Samson blinked and cleared his throat. “Nothing.”
Did my dress look weird or something? I ran my hands down the front, smoothing out the fabric. Nope. Couldn’t be the dress. It was gorgeous. “Do I have something in my teeth?”
“You don’t. You look great.” He cleared his throat again and walked to the door. The tension in my chest receded. Did he just say I looked great? “Now, let’s go stir up a shit storm.”
Thirty-Three
The Horseshoe Club was a swanky establishment tucked away in a converted townhome in the center of Manhattan. Membership to the joint was extended by invitation only, and after a registration fee of fifty thousand dollars, members still paid a separate twenty thousand dollars to maintain the membership annually. Ivy League hopefuls rubbed elbows with alumni at the bar, CEOs and investors negotiated over scotch, and on a night like tonight, multimillionaires handed over their life’s work to their spawn in front of everyone who mattered.
Samson pulled into the valet line behind an Audi, and I released a long-held breath. Rolf could, and probably would, strike tonight. After weeks of torment, I might figure out who bought my hit in hours.
“No cussing.” I did a once-over of my makeup and wiped some mascara off my eyelid in an effort to still my heart. I was already sweating and ruining my face. “No murder talk.”
“I’m not completely helpless.” Samson drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, eyes narrowed. “I’ve managed to survive this long without your sage wisdom.”
“Need I remind you that you said asshole to Milton Ashby?” My jaw clenched so tight I would need a crown if I kept it up.
“Yeah—I said asshole. I didn’t call him an asshole, which is what I should’ve done.”
My jaw dropped. “You wouldn’t.”
Samson stared at me for a moment before taking in more air than necessary. “I wouldn’t. But I want to.”
For some reason, I believed him.
“You don’t leave my side for a second. I don’t care if your dad asks you to. Your brothers. God himself. I don’t give a damn.” Samson leaned over the console and looked at me hard. The smell of cinnamon and nutmeg from his pomade got stronger the closer he did. “We aren’t going to have a repeat of the restaurant.”
I nodded. “Duly noted.”
The valet took the Audi away, and Samson pulled forward. An older man wearing a dress shirt and black pants walked up to my door and popped it open, sending a wave of apprehension throughout my body. This was how everything started at The Dove: a valet opened my door, and I strutted into an establishment where a fae lay in wait to kill me.
Samson handed the keys over to the valet. “Not a scratch.”
The valet’s throat bobbed. “Yes, sir.”
Sir. I snorted.
The outside facade was nondescript. Red brick, white trim, and three stories’ worth of windows. The original building had been built in the late eighteen hundreds, and while most of the exterior had been kept up in that tradition, there were some notable additions such as a new set of double doors and a placard with the street address hanging by the entrance. The entrance didn’t scream wealthy, but the inside was a different story altogether.
The warm, damp air clung to my neck and palms, and despite the familiar breath of cold I knew waited for us inside, I didn’t want to pass across the threshold. Samson’s hands hung at his sides, fingers flexing and curling as he stared at the opaque glass of the doors. While I wasn’t sure if his hesitance stemmed from the brawl that likely awaited us within, or the overwhelming nature of waltzing into a high-rolling cocktail party, it was selfish to pretend the world revolved around me and me alone.
“Are you ready?” I asked, looping my hand around his bicep.
The corner of his mouth lifted, and he led me to the door. “Yep. Let’s kick some ass.”
Holding onto Samson brought warmth to my cheeks as he pulled the door open. I’d cradled his unconscious body and we’d shared a bed, but he’d never been a party to those decisions. As far as I knew, he didn’t remember the aftermath of the kitchen at all.
This felt more personal. Like maybe he enjoyed my company as much as I had come to enjoy his.
The right side of the double doors opened. A man in a white tuxedo held it open for us, and another man perched at a desk waiting for us to enter the foyer: the manager of the club. Samson, distracted by the chandelier hanging overhead, left me to deal with him.
“Miss Ashby.” The manager stood. “How good to see you.”
I couldn’t remember the man’s name to save my life, but we had apparently met before.
“Your father’s party has just started.” He smiled and glanced over at Samson, hand extended. “Who have you brought with you this evening?”
“Carlisle Brown.” Samson had been paying attention after all and accepted the handshake. Instead of letting me hang on his arm again afterward, he slipped his hand around my lower back to my waist. My face flushed as I enjoyed the pressure of his fingers along my hip.
The manager, none the wiser to the chaos inside my head, kept talking. “Are you a member, Mr. Brown?”
“He isn’t. Not yet.” I leaned into Samson. His attention had to be a part of the act, but I couldn’t deny the flicker of hope that it wasn’t. That maybe he wanted me close. “He’s with me. Maybe if tonight goes well, we can arrange for him to have a membership?”
Since most of the members were from old money, there wasn’t much in the way of new bank accounts to dig into unless someone got married. The dollar signs all but glowed in the manager’s eyes.
“Of course, of course.” He nodded toward Samson. “Please. Enjoy yourself. We can talk membership later this evening.”
As I grabbed Samson’s arm and pulled him out of the foyer, his bicep tightened beneath my grip. “What’s wrong?”
“There’s a lot of people here.” He wasn’t wrong. At least fifty people were in my direct line of sight.
“Milton Ashby might be a jerk, but he’s a rich jerk,” I muttered under my breath, leaning into him while we walked. “Which means he has a lot of people trying to get on his good side.”
The main room of the Horseshoe Club was uncomfortable intentionally to coax its wealthy clientele into the smaller, more intimate rooms on the second and third floors. It had high walls, sparkling white marble, and chairs with no cushions. All sharp angles and clean lines. Chrome and sleek, inky leather. The longer I looked at it, the more I noticed the similarities between it and Vespertine.
People from all aspects of my life were perched throughout the room. My father. Hudson. The Joneses. Board members. Eliza. Everyone.
Everyone except Gerard.
“Your boyfriend is looking particularly distressed this evening,” Samson said as we meandered farther into the throng of people. I’d have to take his word for it. I couldn’t look at Richard as I clung to Samson’s arm. He might be an ass, but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “Your dad is watching us.”
Without missing a beat, I glanced at Milton Ashby. The familiar, icy gaze of my father met mine, and my feet rooted themselves to the floor. I didn’t want to see him right then. Not with a manhunt in progress. Not with Samson at my side.
Samson put a hand on my lower back, urging me forward anyway. Warmth traveled up my spine and settled in my cheeks.
He didn’t move his hand, and I found with a bit of surprise that I didn’t want him to. While I didn’t think he could hear my thoughts right then, he didn’t really need them. My body told him exactly what I wanted, moving closer as we weaved through the crowd and leaning enough on his chest to feel him through the fabric of my dress.
I’d never felt so comfortable with a person, and he was the last person I expected to find that in.
“Matilda,” my father said once we stood in front of him.
Edgar and Nelson were there as well, but were already moving away before we got to them. Edgar frowned, and with Samson right there, I knew why.
>
Milton raised his glass of scotch and nodded toward Samson. “Hello again, Mr. Brown.”
Samson made a grunt noise. Better than nothing.
“Did I miss anything?” I asked, soft piano music hitting my ears.
“No, no. I’m actually looking for Gerard.” His lips thinned and gaze bounced around the room. “Do you know where he is?”
My insides twisted. Hopefully he wasn’t meeting with Rolf to plan my demise.
“No.” I swallowed and smothered my distress. “I’ll go look for him.”
“Hm.” My father thrust his head toward the room before settling his Ashby-brown eyes back to mine. “If you can’t find him, I might need to make adjustments to my will.”
My pulse escalated at an alarming rate. “I’ll go find him.”
Before my father could say anything else, I grabbed Samson’s hand and pulled him away. His palms were warm and safe, and the longer we stood in the Horseshoe Club, the more I wanted to go home and table this whole Rolf thing for another day.
“Did you pick up on that?” Samson asked as I pulled him through the crowd.
“Yes.” Milton’s insinuation wasn’t lost on me.
Samson didn’t say anything until I pulled him out of my father’s line of sight in front of a stairwell. The original wooden handrail had been polished recently. It glistened beneath the boxy light-fixture hanging above.
“You don’t want it.” Samson narrowed his eyes at me. He’d finished searching my thoughts. “You don’t want the company. Any of it.”
“No, I don’t,” I said under my breath. That had been something I couldn’t even admit to myself, not until my father threatened to give the company to me if Gerard didn’t show up. “But that doesn’t mean you should advertise it.”
I kept my hand in his even as we stood still in front of the stairs. He didn’t pull away, so maybe it didn’t bother him.
“Gerard’s either not here or hiding. So what do you think that means?”
Samson pursed his lips and looked around. “He could be meeting with Rolf. Or maybe Rolf ate him too.”
No. Please no. I couldn’t stand either option.
“Hey.” Samson shook my hand. “I might be wrong. In either case, we need to go look. Where do people here go if they want to be alone?”
I swallowed and stepped toward the stairs. If Gerard were here, he’d be somewhere up top.
Thirty-Four
The second floor, basically a wide hallway with rooms setting off it, had been an easy search. There were five rooms directly off the hall, all with open doors. After finding only a young couple making out against a bookcase in the back room, we moved to the third floor.
The first thing to give me pause was the scent tickling my nose as we breached the landing. Smoke. Faint, but there.
Samson tugged on my hand. Careful, he said, voice echoing in my mind. I nodded and followed behind him, thankful for the grounding nature of his hand in mine. He’d never talked to me like this. Through touch.
His footsteps were quiet, almost imperceptive, as he slowly moved down the hall. His years of moving unseen, his years as an assassin, made his steps soft and purposeful. Like a shadow on the wall, there wasn’t a sound.
The same could not be said for me and my Manolos.
You’re like a goddamn Minotaur. My face burned. Can you walk any quieter?
I transferred my weight to the toes of my stilettos and pulled on his arm to keep upright. Being quiet didn’t come easy—not in these shoes.
The third floor had a couple of private rooms, but the main attraction was the library in the center. Lined with brown sofas and mahogany bookcases, the room would’ve been romantic if nestled in any other place. The large skylight at the top let in the white light of the moon, only marred by the artificial light of the lamps.
Gerard stood beside a large window in the back that overlooked Manhattan, cigarette pressed to his lips.
Was he sulking? Or plotting to have me murdered?
Wait—what if we were looking at Rolf? Cigarettes would likely mask his scent, and the years of businessmen smoking in here didn’t help either.
Samson turned around and made a face before jerking his head toward my brother. He wanted me to talk to him?
Hit men, especially fae ones, don’t look longingly into the night before they kill someone. Samson let go of my hand. Alone, my fingers trembled.
“Gerard.” I stepped forward, all the while hoping I wasn’t making a huge mistake. “Are you all right?”
My older brother tore his attention from the window. His hair, still the unkempt mess it always tended to be, stuck to some damp beneath his eyes.
“No. I’m not all right.” Gerard backed away from the window and put out his cigarette in the ashtray. The manager had probably put it there for cigars, not cigarettes, but one look at Gerard’s red eyes told me he didn’t care.
“What’s wrong?”
Samson stayed back, but his hand remained poised to grab a knife if he needed one. Although Gerard had been crying recently. I didn’t figure Rolf would cry during a job. Did fae even have tear ducts?
“This”—Gerard waved a hand around the room—“whole thing!”
“The party?”
“No. The company.” Gerard ran a hand down his face and took a deep breath. “I don’t want the fucking thing, and somehow, despite all my efforts, Milton chose to give it to me. Me!”
“I know you don’t like our father, but considering the alternative is Hudson, I thought you’d want to be CEO.” I held up my hands, palms out, hoping to calm him. If he didn’t want the company, I understood it. I didn’t want it either.
“Want it? Why the hell would I want to be the CEO? Money? I already have more than I need, and Milton’s so-called legacy means absolutely nothing to me,” Gerard said as he relaxed against the wall. “Why should I give a damn about fulfilling the will of someone who treated us like shit the entirety of our lives?”
My stomach twisted into a knot. For all his bluster, Gerard came running when our father called for him.
As much as I didn’t want to see myself in Gerard’s actions, I did.
“I had plans, Matilda.” Gerard ran a hand over his mouth and closed his eyes. “I was just waiting for Milton to die, and I could finally escape it.”
“It?”
“The company. Him.” Gerard shrugged. “I’ve wanted to leave. I told Milton more times than I can count that I wanted to leave the company and never look back. He knew I wanted to leave…and he gave it to me anyway.”
“He doesn’t act irrationally. He wouldn’t leave the thing he loves most with you unless he knew you could take care of it.”
Samson continued to stand alert by the door, but his hand had dropped by his side. He must’ve felt reasonably assured that Gerard wasn’t the one to be worried about. Given the content of our conversation so far, I didn’t suspect anyone less.
“Shouldn’t I get a say?” Gerard asked. “I never asked for the position.”
“You complained about Hudson enough that I think everyone assumed you wanted it. I always thought you were jealous.”
“Jealous? Of Hudson?” He scoffed and adjusted his glasses. “He’s an idiot.”
“Well, that may be, but we all thought he was going to be CEO one day,” I said with a bitter smile. “Why do you care so much that he’s lazy if you didn’t want to be CEO?”
“For you!” Gerard exclaimed. “It was criminal that Milton was going to give the company to Hudson when it should’ve been you. It still should be you…not me.”
The quiet that followed howled in my ear canals.
“You have always been the best for the job. Not me. Not Hudson. You. You have the best parts of all of us. The only person that isn’t a complete waste of DNA in our whole family tree.” Gerard laughed in an almost hysterical way. “You have ambition, a brain, a fucking soul… Christ! It’s an injustice for me to take what should be yours. The instant Milton dies, I
’m transferring some shares to you, and you can take over as majority shareholder.”
“No. No, no, no.” I shook my head vigorously, trying to ignore the thump-thump of my heart. “You can’t. I won’t sign for them.”
Samson probably thought we were both insane. A couple of spoiled brats arguing over who inherited an empire.
“Listen.” I poked Gerard in the chest. “I know you’re likely overwhelmed, and clearly you’re angry. I understand. I think everyone was kind of blindsided by father’s decision, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t make the right one.”
“You’re—”
“No. I listened to you, and now you’ll listen to me.” Gerard frowned, but there was no way for him to hide the red blistering across his face. “You don’t have to run the company for him. You don’t have to run a company as large and profitable as ours for him.”
I crossed my arms and glared. “Run it better. Be better than him.”
Gerard and I stared at each other in silence. We hadn’t ever been close, and until recently, I didn’t think he remembered who I was, but right then we were on a wavelength that hadn’t existed before tonight.
I bit my lip and looked over at Samson. There was only one way to know for sure that Gerard had nothing to do with this.
“Carlisle”—it was undeniably weird calling Samson that—“can you come here? I want to introduce you to my brother.”
If Gerard had noticed Samson in his impassioned vent, I wouldn’t have known. His eyebrows lifted in surprise when Samson strolled over.
“He’s not Richard,” Gerard said with a chuckle. He extended a hand. “Gerard Ashby.”
My stomach coiled in a knot when Samson’s palm collided with Gerard’s.
“Carlisle Brown.” He smirked. Great. “Do you want to kill your sister?”
Thirty-Five
If Samson didn’t already sleep on the couch, I’d be booting him onto it after this. His introduction to Gerard shouldn’t have surprised me, yet there I stood, aghast.
The Family Cross Page 22
