by S. Massery
Griffin looks pained, so I leave the door and return to my seat opposite him.
I look at him. “Why did you call me that? Little blossom. To piss Jackson off?”
He laughs and rubs at his face. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“I’m going to need a better answer than that.”
He meets my eyes. He’s still the same person he was two years ago: terrifying. Strong. I remembered him as I punched Elton hard enough that my arm muscles hurt for two days. I saw his face. I felt his own knuckles pushing into my belly, telling me exactly where to strike him.
“How did you know I was afraid of him?” I ask. “I didn’t make a sound.”
“It was the lack of noise that tipped me off. I already knew who he was—Elton Moretti, nephew to Nicolai Moretti, scum of the earth enforcer for the Moretti family—and it was clear who you were by the way you looked at your father. You didn’t look at his face when he entered because you were transfixed by the blood. I know because I get the same way—we all do.” His gaze is steady. “You walked into that room as an unsure girl pretending to be a woman. You left it as someone who could set the world on fire and revel in the ashes.”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Yes, little blossom, you unfurled your petals before my very eyes. Wishing for death forces all of us to change. It’s okay, I won’t tell your secret.”
I get up from the table, but my knees tremble. Any masks I had crumbled with the death of my father, so I look away from him. The sky is getting lighter by the second. As I circle the table, retreating, he stands and blocks my way.
“Show me,” he breathes. He’s taller than Jackson. A narrower waist. Broader shoulders.
I cock my head to the side.
“Show me how you killed your cousin.”
Sick, twisted, evil Elton Moretti. I run my hand up Griffin’s arm, my fingers flexing on his shoulder. I step closer to him, breathing in his musky cologne. Elton was shorter. Elton smelled of rotting flesh and nightmares.
I pull Griffin’s shoulder toward me at the same time as I put my full weight behind my swing into his stomach. His abs are steel, and the impact ricochets up my arm.
He lets out a gust of air, his forehead falling to my shoulder. A big man curled around me, his arms braced on my waist. My hand is still on his shoulder. We stand there and Elton’s death plays in my mind.
Elton grunted, dropping from beneath my grip. His knees hit the ground with a solid thump, and he caught himself on his hands. “Fuck,” he growled, sitting back on his heels. His hand went to the bullet wound, pressing down on it over his shirt. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
I knelt down next to him and grabbed his face. “We’re family, Elton. It’s about time you got what was coming to you.” He wrapped his hands around my wrists, and both of our eyes latched onto his left hand. It was bloody.
“Fuck,” he moaned. “You popped my stitches?”
I stood and stepped away. “The stitches are the least of your worries,” I said. “You’re going to die, Elton. It’s my decision, and mine alone. And my word is absolute.”
He choked on a gasp, lowering himself to his side. “I can’t—breathe—” he panted.
I hope you die slowly, I thought. I walked out of the room and beelined to the opposite side of the house, where my room was. I scrubbed the bloody handprint from my wrist, removing any traces of Elton from my skin, and crawled into bed.
My father and stepmother discovered Elton in the morning. I woke to Margaret screaming.
“That’s it,” Griffin breathes. I didn’t notice when he started rubbing my back. “Let it out. You don’t have to kill again.”
I straighten my shoulders and step back. Any mourning was done in private, two years ago. I buried the innocent girl who had never taken a life, and I’m not about to bring her back out. If only Griffin knew the half of it.
I pat his cheek. “I wish that were so,” I say, and then I slip past him and lock myself in my room. I’m on a trajectory that I cannot stop. I will not stop.
Remembering Elton brings up things that I wish I could keep buried. The look on my father’s face as his throat was slit is something I’ve managed to avoid. But now…
It’s all I can see.
In the room, I pull my hand out of my pocket and unearth what feels like a prized possession: Dalton’s phone. He had left it on the table, and it was easy enough to palm it while Griffin was distracted. It’s the first time I’ve had access to any sort of technology since I threw my phone out of the truck that was giving me a ride from Vegas to Wyoming.
Sagging to the floor, with my back against the door, I put the phone to one side and flip open my notebook.
For once, I’m glad that writing in code comes as easily as a second language. I use a word as the key, then each letter is replaced. I calculate in my head as I write. To the average person, it would look like gibberish. But really, I’m making a checklist:
Convince Jackson to stay.
Reclaim my birthright.
Take down the Castillos.
Simple to list, difficult to execute. I’ll brainstorm while I sleep. After that’s done, I pick up the phone—the idiot left it unlocked—and, blocking this number, I call James.
“Delia?” he asks on the second ring.
“How did you know it was me?”
“A blocked number—it’s smart. I figured there was a chance it was you.” His voice grates on me now that Jackson has planted that seed of doubt. James Elvira has red in his ledger.
“Are you still in Vegas?” I ask. I put a wobble in my voice and pray that he’ll buy the scared-and-alone act.
“I am, my dear.”
I suck in a breath. “I thought you were coming to get me.”
“Delia,” he says, tutting. “It isn’t safe. I have eyes on me. Tell me, where are you? Have you made it to a safe location?”
“Yes,” I tell him. My stomach twists at the thought of him betraying my family. “I’m safe.”
“Where?”
I picture James sitting at his desk, drooling over the money he’ll make when he passes along my location to the Castillos.
“I have to ask you something.”
“We’re hard at work on your defense,” he says. “The police suspect you, but—”
I roll my eyes. “No,” I murmur. “Tell me how the family is? What’s happening—”
He grunts. “I’ve managed to convince the cousins to stand down,” he says. “A tricky bit of business, since you’ve been on the run and out of sorts. Family is supposed to protect you, dear, so they were a bit hurt by your disappearance. Not to worry, though. Since your name is tied up in the police investigation, they’ve granted me power to run the company.”
My mind whirls, connecting dots that I didn’t know needed to be connected. That this was all a fucking plan.
“James?”
“Yes, honey?” Every fucking pet name makes me want to stab him in the eye.
“I’ve got to go. I’m starting to think that what I thought was safe wasn’t…”
“Where are you?” he asks again.
“I’ll call you back,” I blurt out, and then I hang up the phone. “Stupid,” I say into the air, jumping to my feet and racing back out into the living room.
Griffin reclines on the couch, a coffee cup resting on his stomach, and he stares at the television with squinted eyes.
“I’m an idiot,” I announce.
He sets the mug aside. “What?”
My heart is pounding too fast. I think I’m on the verge of a panic attack.
Griffin watches me without moving. Only his eyes track me.
“James—my family’s closest confidante over the years, our defense attorney—he was the one who orchestrated everything. All of it. He’s taken control of my family. Can you believe that?”
“How do you know?”
I stare at him and debate revealing Dalton’s phone. It’s in my pocket, hot as an ember. Finally, I admit
, “I called him. He told me that he was controlling the business.”
Griffin sits up and groans. “You’ve got to be kidding me. With whose phone?”
I pull out Dalton’s and toss it to him.
He snorts. “This is the last time he’ll leave his phone around your quick fingers,” he says. “So, what, he killed your parents to take over the business?”
“Well, I don’t know.” I cross my arms. “He’ll tell me the truth and then he’ll pay for his crimes.”
Griffin looks me up and down. “Okay,” he says. “One problem…”
“How am I going to do it?”
He nods.
I grin. “I’ve got a plan.”
I refuse to tell Griffin what my plan is. Instead, we watch a movie while we wait for the others to get back. He makes me hot chocolate and himself coffee, until I tell him I’m not a child, I’d like some black coffee thank-you-very-much. Although, I still drink the hot chocolate, too.
Jackson and Dalton return with their arms full of bags. It’s barely past eight o’clock in the morning, and my stomach won’t stop growling. Again. It seems I have an issue when I’m not properly fed… and maybe that explains the grumpiness, too.
Jackson comes over and plants a kiss on my lips—something totally unexpected. I don’t even have time to close my eyes or lean into it. One minute he’s there, his breath against my face, and the next he’s back in the kitchen, unloading supplies.
Maybe it’s an apology for rushing off. It sure feels like one.
“We shouldn’t have expected Dalton to go grocery shopping ahead of our arrival,” Jackson says over his shoulder. Dalton elbows him. “I also picked up some clothes for you, Delia.”
I wander closer. He slides me a bag. Bras, underwear, t-shirts and a pair of black pants. Another bag joins it. Shampoo and conditioner, a hair brush, toothbrush, and—I snort—a box of hair dye.
“It’s that bad?”
Dalton hooks an arm around my neck, pulling me into him. I fight the urge to escape. All of my muscles tense. He just pulls on a strand of maroon hair. “Hate to break it to you, Delia, but red ain’t your color.”
I jerk away from him, my face heating up. I wanted something opposite of how I was feeling—something bold. Apparently, it was the wrong choice. I hold up the box. “So you got me dark brown?”
Jackson shrugs. “You’ll look good as a brunette.”
“And the lady at the store said you should go dark if you don’t want your hair to turn orange,” Dalton laughs.
I grimace. “Thanks a lot, Dalton. Way to bolster a girl’s ego.” I gather the bags in my arms and stalk back to my room. It’s been too long since I’ve had a decent shower—one with real shampoo, not out of the little bottles the hotels provide—and I’m desperately eager to put on clean clothes.
Jackson follows me back, locking the door behind us. I quirk my lips as he blows out a breath. “I’m sorry I ran off,” he says. He comes toward me and takes the bags from my hands, tossing them onto the bed. He pulls me into a hug and kisses the top of my head.
I blush at the same time my heart flutters.
“I just…” He exhales and relaxes against me. “Your relationship with Griffin threw me off.”
“Jackson.” I lean back so I can meet his eyes. “I met him once, and he told me how to kill my cousin. Memorable, but…” I cup his cheek. “He isn’t you.” Spewing these half-developed feelings at Jackson wasn’t part of the plan, but it may help me check off my number one goal—convince Jackson to stay with me.
“I need your help,” I say against his lips.
“If you’re asking me to dye your hair, Dalton is really the sort of guy who would know how to do that.”
I chuckle, but it dies quickly. This is it. My stomach twists, and I wrap my arms around Jackson’s waist. I hide my face in his chest and admit, “I have nowhere to go. I can’t run for my life, Jackson, because I have no money. I have no immediate family, no friends, nothing. How am I supposed to live on nothing?”
Jackson scoops me up into his arms like I weigh nothing. My arms go around his neck like we’ve done this a hundred times. Face to face, I brace myself for pity. Instead, I just get… relief. “I didn’t want to let you go,” he whispers. “You can stay with me. My life—”
I shake my head. “They’ll hunt me,” I say. “The minute I slip up, the minute they know I’m alive…”
We’re both quiet for a minute.
I inhale. Exhale. And admit a thought that’s held me hostage: “I need to go back and end this.”
“End it how?”
“I take my family back,” I say. “And then the Castillos…” They all die. “Violence runs in the family,” I add. “And the Castillos have declared war by killing my father and uncles.”
He looks at the ceiling. Is he conflicted? I suppose I would be in his position, too. I’m practically a criminal. You are a criminal, Delia. A murderer.
“I’ll get you back to Vegas,” he says. “After that, I can’t promise anything.”
I nod. “And first—your fight.”
He smiles and winks. “Oh, yeah.”
14
JACKSON
While Delia showers, Griffin, Dalton, and I head down to the warehouse. We’ll have today to get it ready, and then the action starts tomorrow night. We sweep the floor, paint a circle on the floor that will constitute the fighters’ ring, and triple check the lights, the blackout paint, the locks.
Dalton’s phone chimes—Griffin admits to me that Delia had used it, but he didn’t know who she called or for how long—and Dalton lets out a whoop a second later. “The gang is about to be reunited,” he yells.
I raise my eyebrow, and Griffin grins. “You know Zach and Mason were feeling left out,” he says.
I nod and kick at the floor. “If only Wyatt were able to be here.”
Dalton sighs. “We’ll have a drink tonight in his honor,” he says. “But right now, our boys are at the gate.”
Zach barrels through first. He’s wider than I remember—more tank than human—and he comes at me fake swinging. I bob and weave, laughing, until he gets close enough to grab me in a hug. “Way too fucking long, Skye,” he growls. “Don’t let that shit happen again or I’ll beat your fucking face in.”
I laugh and shove him off of me. “Sorry, Laurent. Won’t happen again.”
Mason comes next. I half expect my brother to be right behind him—it’s been a while since I’ve been in the same room as him—but the door swings shut behind him. “He couldn’t come,” he says to me after he’s been hugged and slapped by Dalton and Griff.
“I just gotta say, it really warms my heart that you guys all showed,” I say.
They all make faces at me. “Don’t mention it,” Mason mutters. “Now, where’s the girl I’ve been hearing so much about?” He looks at me. “She called James, you know.”
My eyes widen. “When?”
He rolls his eyes. “On Dalton’s fucking phone, no less. She blocked the number, though. That’s the only reason we don’t have to worry about people storming our gates.”
Dalton’s mouth drops open. “She stole my phone?”
“Can’t take him anywhere,” I mutter to Griffin. “You really didn’t notice?”
Dalton frowns. “I just didn’t expect—”
“Great, he didn’t expect the mafia princess was capable of stealing,” Mason sniggers. “Honestly, does she come off as innocent? Dalton, you’re one of the least trusting people I know.”
He shrugs. “She seemed okay. We didn’t have a heart-to-heart or anything—”
“Except when you told her that she’d ruin me or whatever,” I mutter.
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I stand by that. I dunno, man. You meet her and let me know what you think.”
“I plan on it,” Mason says. “As the only one not attracted to females, I think I stand a chance.”
Zach nudges me. “He’s gonna be charmed like a sucker before morning,
” he chuckles.
“I’m not a sucker!” Mason yells.
We file into the stairwell. Zach and Mason pick up the bags they had dropped. The shock radiates through me, and I nearly yell, “How many fucking guns did you bring, Zach?”
He shrugs. “A few.”
Dalton flexes his muscles. “I hope you brought me a new long-range rifle,” he says. “Since you broke my last one.”
“Your last one was shit,” Zach answers. “Flimsy parts. And yeah, I brought you a new one. I also brought a little gun for the little lady.”
I ignore that comment—and the thought of Delia with a revolver—and ask, “How the hell did you get that on a plane?”
Zach shakes his head and glances at Mason. “Jackson seems to have forgotten how we operate.”
It does feel a bit foreign, being around the guys again. I’d done such a good job separating myself from Zach, Griff, and Dalton, that I don’t know what to do with them now that we’re together. And while I continued speaking to Mason—sporadically, but the channel was still open—Mason kept in touch with everyone else.
I scratch at my neck, shame sliding down my spine. Do I apologize? Do I let it go?
Dalton shakes his head at me. “You’re here now,” he says. “You’re dragging us into this shit, but you forget—we live for it. This is a vacation to us.”
Griff nods. “I have enough money right now to buy and island and retire. I help the assholes of the world because it’s a thrill.”
Dalton rolls his eyes. “And he needs to pay for his private jet.”
“It’s not—”
“Yeah, yeah,” he looks at me. “It’s a fucking jet that he rents when he needs to go somewhere. Tell me that’s not private.”
“You’ve got it good, man,” I say. “And here I’ve been living in studio apartments with just a bag full of stuff for the last two years.”
My words drop a damp blanket over their moods. They all exchange glances as we walk into the apartment. I’m the last in the door, and they all turn and look at me.
Abroad, we used to run a maneuver similar to a CIA trick: keep our target within the box. One would be in charge, directing the rest of us to move seamlessly through crowds. I feel that now. They wait on Mason to make a move.
