Giddiness flows through my veins like pixie dust flows through a junkie, my mind racing a thousand miles a minute. I’ve been waiting for years to see Peter Michaels face to face, and the moment is finally here. Sooner than I originally anticipated, but welcome, nonetheless.
I wonder if he’ll recognize me. I was often told growing up that I was the spitting image of my father, but I’m not sure how much truth there is to that statement anymore.
Right after my parents’ deaths, I remember sitting in our empty home, strangers attempting to comfort me as they asked what I’d like to pack. What I’d like to keep. As if my entire life could be summed up and shipped off with a few cases of clothing. I stayed silent, choosing to only take a small box of mementos. An old book of fables my mother read to me every night, and a single photo of the three of us; my mother, my father, and I. I kept them hidden underneath the bed at my uncle’s, and at night, when the grief would wind its way through my insides and wrap around my throat, making me feel as though I couldn’t breathe, I’d take them out. I’d grip their still faces in my hand as I cried into my pillow, imagining my mother’s voice reading me fairy tales with happy endings.
But one night, shortly after my arrival, my uncle found them. I begged and pleaded on my knees like a pathetic dog, willing to do anything to keep what small pieces of them I had. But he didn’t care about that. He didn’t care for much of anything other than obedience and pain. And that night, he made sure I learned the meaning of both. He kept me on my knees as he promised to give me back my things, his thin knife nicking along my torso, causing beads of blood to spill—the sight making fear clamp down on my soul. He told me how he hated my father, how my face made him sick. And after he stripped away any innocence I had left, he burned every single item and laughed as I cried, shame and agonizing grief mixing together with the aftertaste of his vile pleasure.
But my tears dried quick, and I vowed to never let them fall again.
Over the years, I tried to hold on to their faces, to the sound of their voices, and the smell of their hair. But like all things, memories fade. The mind is far too easy to manipulate, even by our own subconscious. Fact becomes fiction, or at the very least, a warped version of the truth. And the past grows distorted and blurred.
“We’re meeting him at Cannibal’s Cave.” Ru’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts.
My brows rise, surprised that’s where Peter is wanting to meet.
Cannibal’s Cave is an abandoned cavern deep in the forest about an hour and a half outside of the city. The rumor is that it was used by the government back in the fifties to hold military equipment, but it’s long since been abandoned. The random hiker goes by now and again, but for the most part, it’s an empty space, too hidden behind dense trees for even the homeless to seek shelter.
Ru grins, sitting back in his chair and lighting a cigar. “So, where were you last night? I had the twins collect the new shipment, thought you’d be there to inspect the product.”
My insides twist. “I was indisposed. The twins can handle it.”
“But they don’t know weapons like you.”
“Was there an issue?”
“Not that I know of.”
I nod. “Well, if there’s an issue, I’ll see to it.”
Ru scowls, lifting the back of his hand up like he’s ready to smack the air. “The amount of disrespect that comes outta your mouth, kid. I swear to God.”
“Oh, come now, Roofus. You’re one of the only people alive that I do respect.”
He puffs on his cigar. “Yeah, well… I didn’t say it the other day, but thank you for the gift.”
I cringe, my stomach twisting.
“Now don’t go getting all weird on me, kid,” he continues. “Just let me say what I need to say.”
Sighing, I stand, walking to the globe in the corner of his office that houses the brandy, pouring myself two fingers and spinning around. The ice clinks against the edges of the glass.
“You’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to a son,” he says.
My heart twists violently in my chest, my fingers gripping my drink so hard the ridges of the crystal imprint onto my skin.
“And I know you don’t like the sentimental garbage, so I’ll make it quick. We have a lotta enemies. And I’m just saying…” He clears his throat. “I’m glad you’ve got my six, kid.”
The tendons in my jaw tighten as I clench my teeth, pushing down the knot of emotion lodging itself in my throat. I tip my drink toward him. “Every night.”
“And straight on ‘til morning.” He winks.
The first and only time I met Peter was on a “family vacation,” which was actually code for my father, Arthur, having business in America. I never knew exactly what he did for a living other than he was powerful, and everyone in London seemed to know and revere him. I knew he had a business partner here in the States, one whom he visited often, usually without us. However, this time, it was my parents’ anniversary, and my mother insisted we come along for the trip.
It was the next morning at brunch where I met Peter and his picture-perfect family. At the time, I didn’t think anything of it. After all, I had parents who loved me, and I never wanted for anything. Still, for some reason, the strongest sense of urgency filled me when I saw him for the first time. I wrote it off as hating the Florida weather. It was too muggy and hot. Too bright after a lifetime in the overcast skies of London.
And then his beautiful wife walked in carrying a baby, couldn’t be older than a year, and holding the hand of a young girl with brown hair and a smile that reached out and struck you with its glow. Their mother was pretty, but she paled in comparison to mine.
Peter smiled and shook my hand, the soft skin of his palm making me feel important. Respected. Stupidly, I looked up to him in the same way I did my father. And two days later when we flew home on a NevAirLand private jet, courtesy of Peter Michaels, it went down in flames, crashing into trees and killing everyone on board. Everyone except for me.
I’ll never forget the look on my father’s face as he read the handwritten note minutes before—the one passed off by Peter himself. I had never known a living man could go as sickly white as a ghost.
It’s that image that haunts me now as we drive up the darkened pathway to the entrance of Cannibal’s Cave. The crunch of the gravel underneath the tires echoes the feeling of my insides, knowing I’ll have to hold myself together and not kill Peter where he stands.
Starkey parks the car and leaves the headlights on—the only way to light up the black of the night.
And there he is, leaning against a Rolls Royce in a green button-down shirt and dark slacks. His men stand slightly ahead, and a stunning blonde woman is by his side.
“You ready, kid?” Ru looks over to me. “Keep it cordial, yeah?”
I lift my brows. “Of course, Roofus.”
“And don’t call me Roofus in front of him, for Christ’s sake.”
Ru steps out of the car first, and I follow shortly after, allowing the limelight to land on him as I slink behind in the shadows, not wanting Peter to see me just yet.
“Ru, I presume?” Peter’s voice sails across the air, making my stomach churn.
Ru grins. “That’s me. You would know that if you had shown up the first time.”
Peter inclines his head, his graying hair bobbing with the motion. “I apologize, I’m sure you can understand why I sent one of my men first. Privacy and discretion are of the utmost importance.”
I place my hands in my pockets, my thumb rubbing harshly against the wood of my knife, trying to drown out the thumping of my heart.
“And who is this?” Ru asks, his hand waving toward the woman standing behind Peter.
Peter glances back at her. “This is Tina Belle. My assistant.”
Her blonde hair is pulled back tightly, and she smiles and waves.
“Tina, nice to meet you,” Ru says. “Well, we’re here. Talk to us.”
Peter’s head cocks to the side, his eyes floating from Ru to Starkey, and finally to me standing in the shadows. “You have me introduce my people, but you don’t give me the same courtesy?” He points to his chest. “If you’re planning on us working together, respect goes both ways. There needs to be a level of trust.”
Anger burns deep in my gut. Trust. Laughable, really.
I step out of the shadows and into the light, my hands in my pockets.
“Trust is a funny word, isn’t it?” I ask.
Ru turns to me, narrowing his eyes. I grin at him and wink.
Peter gazes at me for long moments, as if he’s soaking in every single feature. And then, his cheeks pale the slightest bit.
Excellent.
“After all,” I continue. “We trusted that when someone of your caliber comes into our territory and requests a meeting, he would do us the courtesy of actually showing up.” I step forward until I’m shoulder to shoulder with Ru, my hand white-knuckling my knife, trying to filter all of my rage into my grip so it doesn’t show on my face.
I’ve waited on this for fifteen years, and I’m going to see my plan through, no matter how much my blood is scratching at my insides, screaming to end him here and now.
Peter licks his lips. “And you are?”
I chuckle, glancing at the ground before meeting his stare. “You can call me Hook.”
“Ah, yes. Hook.” Peter chuckles. “Your reputation precedes you.” He tilts his head. “Didn’t know you were British though.”
I smirk, resting against the front of our car.
Peter’s men come closer, but he shakes his head. “Relax, everyone. We’re all just businessmen having a conversation.” His eyes sear into mine. “Isn’t that right?”
“I suggest you get to your point,” Ru snaps. “You’ve already wasted enough of our time, and I’m liable to get impatient quick.”
Peter’s brows lift to his hairline. “Do you know who I am?”
Ru cocks his head. “Are you suggesting I’m stupid? You come into my territory, and think because your name is Peter Michaels that you can ask us to jump and we’ll say how high, then thank you for the favor?” He shakes his head. “That isn’t how it works here. You want to run for me with your planes and your ships, we can talk. I’m more than willing to strike up an amicable agreement. But don’t think for one second that because you’re a golden boy in the eyes of the world, that I’ll give a damn here in my home.” He points to his chest. “These are my streets. And everyone in them pays their dues. You get me?”
My insides splinter at Ru’s words, shock spearing my stomach like an arrow. He’s considering working with him. After we agreed he’d say no.
Peter’s silent for long moments, before he rubs his chin and nods. “I’ll run your pixie and your weapons, but I want fifty percent.”
My teeth grind, and Ru huffs a laugh. “Ten.”
Peter smiles. “Forty.”
Ru’s lips thin, his eyes growing dark. “I think you got me confused, huh? I don’t need you.”
“That may be true.” Peter nods. “But you’d be a fool to turn me away. You may have runners, but none with my expertise and none with a globally known carrier service that can enter any country at any time.” He walks closer to Ru, and my spine straightens. “All you have to do is say the word, and I’ll pack your pixie and fly it to places you’ve only seen in your dreams.”
A ring interrupts the moment, and Peter pulls his phone from his pocket, glancing at the screen. Sighing, his body slumps. “Unfortunately, gentlemen, I have to cut this meeting short.” He looks up, his eyes crinkling in the corners with his smile. “I promised my daughter I’d be home for dinner.”
My stomach somersaults at the mention of Wendy. I wonder how he would feel knowing that his daughter’s cum was covering my fingers just the night before. That I held her life in my hands while she begged me to edge her on the brink of death.
Peter walks forward, putting his hand out for Ru to shake. “We’ll finalize plans sometime this next week. Make the right decision, yeah?”
And then he comes to me. His charming mask slips slightly as he cranes his neck to look me in the eyes. Bile burns the back of my throat as I place my palm in his.
His gaze is cold. Calculating. “Maybe one day you’ll tell me your name?”
Anticipation slams into me like a battering ram, and a smile stretches across my face. “I look forward to it.”
