Cleveland is a five-hour drive from Chicago. With two coffee breaks, I arrive at the safe house close to four in the morning.
From the buzzing club to thunderous music blaring inside my car, then the dead stillness and silence of the early morning.
The sky’s black, the stars few and far between, but it won’t stay like this long.
I wrench my car door open, my muscles protesting the long drive that seized me in the driver’s position. Whipping myself left and right, I groan at the tension quickly ebbing away, accompanied by a satisfying pop in my lower back.
Robbed of the sensory distractions my alternative rock playlist offered, anxiety once again rears its ugly head, bringing my dark thoughts back. My heart kicks up, drumming a jittery rhythm against my ribs, an airless, mounting sense of impending doom filling my lungs.
Shaking the last of the stiffness off my limbs, I crack my neck for good measure, staring at the run-of-the-mill suburban home my father calls a safe house.
The rickety nineteen-sixties structure bears enough wear and tear to blend into the background. Perfectly unremarkable, like the others lining both sides of the scarcely lit street. Most lamps are bent, broken, or missing. The remaining few cast a dim glow over the littered streets.
I don’t take a single step forward, staring at the dark, newspaper-covered windows. Rhett must be inside already, waiting to break the news. Probably growing impatient since he surely heard my car pull up.
He knows I’m here and he knows I’m stalling.
Let him wait. I need this moment because once I enter that fucking house, everything will change. It’s inevitable.
I was summoned here when my grandmother died five years ago. Again, when Rhett’s sick, abusive brother was stabbed to death by his wife. And then when my aunt took her own life last summer, severing the last connection I had to my mother.
I’m standing my ground, pretending that nothing’s wrong for as long as possible. Unfortunately, it’s not long enough.
The front door cracks open after less than half a minute. Apollo, Rhett’s most trusted man, exits the house, offering me a tight nod, his face unreadable.
He’s avoiding eye contact.
That’s a bad sign…
“He’s waiting for you,” Apollo says, holding his hand out for my keys.
I know the drill. Dawn is almost here and, soon, the sun will rise, illuminating the weeds poking out between the cracks in the driveway and highlighting my shiny, cherry-red Corvette.
A brand-new, expensive, sporty car will catch too much attention in this neighborhood, so Apollo will park it out the back like he did the last three times.
The track record of those meetings doesn’t bode well. Neither does the forceful shoulder squeeze Apollo offers as I pass him in the doorway, dropping my keys onto his open palm.
He closes the door behind me, the narrow corridor lit by retro light fixtures. Orange-and-brown geometrical wallpaper peels off the top half of the walls, the once-light-green carpet now missing half its thread count. The interior hasn’t seen a décor change since this place was built in the sixties.
I step toward the living room like I’m walking on fucking tissue paper. I disregard the mounting unease fraying my nerves and the smell of decay filling the stale, dusty air.
Call it sentiment, but there’s an odd charm about this rundown house… Even if I’ve only ever heard tidings of death within its walls.
Veering left, I step across a threshold marked clearly by the carpet change: from seen-better-days green to dirty pink.
My father occupies an armchair by the large fireplace, his long, brown coat draped over the backrest, his hat firmly in place where it belongs: on top of his head.
Rhett’s sense of style is older than him, his black leather shoes so polished you could check in the reflection whether you have something stuck in your teeth.
He and Apollo must’ve arrived a while ago given the heat coming off the orange glow of the fire, and the near-melted ice in the glass of bourbon by Rhett’s arm.
His face is as impassive as always, the scar marking his nose and lips as sinister as any other day, but the haunted look clouding his black irises stirs a new flavor of hell inside me.
The rush returns. Adrenaline and anxiety course through me, shattering the hope I didn’t hold much of to begin with. Deep down, I knew what he’d say the moment I arrived, but… it’s true what Dante says.
Hope dies last.
“How?” is all I push past my clenched teeth, my world crumbling as his unspoken confirmation falls like a guillotine.
It severs the sliver of mercy I acquired under Dante’s mentorship clean off my bones. Whoever’s responsible for my little sister’s death… their days are numbered.
“Suicide,” Rhett barks out, sipping his drink.
Suicide.
Suicide.
Suicide.
The longer the word bounces around my mind, stealing the breath from my chest, the more meaningless it sounds. I’ve lived through my share of darkness, but taking my life never crossed my mind.
I’m reeling that I wasn’t there for Aalyiah when she needed me. I’m reeling that she’s gone. That she couldn’t escape whatever labyrinth of seemingly unfixable issues she fell into.
Everything can be fixed.
We’d have found a way if she fucking called me.
I should’ve been there for her. I should’ve known she was struggling but… she was so bright and happy whenever we spoke.
My little ray of sunshine.
Always smiling. Always seeing the positives, the goodness… even inside monsters like her father and brother.
“Sit.” Rhett points out an armchair directly opposite him, then clinks his glass against an empty one sitting beside an almost full bottle of bourbon. “Drink.”
It’s not an invitation.
It’s an order. One I know better than to disobey.
Despite the years he didn’t know I existed, the years I spent with my aunt, and those I spent working for Dante, Rhett Willard introduces a sense of danger into my world.
It doesn’t matter that at this point I’ve killed and tortured more men than he ever has.
He is the boss in Ohio. Always has been, always will be until the day he heaves his last breath.
No one threatens the man. He’s an entity in himself. While Dante sits on top of the food chain, his allies spanning across multiple states and most of Europe, Rhett is the lone ranger no one bothers.
You don’t poke a bear without losing an arm.
He’s as ruthless as they come. Unpredictable. Void of any moral compass. He only cares about himself, and that attitude appeals to the worst of the worst. Rhett has no allies, officially, but there are men who’d stand by his side for personal gain. Men who admire and follow him blindly.
“I said, sit,” he denotes.
I move. On autopilot, on weak, shaky legs, I cross the living room, sinking into the faded-yellow wingback chair, a cloud of dust swirling in the air. Silently, I marshal the misery tearing me apart as I fill the crystal glass to the brim.
My hands shake so hard I spill some over my jeans.
Fuck. My heart’s shattered, the pieces morphing into tiny shards of glass that make sieves out of my lungs.
I take a hefty swig. The amber liquid burns my throat and numbs my tongue but doesn’t ease the pain.
My little sister.
Dead.
Gone.
Suicide.
“Why?” I rasp. “When? What the fuck happened?”
Rhett pins me with a cool, calculated stare. He’s composed. Too fucking composed even for him.
It isn’t the reaction I’d expect from a man who’s lost his daughter. There’s sadness in his eyes, but it’s dimmed. Dull, processed… accepted.
“Almost two weeks ago.”
I jump to my feet. “Two weeks?”
I’m pacing. It’s either that or shooting everything in sight. Back and forth, my heavy boots mark the pink carpet. The room sways, spins, and Rhett’s silence drives me wild.
“She’s been dead for two fucking weeks and you’re only telling me now?!” I whirl to face him, my true, dark colors—closely matching his—on full display as my grief morphs into rage. “Start. Talking!”
“Carter.” Apollo’s voice breaches the silence, calm and steady, but his gun, aimed between my eyes, tells me he’s not as composed as he sounds. “Put it down, son.”
My eyebrows knot in the middle, confusion twisting my gut. Why the fuck—?
I trail his line of sight, finding my gun grasped in my right hand, safety flipped, my index finger grazing the trigger. I’m not aiming anywhere in particular, but I am holding it.
Shoving the cold steel back into the holster, I snatch the half-empty glass, chugging until there’s not one drop left. Then, I refill, gulping more until the burn fills my stomach. Until I trust myself to sit and listen without murdering Rhett for keeping my sister’s death a secret.
“Did she tell you about her boyfriend?” he asks, his assessing eyes narrowed.
“Boyfriend? She had a boyfriend? She was a fucking child, Rhett! Why—”
“I’ll take that as a no,” he cuts in, letting my anger fly over his head.
He runs a hand down his face, the gold signet on his finger reflecting the crackling fire. I wear the same one—a token of his acceptance.
“She wasn’t a child, Carter, she was eighteen.”
Eighteen is no age to start dating. Especially without telling me first so I could check the guy through and through. So I could drive to Columbus, take him out for a drink and threaten to cut his balls off if he failed to worship Aalyiah and the ground beneath her feet.
I swallow hard, flexing my fingers into tight fists and holding them back. Knocking Rhett out won’t accomplish anything. It won’t change the facts and it definitely won’t change his attitude toward me.
He never treated me like his son, always a soldier, never considered me and Aalyiah siblings even though we’re both biologically his.
We weren’t raised in the same house. I was sixteen, deadly, angry, and ruthless when I moved into Rhett’s mansion and met Aalyiah. She was eight… innocent, curious, so smart.
I could’ve been in the foulest of moods but one look at her fixed all my problems. I had unbelievable patience toward that girl and once Rhett ordered me to work with Dante in Chicago, we called and texted often.
Regardless of Rhett’s flaws and fucked-up world-view, keeping Aalyiah’s boyfriend, and now her death, away from my ears is a brand-new low.
He had no right.
He had no reason, but… he could so he did.
And now she’s gone.
My favorite person in the world. Gone.
“Alex was an undercover cop.” Rhett drops another bomb.
He’s on a roll tonight.
Was doesn’t skip my attention but there’s more to unpack here. I’m not surprised Alex is no longer with us. Rhett probably hung the fucker upside down, slashed his stomach, and watched his intestines slowly unwind while he sat back, drinking bourbon and enjoying the show.
“A cop…” I clip, staring my father down. “How did that not come to light the moment he laid eyes on Aalyiah?”
Rhett grinds his molars, displeased that his security measures failed and pissed off I have the guts to point it out.
“Vaughn handpicked him without anyone’s knowledge or approval. You could say he went rogue.”
A stellar cop like Vaughn never struck me as a rule-breaker. He’s the lead investigator in my father’s case. Has been for a year, slowly gathering information and causing more trouble alone than the combined dozens before him ever could.
Most of the evidence is speculative, but Rhett’s not a careful man. Instead of easing off when Vaughn moved to Ohio and took a magnifying glass to his business, he’s been branching out under his nose. Not a clever move considering that Vaughn sure is a force to be reckoned with.
And Rhett knows that, though still underestimates the man at every turn. Last year, when Vaughn was assigned to Rhett’s case, he told me the two of them go way back. Years, to be precise. He was sparse with the details but, from the little he let on, I believe he killed Vaughn’s partner when Rhett had dealings in Florida.
My father acts untouchable, a king of his own castle, but he’s not untouchable. He’s sloppier with age and an undercover cop infiltrating his family, our family, proves that.
“The hard check we ran on Alex came up clean,” he continues, swirling the two fingers of bourbon in his glass. “Not one reference to the police force. Either Vaughn cleaned him out good, or he wasn’t a cop to start with.” He glows red, the next sentence hard to voice given that he never openly admits his mistakes. “We should’ve dug deeper, I admit.”
I guess he feels at least a bit shit about keeping Aalyiah’s death from me if he’s throwing me this bone.
“That is on me,” he adds through clenched teeth.
That cost him his daughter. My sister. The one person in this fucked-up world I’d happily die for.
“Tell me what happened,” I urge, cracking my knuckles.
“Alex had a girl on the side. I don’t know how Aalyiah found out, but it broke her heart. She loved that scum.” He heaves a sigh, swallowing the last of his bourbon. “One evening, two lives and two years’ worth of memories lost.”
He finally goes into what few details he has.
“She left a note. Two sentences. He’s a cop, Daddy. He doesn’t love me… he loves her.” He pauses, closing his eyes briefly, every next word calculated. “I sent everyone after Alex. Babyface found him on the road with his girl in the car.”
He refills his drink, then mine. I wouldn’t notice his hands shaking softly if not for his gold signet ring clanking against the crystal glasses.
“The order was clear. I wanted him and the slut alive. I had to know what information he gathered, how much he passed to Vaughn, if he had any hard evidence, and what case they were building, but…” A deep, defeated sigh escapes him. “Babyface got impatient.”
Babyface is Rhett’s muscle man. No brain, no hair, no imagination. Dumb as they come, and equally brutal.
“He was tailing them,” Rhett continues. “They were getting away and Babyface said he nudged the car, but…” He motions at Apollo who passes me a handful of pictures.
The make and model of the silver sedan is unrecognizable. It must’ve rolled down a hill before wrapping itself around a tree. The driver’s side is folded inwards, the roof’s collapsed, and windows shattered.
No way anyone could’ve survived that.
“Who was driving?” I ask, peering up at Rhett.
I know the answer. Rhett’s already speaking about Alex in past tense, but…
Hope. Dies. Last.
There’s nothing more I want in this moment than to find and skin the fucker alive. Slowly. So fucking slowly.
“He was. Dead on impact.”
Lucky bastard.
“Babyface said he checked his pulse,” Rhett continues. “And when he found him dead, he put a few bullets in his head out of sheer fucking frustration.”
He probably realized Alex dying when Rhett specifically asked for him alive would cost Babyface his head.
I hand Apollo the pictures, grateful that he sets a second bottle of bourbon beside my empty glass. He’s the only person in my father’s entourage I respect.
“And the girl?” I ask. “Dead?”
“It was close for a hot minute but she made it. According to Babyface the cops were too close to risk dragging her out of the car or making her into a sieve.”
“Who is she?”
Rhett’s fingernails turn white on the glass. “Now that’s the real kicker. She’s the second mistake I made and the reason Babyface is no longer breathing.” Building on my mounting sense of dread, Rhett lights a cigar.
Apollo drops another picture in my lap, this time of a girl. I guess Alex had a type… young and innocent-looking pretty little things.
“Her name is Hailey.” Rhett blows out a cloud of thick smoke, pinching a cigar between his lips as he takes another drag. “I should’ve checked who she was before I sent Babyface after Alex. I would’ve sent Apollo had I known. He’s less inclined for theatrics, but it’s too late to list what I could’ve done differently. Thankfully, Hailey’s alive, or we wouldn’t be speaking right now.”
On the spot, I conjure two reasons why not. One, the most obvious: he’d be dead, executed for harming whoever this Hailey is. Rhett’s jittery when he talks about her, his eyes dart away and his words don’t come easily.
He knows he’s in deep shit.
The other reason is less obvious, but it’s happened a few times the past eight years: we wouldn’t be talking unless he needed a fucking favor. He wouldn’t tell me about Aalyiah if he didn’t need me to do his dirty work.
The thought hits like lightning, scorching my veins, pushing me to grab Rhett’s wrinkled throat and squeeze hard.
I squander the impulse, dropping my gaze to the picture. I take my time, scrutinizing every detail of Hailey’s face, her deep, steel-blue eyes, strawberry-blond hair, heart-shaped face, and full lips, wondering if she’s another boss’s daughter, sister, or wife. She’s clearly someone whose death would demand Rhett’s, so she must be fucking important, but I’ve never seen her before. I can’t find any resemblance to the big players—those few capable of making Rhett feel uneasy.
“Who is she?” I repeat the question.
“That, my son, is Vaughn’s only daughter.”
