because he’s lived through this.
“Should that stop being true, I expect you’ll be smart about it. If anyone realizes there’s a way to leverage you, the evidence won’t be the only reason people come for Hailey…” He stares straight into my eyes before he adds, “And right now, she’s easier to grab than Layla or any other woman in our circle.”
