by H. M. Ward
The Arrangement 24
The Ferro Family
H.M. Ward
H.M. Ward Press
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by H.M. Ward
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form.
LAREE BAILEY PRESS
First Edition: July 2018
ISBN: 9781630355319
Contents
The Arrangement
Author’s Note
REFRESHER
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
THE ARRANGEMENT 23
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 22
UPCOMING RELEASES BY H.M. WARD
THE PROPOSITION
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
COMPLETED SERIES BY H.M. WARD
MORE FERRO FAMILY BOOKS
SUGGESTED FERRO READING ORDER
MORE BOOKS BY H.M. WARD
CAN'T WAIT FOR H.M. WARD'S NEXT STEAMY BOOK?
EXCITING MOVIE NEWS
VOTE FOR THE NEXT FERRO BOOK
ABOUT H.M. WARD
The Arrangement
Volume 24
Author’s Note
Thank you to all the amazing readers who helped shape this series into a worldwide phenomenon. The world fell in love with Sean Ferro and Avery Stanz in 2013.
This story was going to conclude with the last volume. After years of fans requesting more books in this series, I’m pleased to announce that more books are coming, starting with THE ARRANGEMENT 24.
This book opens new storylines, continuing Sean & Avery’s story. THE ARRANGEMENT 25 will follow shortly.
If you’ve forgotten THE ARRANGEMENT 23, turn to the refresher section for the last few chapters of the last book. If you want to skip straight to THE ARRANGEMENT 24, click through to CHAPTER 1.
Thank you for reading,
REFRESHER
Because it’s been a while since the last book was originally published, several readers requested that the final chapters of the last book (Arrangement 23) be included together with this title (Arrangement 24). It provides an easy way to refresh your memory and begin the next book in the series.
If you’d like to refresh your memory of the final chapters of THE ARRANGEMENT 23 then you can go to the table of contents and choose chapter 20 of that title. begin here.
To start with THE ARRANGEMENT 24, turn the page and you’ll start The Arrangement 24.
DO NOT MISS OUT ON:
The spot at the end of this title about the movie!
And a chance to vote for more books!
CHAPTER 1
11 MONTHS LATER
MANHATTAN, NEW YORK
The city has never felt so cold. Steel and glass buildings jut from the ground between a sea of worn, black pavement. Shadows cast a menacing crown on the pavement as the sun sinks below the horizon. The crowd presses in closer as my guards usher me through the mob and up the courthouse stairs. The flight of steps is unending. They come one after another.
Someone shouts from my right as an object flies through the air, headed straight at me. “You fucking monster! They should bring back the chair because you deserve it!” It’s a woman’s voice, twisted with rage and malice. The object she throws hits one of my guards in the arm. A cop delves into the crowd quickly, tugging the woman away while she screams obscenities. Her voice fades into the screaming masses.
There’s a charge of violence in the air. It’s so thick I can scarcely breathe.
A detective looms in my wake—a wall of man called Mr. Morrow, who sports a no-nonsense department store suit and matching military haircut—bends and scoops up the object she threw. Raising the splotch of white to his face, his brow furrows as he examines the small, cloth doll in his hands.
The cloth toy is the type a young baby would have with no hard eyes or lose strings. The doll is dressed in a white frock edged in eyelet. A crimson stain blossoms on the center of the chest. Morrow touches the spot, which comes off on his fingers. When he glances at the pads of his fingers they are stained with the color of blood. The detective pockets the projectile and I’m shoved forward, unable to see more.
Those people and their angry cries thunder behind me as we reach the apex of the staircase.
MURDERER
KILLER
MONSTER
My skin is covered in gooseflesh like it might be if it were snowing outside and not an early fall day. But it’s still warm, the promise of an Indian summer sprawling before us instead of autumn leaves sporting an array of golds and reds. Night has bled into day. I went from wearing a white wedding gown to the massive steps of this building. The rest is a blur.
Her face. My daughter’s chubby cheeks and dark hair. Those bright blue Ferro eyes. Something inside my chest caves in and I double over, clutching my stomach, retching on the stone entrance. Blood vessels explode in my face and neck as my stomach tries to empty itself. But there’s nothing to vomit. Panting, I straighten myself again. Morrow hands me a white piece of fabric, the handkerchief from his pocket.
I nod, and take it gratefully, unable to speak. His partner—Mr. Quin, an older Hispanic man with thick dark hair cropped close to his head and dark leathered skin with merciless brown eyes—watches me with disdain. Quin hangs back, a step behind Morrow. He’s not the lead detective on this case, otherwise things would be different. It’s in his eyes, the promise of justice.
Morrow’s deep baritone voice is in my ear, “Move along, Mrs. Ferro.”
“Avery. My name is Avery.” I don’t know why I correct him. It’s the only thing I’ve said to him since we met.
“So you’ve said.” His hand is on the small of my back as he ushers me toward the massive doors looming in front of me. The Manhattan courthouse.
Tall columns jut out of the floor every few feet, holding up the enormous stone pediment carved with twisting naked bodies all supporting a center image of a standing man. I suppose he represents justice. This massive piece of stone overhangs the upper landing, allowing us respite from the glaring sun.
My head feels like it’s cracking, temple to temple. I touch my head to ease the pain, but it does little to help. I wish Sean were here. Hell, I’d settle for Constance.
But it doesn’t work that way, not with a case like this, and I must walk into my arraignment alone.
They think I did something horrible. Her face flashes before my eyes again, followed by the rumpled crib sheets and utter silence. They flicker like an old television set about to die.
This must be a nightmare. It can’t be real.
There’s a strange sensation trying to leak out of my paralyzed heart. Tears have turned to brambles at the back of my eyes. It physically hurts to not shed them, but I can’t. Whatever hell I’m in won’t allow me to do anything but breathe.
My fingers tighten at my sides into fists. It’s less than a blink before I unfurl my fingers and take another slow pull of air. Panic is strangling me into silence even though I want to apologize. For what, I don’t know, but I want to beg forgiveness. The need to confess, to say something seeps through me. It’s my fault. I never wanted this to happen. Not any of it. But it doesn’t matter.
The lead guard is a cop named Riggs. He’s a middle-aged m
an with a massive waistline, dressed in neatly pressed blues. The lapel of his coat has several bars of various colors, followed by a golden star—his badge—and then below that, a simple brass nameplate that says RIGGS. The man stands ramrod straight with his wide shoulders pulled back. His wide jaw is stone, locked in a near growl as more insults are snarled at me from below. The people are blocked off a few steps down, unpermitted to approach further. Fury bellows from their lungs in protests. Random faces of strangers grow ruddy with their tirade, their promise of justice.
Riggs presses his massive hairy hand on my too thin arm, reminding me to keep my head down and hurry forward. My lawyer is already inside, I’ve been told.
This police barricade is to ensure I’m not shot on the way inside the court building. Hesitation fills me, making my feet turn to lead. The desire to tell them, so they know, floods me.
“Don’t do it,” Riggs whispers under his breath.
When I glance at him, I crane my neck back. He’s nearly a foot taller than I am. His eyes are trained to look everywhere and nowhere at all. It’s as if he hasn’t spoken. His peers say nothing of the clipped advice to remain silent.
The dryness that fills my mouth makes it hard to swallow. Pressing my lips together, I do as he says and focus on not hurling up my guts again.
Just breathe, Avery. I hear her voice in my head. Dr. Chang. The older woman has a sheet of inky hair shocked with grey near her face. Her timbre is always smooth and calm. Breathe. My nostrils flare as I inhale the warm autumn air. The city scents fill my head. This place is home yet it’s filled with personal horrors.
One more step and this will unfurl however it’s meant to be. I glance back at the crowd. I don’t blame them. Even if I stopped to speak to the throng of faces, my voice would fail me. It is trapped, lodged deep within my throat, stuck behind an ever-present lump that won’t fade. A gust of warm wind whips the skirt at my knee, threating to pull open a charcoal colored peacoat. The wool is lightweight and velvety soft, but it’s not something I remember. When did I put this on?
Actually, I don’t know where this dress came from, either. It’s a silk blend, fitted at the top, spattered with tiny flowers. The delicate fabric flows into a tulip skirt that flares out slightly at the knee. It’s black. The rosettes on the fabric are midnight blue, barely noticeable. Sensible inky suede shoes with thick heels cling to my feet.
Did Constance buy me this stuff? Where did it come from?
That woman, once my enemy, became an ally along the way. I don’t know when or how—but a friendship formed. I glance around, looking for signs of her. Anything from the presence of Gabe to the new mistress she’s taken, a woman that’s half her age. I’ve never seen Constance smile so much.
Then, this happened. Constance’s happiness shattered and was sucked into the remaining void. I’m back to looking into eyes that don’t know me, don’t trust me. She was there last night, her presence frosty. The look on her face when she came rushing in—
I press my hand to my throat and fight to breathe. The thought is too much, so I shove it away, behind the walls of my mind that are screaming in protest. The strain is too much. But Constance is not the one who will destroy me.
Don’t break. One more step. One more moment.
Last night is a blur of fractured thoughts, all out of sequence. The truth is fading into shadows, and when I try to reach out of it and grab hold, the memory in its entirety slips through my fingers. Flashes of white linen—Abby’s dress—the one with the delicate eyelet hem. The spatter of red on the front of the bodice, like the doll hurled at me coming up the stairs. The doll in Morrow’s pocket.
A rush of ice floods my mind and drips down my spine. My entire body shivers with a coldness that I can’t shake off.
Riggs, walks in long strides next to me, his men drop back once we are inside the building. Morrow and Quin sit in the back rows. Riggs walks me forward, saying nothing. There’s no hatred in his glances. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him and realize that he was there last night—when she, when it happened. I swallow hard, but it’s like forcing a hedgehog down my throat.
This morning has been a frantic sweep to move me quickly, but I’m not a fool. My name will cost me. Ferro. It’s a curse. All of us will be held under acute scrutiny because of what I’ve done.
Breathe. I press my lips together into a tight line, and notice they’re burning. My lower lip cracks open. A wound that didn’t heal. Not yet. It’s too soon. A bead of blood pools on my lip. I catch it with my tongue and glance for Sean, but he’s not here. He’ll be inside. Part of me hopes he’ll be here. The other part thinks maybe not.
As we walk through the building, through a long corridor, people with cameras strapped to their hands shove toward me. Bright white flashes go off in rapid succession, blinding me as they call out questions. I remain silent and try to blink away the blots of light haunting my vision.
Hours have passed since the first photographer raised his camera to me. “Abby, where’s Abby?” they ask over and over again. Her little dress lay in a puddle of fabric on the floor. The smocking was stitched with little animals, all pale and pastel. It made her cheeks have a rosy glow and her head of brown hair even darker. It was my favorite dress on her. She was wearing it, ready to go to the wedding.
Abby.
The memory seems dull and faded even though it wasn’t that long ago. Too much has happened too fast and instead of reacting, I’m frozen in time. Petrified from the initial moment I realized what really happened.
My baby is gone.
Another burst of light to my right, coupled with double flashes at my left go off simultaneously.
“Enough,” Riggs growls and shoves us through a metal detector and second check point, leaving the reporters and photographers behind to hold those heavy cameras overhead and click madly, hoping to catch something from me. A word, a tear, or any other sign of guilt—maybe even remorse.
Riggs grumbles as Gabe falls in step beside him. Riggs’ voice is a low growl, “You don’t belong here, old man.”
Gabe doesn’t answer. The brut of a man uses his bulk to step in front of me, guarding me from God knows what. Constance sent him, I’m sure. The clothing he wears are agent quality—his cover there is still intact thanks to Constance—and every detail screams government worker right down to the white socks poking out from his pant leg with each long stride.
Gabe says nothing to me, acts like I don’t matter. I want to ask about Sean, about the baby, but I can’t manage the words. My throat tightens and I can’t breathe. Shove the thought down. Push it away. Nightmares. There’s no way it was real. Any of this.
Since the island, my sense of reality has become muddled. A therapist said it was something about post shock disorder. I just know that my nightmares became so real at times that Sean had to tell me that I was awake and that my brother was gone. I’m safe.
I’m safe. This isn’t real. But it seems like it’s real and Sean isn’t here to tell me otherwise.
Upon entering the courtroom, I glance around. The floor is polished to a mirror shine and the walls are swallowed in dark wood trim. The Manhattan Court seal hangs on the wall next to a cop in a uniform with a bright badge, and a bald head.
The courtroom is empty. I don’t understand. I was a witness in the Campogne murders and then they let me go. That was months ago. Why am I called back now? A hissing voice in the back of my mind snarls something that makes my blood curdle.
Is Vic Jr. alive? No. I remember. Panic nearly chokes me. I have to walk myself through it. The memory of the tightness of my fingers around the shard. The warmth of the blood, slick and hot. The feel of life fading away, beneath my hand. My vengeance. My horror.
That was real.
Now, I can’t tell. All senses are firing but that doesn’t mean anything. This could be a dream.
The room is empty with an industrial scent that clogs the air. I glance around as I’m led to the front of the room, past row after r
ow of wooden benches, and up to a wooden gate. I’m asked to sit. Gabe slips into the first row of benches directly behind me. I can no longer see him. The rest of my entourage spreads out, two remaining by the back doors, while the rest take various positions around the room.
I do as I’m told and sit at the empty table. My reflection stares up at me on the glossy wood table. I fold my hands and wait.
The chairs in the jury box are empty. The judge’s seat is vacant.
We wait. The truth is, grief swallowed me whole that night. Nothing can reach me, no one can coax an answer from my bloody lips. There are no words when something like this happens. Silence entombs me. If it happened. My chest tightens, making it difficult to breathe as my heart rate speeds faster. It’s like an engine on a train, gaining speed it shouldn’t have, going too fast to endure. Sweat clings to my brow as I repress a shiver. Coldness registers, but something about it is different. I haven’t known this type of cold before.
I can feel it. The change that tugs at the center of my chest. The pressure on those old scars that have barely had time to close. Those fissures, the ones made under the duress of losing my parents and fighting off my brother, are strained beyond compression. I feel the new cracks form at the old wounds edges. It steals breath from my lungs and makes me feel as if my chest will cave inward. Part of me knows this is the moment that turns my soul to ash. Or perhaps that moment has passed. I can’t tell. That threat, the ever present sense of fracturing internally, it never ends. Pressing my eyes closed, I repeat my mantra.
