If it weren’t for all the tension, I’d probably fall asleep in the elevator leading to Daniel’s office. I was up all night writing a new piece, parts of which the music director heard yesterday morning. She told me to go home and flesh it out, because it’s worth more than half a shit, so that’s what I did. Until four in the morning. I’d planned on sleeping it off until Killian pounded on my door, telling me Daniel wanted to see us; now.
It’s not just the lack of energy that I’m fighting. It’s dread. The weight of the debt I owe Daniel presses hard on my shoulders. I don’t regret going in the pit for Story—hell no—but I’d made a deal with the devil. Avoidance has worked for me so far, but I feel like my time is running out. I can only lie low for so long.
Luckily, these two have enough energy radiating off them to fuel a fucking passenger jet. Killian’s easy to understand. This is the first time he’s seen his dad since that clusterfuck of a Thanksgiving. But who even knows what’s got Tristian strung so tight.
I don’t have to wonder for long.
Halfway up, he reaches out and pounds the elevators stop button, turning to us with a sour look on his face. “I have to go to my family’s Christmas party.”
Killian and I both stare at him blankly, but it’s me who drawls, “Yeah…”
“And water’s wet.” Killian gives him a deadpan look. “When we were twelve, you had scarlet fever, and you still had to go to that Christmas party.”
I add, “When we were fourteen, you got into that accident with your cousin, what’s-his-name.”
“Carson,” Tristian offers.
“Yeah, and you broke your collarbone, and your parents didn’t care. You still had to go to that fucking party.” I roll my eyes. “Point being, this isn’t exactly news.”
“It’s a bad time,” Tristian says, head shaking. “I tried to tell him, but he just…” His hand balls into a fist, jaw clenching. “I want to take Story. As my date.”
Killian looks him up and down, scoffing. “You’re not taking my sister to your glorified rich-people mating dance.”
“Yes, I am,” he coolly argues, looking unfazed. “Because Rath took her to his performance, and you’ve got that dinner on your birthday coming up—yes, that one.”
Killian scowls. “I’m not going to that.”
“Sure you are. It’s for the team, which you’re still a part of.” Shrugging casually, he reasons, “And you’ll want her to be your date. So that means I get one.”
My eyes ping back and forth, watching the standoff.
It’s saying a lot about how shitty this meeting with Daniel is going to be that Killian caves, teeth clenched. “Fine. But you’re responsible if anything happens.”
Tristian presses the button on the elevator, jolting it back to life. “I’ll take care of it.”
When the elevator doors open, we all step out in tandem, but then we just…pause.
Vivienne’s desk is empty.
The lobby is silent, completely void of her clacking nails and soft voice, and I think the same thing is probably going through all our thoughts. It’s no wonder Daniel hasn’t filled the vacancy yet. It didn’t matter that she was sucking his cock on the reg. Viv was genuinely good people. She always did right by us, made sure we were looked after, treated us with a respect I’m not entirely sure we deserved. She was a professional, through and through, but she was also thoughtful about it. That’s not something you see much of in this world—in South Side’s world—in Daniel’s world.
And she died with our initials carved into her chest.
It’s some sick fucking game going on here, and I’m over it. I want to find this fucker and bury a blade into his throat. Slowly.
Killian takes a hard breath. “Let’s get this over with.”
I enter Daniel’s office behind Killian and Tristian, the box hanging loosely from my hand. The man in question is standing behind his desk, arms crossed over his chest, and he doesn’t look happy to see us. Oh, definitely not. This is not a civil Thanksgiving dinner within earshot of his pretty little trophy wife.
This is business.
“Show me.”
I shoulder past the other two to toss the box. It lands on the desk with a loud clatter, still half-frozen. Despite that, when he snatches it up, it opens easily for him. He stares at the contents for a long time—long enough for me to get bored and start scanning the room. Things are messier than usual, the desk covered in papers. There’s a gun lying to his right, which might seem sloppy to anyone else, but all of us know better. Daniel’s always been good at posturing, making sure people see what he wants them to, and nothing more. His monitors are all dark, and from the wrinkles in his shirt, he’s been here a while. Possibly all night.
“Well,” he begins, closing the box and setting it carefully aside. “This doesn’t look good for you, now, does it?”
Killian’s eyes narrow. “Don’t bullshit. You’re smart enough to know this wasn’t us, and we’re smart enough to realize it. We need to find out who’s doing this.”
Daniel gives a loose shrug. “My people are clean as a whistle.”
Tristian snorts derisively. “No one who works for you is clean.”
“And what does that say about you?” Daniel asks, swinging his gaze to Tristian.
“It says that I’m here to protect the Mercers’ interest in South Side,” he replies, voice sharp in an icy, deliberate way. “Maybe you’ve forgotten why my father put me here, but I haven’t.”
Daniel scoffs. “When’s the last time you even—”
Tristian’s back snaps straight. “Your stake in Mercer holdings is dwindling, but you still have a firm grip in the commodities. You take a bigger cut of the illegal import fees than you have any right to; you’ve managed to distract the feds with a pointless runaround on migrant workers near the docks; and your brand new whorehouse was barely breaking even until a few weeks ago.” It’s been a while since I’ve seen Tristian like this—cold and cutting—but he’s in fine form now, shooting Killian’s father a menacing grin. “Don’t be fooled by the fact Killian is a brother to me. I have another father, and I report everything I see directly to him. Always have, always will.”
Daniel has nothing to say to that. There are only a few people in this town more powerful than him, and Tristian’s dad is one of them. Instead, he changes tacks. “If you saw everything and weren’t so busy thinking with your dicks, you could see what’s right in front of you. You’re not nearly as smart as you think.”
My eyes narrow. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Someone is trying to split apart our happy family.” Daniel says the words like they’re sharp as knives. “This person has ties to us both, grudges against all of us, and access to everything.” He waits a beat, looking between us. “Unbelievable. You really are stunted little idiots, aren’t you?”
“I’m tired,” Killian says, voice clipped, but even. “I’m tired and I’m busy, and I don’t have time for your bullshit, dad. Spit it the fuck out.”
Daniel does exactly that. “It’s the girl.”
Killian responds instantly. “Not possible.”
“No? Where was she when this little package was delivered?” he asks, flinging the box down the desk. “Where was she the night Vivienne was killed? Not in your house.”
“And how can you possibly know that?” I dryly wonder.
But pretense is dropping like flies around here. I know it is, because Daniel easily answers, “I checked your camera feed. And don’t give me those looks. It’s never been a secret that I have access to the Lords’ property. It’s not my fault you all assumed I wouldn’t bother.”
If that’s true, then there’s no telling the things he’s seen. The things he’s heard. The things he knows.
“That just swings it all back around to you,” Tristian points out, twirling a finger.
Daniel gives him a long, incredulous look. “Oh, her pussy must really be something. She’s actually got the three of you fooled, doesn’t she?” Casually, he retrieves a folder from his desk, flinging it open. “Distribution of sexual images of a minor.” He holds up a paper, text messages, photos of Story when she was younger stapled to the side. Sweet Cherry. “Grand theft auto.” He holds up another paper, a grainy image of Story attached. “Breaking and entering. Grand larceny. Destruction of property. Felony identity theft…” He flips through them, page after page. These must have happened when she was in Colorado. “This one is my favorite,” he says, holding up a bland-looking autopsy photo of Ugly Nick’s corpse. “Murder.”
“It’s not Story,” Killian snaps. “And the longer you focus on her, the more at risk you’re making all of us. Here are the facts.” He stalks forward to press his hands flat on the desk, pitching forward with a dark expression. “Someone got to Ugly Nick behind your back. Someone killed Vivienne. Look in your ranks: your suppliers, your contractors, your lawyers, one of your whores, someone. This is your mistake, bleeding over into our life!”
Daniel absorbs this with a visibly diminishing self-control. Mirroring his son’s pose, he leans forward, fixing Killian with a narrow stare. “You’re right, son. This is my mistake, bleeding over. The truth is, I should have taken care of that little slut the first time you snuck into her bedroom.”
Killian’s hand is only a couple feet away from that gun on Daniel’s desk. All it would take is half a lunge to grab it—not that he’d need to. He’s also got one tucked into the waist of his jeans.
Tristian and I are poised to pull him back, because while the thought of Killian shooting his dad again does hold some appeal, we have enough bullshit to worry about it.
To our shock, we don’t need to.
Killian just laughs.
It’s a malicious, humorless sound, making his shoulder blades bounce. “You just can’t handle that you lost her, can you?” Glancing at us over his shoulder, he nods. “You lost your ripe little ‘asset’ to three men who are younger and better than you, and then you watched us slowly defile her. How did that feel, dad?” Mouth tugging up into a spiteful smirk, he wonders, “Did you watch me take her virginity? Did you watch me fuck her those nights in my bed?” He tilts his head, as if he’s genuinely curious. ”Did you watch me fuck her on your desk at home? Did you see how much she wanted it? Because that’s really got to sting.”
For a long, tense stretch of time, Daniel grinds his teeth. Oh, his face is all cool and composed, but he’s got this muscle in his jaw that keeps writhing around. No one knows how to push his buttons better than his own creation: Killer Payne.
“I still remember the day you were born,” Daniel says, feigning a wistfulness that none of us buy. “You were a week late. Did you know that? Your mother kept waiting and waiting. I walked in on her crying once, because she was so sick of being burdened with you in her tiny belly.” It’s a low, almost pathological blow, and Killian takes it exactly like I expect him to, flinching backward. It makes his father’s eyes spark in satisfaction. “You came out of her, all bloody and wailing, as if we owed you something. My god, and you were such an enormous baby. Far bigger than you should have been. Her body never was the same, you know. You swelled her up, and then ripped right through her, a gruesome little savage from your first breath.”
Tristian is the first to see the twitch, to lunge forward and pull Killian away before the fist he’s throwing out can meet his father’s jaw.
“And you two,” he says, eyes flicking from Tristian over to me. “You’re not even my flesh and I’ve given you opportunity and support. I’ve allowed you privileges that even my most loyal soldiers don’t get.”
Anger rushes through me and I blurt, “Like letting me buy your stepdaughter?”
Tristian’s mouth opens slightly, like he’s just figured it out. Killian…the way he keeps his eyes steady on his father, implies that he already knew. How? Who knows? He’s his father’s son.
“Yes, Dimitri,” Daniel says slowly, “Negotiation is a privilege, one I allowed you because of our personal relationship.”
“You’re a sick bastard.”
Daniel laughs, and it’s the exact same sound his son had made moments ago. Empty, joyless. “In honor of the sacrifices that were made to bring Killian into this world, I think I’ll give you until your birthday.” Ignoring Killian’s thrashing jerk out of Tristian’s grip, Daniel straightens, sniffing. “You have until then to bring me a more convincing suspect. Else, I will handle her, and none of you will stop me.”
“I’m done with you, and so is she,” Killian sneers, straightening out his shirt. “We’ll find this asshole ourselves.”
He leaves the box with his father, and storms out of the office and into the empty lobby with the oppressive silence. Tristian and I are right on his heels, but before we cross the threshold, Daniel’s voice rings out.
“Rath can stay.” He looks perfectly composed when I turn to arch an eyebrow at him. “Since you brought it up, we may as well attend to our matters.”
Fuck my fucking big mouth.
So much for lying low.
I turn back to Tristian, who must see the dread in my eyes.
“No,” he says, flicking his eyes to Daniel. “Fuck this guy, Rath. Blow it off.”
Lowering my voice, I explain, “I have…debts.”
“I have money,” he reasons, but I just shake my head.
“We both know he wouldn’t take it.”
Tristian searches my eyes and then mutters a curse. “You’ve got your gun?” When I tug up my shirt, his eyes dart down to catch its gleam behind my waistband. He jabs a finger into my chest. “You fucking call us if anything goes sideways. I mean it. Don’t let him send you into something you can’t handle alone. Killer might be done with him, but he’ll still have your back.”
I close the door on the daggers he’s glaring at Daniel behind us. “Killer’s right, you know.” When I turn to face him, Daniel is sitting in his chair, looking carefully distracted. Such an obvious tactic, acting like none of this matters to him. “Story isn’t violent unless she’s pushed into a corner, and even then, it’s more about protecting someone else. She’s all about the emotional punch. If she wanted to hurt you, it wouldn’t be by taking out an innocent.”
I say all this because, in a way, I get it. From where he’s sitting, it doesn’t look good for her. But he didn’t see that gut-wrenching look on her face when she found out about Vivienne. He didn’t spend night after night on the phone with her, listening to her pour out her nightmares about Ugly Nick in that alley, dead and bleeding. He didn’t hold her afterward in that cabin, didn’t feel the sobs against his chest—sobs she tried so hard to hide. He doesn’t know her.
Not like we do.
“You’re going down to the Avenue,” he begins, sorting the papers on the desk. “I have a bit of property I need moved. Nicholas will meet you there.”
“Is this really worth it?” I ask, more pissed about it than curious. “Is losing your own son worth winning?”
Daniel finally looks at me then, and he doesn’t need to answer. I can see it crystal clear in his eyes that he’s washed his hands of the business of caring.
Still, he answers.
“That boy was lost to me the second she stepped foot in your house.”
He comes out of the shadows the minute I get to the corner. Pretty Nick slinks out of the alley, looking both in and out of place. He’s comfortable down here on the Avenue, with the hustlers and whores, the muscles in his body loose and easy. But his face? Well, I’m not particularly into dudes, but everyone knows this kid lives up to his name. The ink tattooed down his temple doesn’t diminish his good looks. There’s a reason Daniel chose him to defile Story that night in the pit.
“Hey, man,” he says, sticking his fist out. I look at it for a beat, taking the gesture for what it is. No hard feelings. The thought of what this guy was going to do to my Lady down in the pit makes me want to peel the tattoos off his skin with the knife tucked inside my boot.
But it wouldn’t be fair.
He’s caught up in Daniel’s bullshit as much as I am. Hell, Nick probably has his own debts he has to pay off down in the pit. In our world, enemies have to be chosen with care. Checks and balances. Add up the columns, see if it’s worth it. Making an enemy of Nick wouldn’t be. He and the Dukes are so low on the list of people who have pissed us off, it’s hard to even give a fuck. Frankly, until we figure out who the fuck Ted is and stop him, all the frat stuff—The Game, the partying—seems trivial in comparison.
I reach out and bump his fist with my own, indulging him in an old-school, over-involved South Side shake that neither Tristian nor Killian have ever bothered to master. Nick’s good people at the end of the day, even if he’s been slumming it beneath Daniel’s heel a bit too long. Like Killian, Nick is a Forsyth legacy. Duke legacy, to be exact. A born and bred Bruin, through and through. But unlike Killian, he’s abdicated it. Left all the glory to his big brother, Sy, so he can play in the sewage with the rest of us.
Nick quirks me this easy little grin like he knows.
I might be a Lord, but down here, he and I are birds of a feather.
“So,” I start, shoving my hands into my pockets and following him down the sidewalk. “Any idea what this job is about?”
“Just transporting some stuff,” he says, casually. Too casually. Drugs? Guns? Whores? Whatever it is, it can’t be good. I interfered with Daniel’s little sex show, and I’m not dumb enough to think he’s let it go. Sure, he took the money I offered him to be the one to have sex with Story in the pit, but it wasn’t the money that did it. He likes money, but he loves control more, and by taking every cent I had, he put me right where he wants me. Desperate. Broke. Indebted. The nervous twitch in my gut tells me wherever Nick is taking us isn’t going to be pleasant.
After a moment of silence, Nick rolls his shoulders. “I hear your Lady is going to be in the Screw Year’s Eve wrestling match,” he says, jerking his head for me to follow him up a set of stairs. I notice we’re at a shitty hourly hotel. Garbage is piled up by the front door and a guy with acne scars on the sides of his face makes a ‘want some?’ gesture at me. I give him a hard look and glance away. Whatever he’s selling, it’s a hard pass.
“She wanted to do it,” I reply, following him into the sour-smelling lobby. The lights cast a sickly, jaundiced glow on the older man sitting behind the counter. “She’s really into the charity stuff for the South Side kids.”
“A little do-gooder, eh? The fuck’s she doing shacked up with the lot of you?” He says it off-hand, clearly meant to be a joke. Only it isn’t a joke, and we both know it.
“We’re her Lords, and she’s our Lady,” is my answer. “That’s just how it’s done.”
He cuts me a brief look at this, like I’ve just said something unintentionally profound. “Hey, Earl,” he calls to the old man. Earl nods but doesn’t look up from the newspaper he’s reading. Seems Nick has been here before. He starts up the steps and looks back at me. “Well, for what it’s worth, I put all my money on her.”
“Oh, yeah?” I follow him up the narrow staircase with worn, ragged carpet. “Why’d you do that? Isn’t the Duchess, like…Duke-trained?”
Nick gives a quiet, rumbling laugh. “The Duchess is fine, but the Lady is tougher. Any other female would have broken down in the pit, including some who work upstairs.” He raises his eyebrow. “Not your Lady. She does what it takes. I bet she plays dirty, doesn’t she? When it’s really on the line?” When all he gets from me is a blank stare, he shrugs. “Plus, I hear she’s got beef with the Countess. Who doesn’t want to see that conniving bitch get hers?”
He climbs three flights of stairs at a slight jog, barely out of breath when he steps into the hallway. He may have eschewed the Dukes, but it’s common knowledge he still fights. Daniel doesn’t keep him around just for his good looks.
I follow him down the dimly lit hallway, noting the peeling wallpaper and faint odor of urine. I swear to Christ, if Daniel sent me here to pick up a dead body, I’m going to go back and shoot him myself. Nick stops at a door and pulls out a flat brass key.
When he slides it in and turns the lock, I brace myself for what’s inside, holding my breath in anticipation of the stench of decay and bodily fluids. My lucky day, there’s no dead body on the bed.
But there is somebody.
A girl, about Story’s age, is curled up on the bed, staring at the flickering TV. She’s got blonde hair that looks like it’s seen better showerheads, and legs for days. Attractive, for sure.
But the look she sends us is ugly.
“I thought we all agreed he’d stop sending you,” she sneers. The expression is so severe that one could almost forget that split second of dull melancholy on her face before she realized we’d entered.
“Chill, little bird.” Nick shoves his hand into his pocket and emerges with a crinkly wrapper. “I brought you a treat and everything.”
She doesn’t stop glaring, but beneath the thick tension of disdain in her features, a subtle, surprised longing appears. “Hand it over then,” she says, voice sharp.
“Not until we’re done.” Nick stuffs the candy back into his pocket, cutting his eyes to me. “Trying to impart a bit of positive reinforcement. You understand. Pets need structure.”
“What the fuck is this?” I ask, uneasily. A quick scan of the room reveals a small box mounted in the corner near the ceiling. No mistaking what that is. Fists curling, I grind out, “If he thinks I’m doing another show—”
A frozen hardness comes over Nick’s face. “Not a fucking chance. I told you. We’re here to transport.” Eyes narrowing, he clarifies, “More accurately, I’m here to transport. You’re here to make it awkward because Daniel thinks I won’t do anything to her if there’s someone else around. For the record, he’s wrong.” Nick swings his gaze back to the girl, smiling darkly. “It’s just that I have impeccable self-control.”
“Control this, dirtbag.” She flicks him the middle finger, scowling. “And if you’re going to feed me, then you better not have brought shitty tacos for dinner again. I’m pretty sure I found a rat aorta wrapped in the meat.”
“Good afternoon to you too,” Nick says, greeting her glare with a smirk. “It’s time to flap your wings.”
Her body stiffens slightly, barely noticeable, but I caught it. “Now?” Her tone is carefully indifferent, but there’s apprehension under it. Considering Daniel’s history with Story, I don’t have to think too long about what kind of shit he’s pulling with this girl.
“Now, little bird.” Nick gives the wrapper another crinkle. “Your new digs are all ready for you.”
“Great,” she drawls, turning off the TV with the remote and tossing it on the bed.
Unsure of what I’m doing here, I take in the girl as she slides off the bed. Despite the cold, she’s in a black T-shirt and a pair of cut-off jean shorts, showing off the tattoo that snakes up from her calf to her thigh. Her feet are bare, but a pair of flip-flops is on the floor by the dresser.
Nick bends to pluck them up, tossing them to her. “Someone lost shoe privileges,” he says to me, grabbing her bag off the mustard yellow chair. “Sweet little Lavinia here is a kicker.” He crams a toiletry bag on top and tosses a jacket to her. “It’s cold. Put that on.”
“Lavinia,” I repeat, the name ringing the bell. “As in Lavinia Lucia? As in Lionel Lucia’s daughter?” I take a step back, going rigid. “What the fuck’s going down here? Because Daniel is bad enough. Pissing off two Kings isn’t the kind of fire I like playing with.” Lionel Lucia is King to the Counts, a federal circuit judge, and not someone I want to be on the bad side of.
“The less you know, the better.” Nick throws the bag and I catch it. “But you don’t need to worry about Lionel Lucia. Let’s just say every part of the Royalty is down with what’s happening here. Got it?” I very seriously do not fucking have it, but when Nick says, “Let’s roll out,” I clutch the bag in one fist and feel for my pistol with the other, poised for the worst. She dawdles by the bed so he grabs her by the bicep, yanking her out into the hallway. Huffing, he grits out, “Why do you make me drag you around?” It’s said in a low voice, close to her ear, like he doesn’t intend for me to hear it. “Is this how you flirt? Because if you like it rough, you don’t need to try so hard, little bird.”
I follow, shutting the door and keeping close on their heels. The girl keeps trying to put distance between her and Nick, but he’s got a nice grip on her and keeps tugging her back.
“Keep close,” he tells me. “We’ll go out the back door. The van’s parked in the alley.”
It all seems like a simple plan.
We get Lavinia into the back seat, and I must be crazy—I must be seriously fucked in the head—because it’s like this instinct takes over. The Daniel instinct. The psych department at Forsyth could probably spend years dissecting it. This thing buried deep in my hindbrain that puts me into soldier mode. It’s what drives me to duck inside and yank the seatbelt over her lap.
One second I’m strapping her in, and the next, I’m flying away, dropping to my ass and clutching my shoulder. “Ow, fuck!”
Nick gives a lazy laugh. “Told you she was a kicker.”
I grab the gun without thinking, lurching to my feet. Because that’s the thing about Daniel mode. It doesn’t make allowances for ‘sweet little kickers’. “You fucking bitch,” I spit.
But Nick is shoving me back, face rearranged into a stiff, emotionless mask. “Put that fucking thing away, Rathbone. If you hurt her—”
I rub my collar bone, teeth gnashing. “I don’t give a fuck about Daniel’s property.”
“She’s not Daniel’s property,” he says, voice a low hiss. “She’s the Kings’ property. That makes her untouchable until they say otherwise.” Nick’s gaze flicks down to the gun, eyes flashing as he places himself between me and the girl, hand resting on his own piece. “And trust me when I say they’re not the ones you should worry about.” He’s standing there all big and hulking, like he’d be glad to let the Bruin loose—the bear with all its claws—and it hits me.
Rolling my eyes, I tuck the gun back into my pants. Fuck. He’s into this girl. “So it’s like that.”
Eyes narrowed, he says, “Yeah, it’s like that,” and turns to shut her door. Before he can, a glob of spit smacks him in the face, rolling slowly down his cheek as he freezes. Nick blinks at her scowling face, barely flinching as he pulls the collar of his shirt up, wiping it away. For a long moment, there’s utter silence.
And then the crinkle of a candy wrapper.
He tosses the candy into her lap before slamming the door, turning to me with a ragged smile. “Ain’t love grand?”
It’s not my place to question fucked up relationships, but as I get into the passenger seat, glancing over my shoulder at the girl curled up in the back, I do know one thing.
Whatever’s going on with Lavinia Lucia is a fucking disaster.
And I don’t want any part of it.
