The brownstone is quiet and dark when we arrive, and I can tell from the look on Killian’s face when he all but pours himself out of his truck that we shouldn’t have let him drive. Fucking hell, we’re a mess.
Rath and I get him through the door, huffing and already exhausted, and I take one look at that flight of stairs and wilt at the thought of lugging him up it.
Killian pants out a tight, “Fuck that, put my ass on the couch.”
I look at Rath and he shrugs. “Works for us.”
We get him settled—for a given value—and spend a long beat standing around the den, wondering what happens next. I’ve already checked on my sisters for the third time in one night. Killian is lying there with a pinched grimace on his face, but he’s alive. Rath is more quiet than he’s been in weeks, so there’s no telling what’s going through his brain. And Story—
My thoughts pull up short, because Story is no longer a factor in my rundown of people I need to check on. I’m going to have to break that habit.
I purse my lips, digging my phone from my pocket.
Maybe I can break the habit tomorrow.
Rath looks at me from the corner of his eye, and it’s a testament to how well he knows me that he asks, “Where is she?”
Thumbing the app open, I check her little dot, something heavy settling into the pit of my stomach when I realize where she is. “She just crossed the county line, westbound on the interstate.”
Rath nods, carding his fingers through his hair. He’s probably thinking the same thing I am; that Colorado is lame and really fucking far away. “Want to get drunk?”
I throw my head back, pushing out a long, hard sigh. “Jesus Christ, yes.”
That’s how we find ourselves ten minutes later, slugging down shots of whiskey as Ms. Crane, dressed in a floral bathrobe and fuzzy blue slippers, brings us out a tray of beers.
She grins manically as she waddles over, setting it carefully on the table. “Tell it again.”
I don’t think I’ve ever seen this old bat pleased before.
It’s fucking startling.
Rath pulls his shirt off, throwing it on the floor, and when he reaches for one of the beers, I can see a row of scratches going down his back. I wonder how much of an asshole it’d make me if I looked up the video of them fucking.
Probably a pretty big one.
Rath uses the edge of the table to whack the top off his bottle of beer. “Fucking capped him right in the shoulder. One shot. Probably hit some bone, too.” He doesn’t grin as he says it, tipping the bottle back and downing half of it in a few quick gulps. It’s not like he’s not pleased about watching Killer shoot his dad, because not one among us isn’t.
It’s just that it’s difficult to muster any real enthusiasm.
Ms. Crane must sense this, because she gives Killer a thoughtful look. “He isn’t going to take it lying down. Your old man’s generally used to being on the other side of the gun.”
Killian’s rubbing the bridge of his nose, eyes closed, jaw sharp and taut. “I don’t fucking care.”
“You’re going to,” she says, head shaking as she picks up Rath’s shirt from the floor. “If it were me, I’d find him and end it quick. Put a bullet in that fucker’s head and call it a day.”
“Not all of us can be quite as deranged as you.” My words lack any of their usual heat, and from her expression, I think Ms. Crane can tell.
“I’m deranged?” she scoffs. “I’ve seen quivering come bubbles more stable than the three of you.” She slaps Rath’s legs. “Get your goddamn feet off the table, you degenerate. Spend three minutes in a fuck show and think you’re something special.”
Rath presses the cold bottle to his forehead, legs falling heavy and limp to the floor. “It was more than three minutes.”
“So where is she?” Ms. Crane asks, collecting our bottle caps. “She busted up, any? I know how Daniel’s paid boys can get.” She would. She spent years cleaning up after the shit they did to her girls. She’s probably as happy about Ugly Nick lying on a slab somewhere as she is about Daniel getting capped by his own kid.
Killian bites out a terse, “She’s gone, Dolores, and we don’t want to talk about it.”
Ms. Crane pauses, looking between us. I see when it dawns on her. “You let her go?”
I swallow another shot of whiskey and admit, “It’s what she wanted to do.”
Her face screws up. “Since when has that mattered?”
“Since now,” Rath says.
“Hm.” Ms. Crane looks between the three of us, a flash of something subdued overcoming her features. “So what now? Getting a new Lady?”
Ms. Crane has a vested interest in our vested interests. She stays with us because it’s safe, but right now, shit is looking anything but.
“We have no idea who put the hit out on me,” Killian says, ignoring the question about the Lady, “or who’s really been stalking Story all these years. My dad is a fucking asshole, but he’s not a liar. Not to me. If it were him, he’d own it. All this sneaking around and threatening people under fake names…it’s not his style.” Killian slides his gaze to her. “Living with us is dangerous, Ms. Crane. If you’d rather find somewhere else—”
He’s cut off, because all of our phones begin buzzing. My first instinct is that it’s Story. Maybe she changed her mind. Or worse, maybe she’s in trouble. But when I look at the screen, I just see a call from Pretty Nick.
Rath groans. “What does this asshole—”
The room falls into a cloud of hushed tension as we all open the message.
A photo.
The first thing I see are tits, and the three letters carved in the valley between them.
K
T
R
The second thing I see is all the blood, fear rolling like pure ice up my spine.
Rath rushes out, “It’s not her,” and lurches forward in his seat. “It’s not her. The hair is blonde. It’s just hard to see over all the blood. It’s…” He swallows. “I think it’s Viv.”
The message that came with the photo says:
Thought you’d want to know bossman is on a rampage about this. He says he saw the same marks on your girl earlier. If I were you, I’d start hiding. Shit’s about to get heavy.
I look once again and confirm that he’s right. Under all the blood, I see her: pretty, beautiful, obedient Vivienne. Her body is splayed out on the floor, head propped against a concrete wall, arms limp, palms out. The word ‘whore’ is written sloppily overhead in blood.
The three of us share a grim look.
“Barons?” Rath wonders, eyes troubled and weary.
I shake my head. “They don’t care about South Side spats.”
“No. This is a fucking frame job,” Killian says, glaring into his phone’s screen. “We know who did this.”
“Who?” Ms. Crane asks, forehead puckered as she peers at my phone.
“Ted.” Killian takes a long swig of his beer before answering. “Someone who’s going to seriously fucking regret it.”
