Transcending Darkness

by Airicka Phoenix

  Killian had offered him a half smile.

  Smith had continued, unfazed. “Now, as I said, I am a regular at most of your clubs. I was at the arena twice more this last week and I noticed that Nick Jameson, your newest fighter, hasn’t lost once since he started, which I find extremely odd considering he’s so green and his technique is deplorable. Yet, he’s won three whole nights in a row. I just can’t wrap my hat around it.”

  Killian had tried not to look at that enormous bucket on the man’s head. “If you’re insinuating that my fighter somehow cheated, Mr. Smith—”

  “No! No, no, of course not. I would never, but I do think it’s something worth looking into.”

  If that was all the man had come to say, Killian had been severely unimpressed. His gaze had drifted over the other five fanned out behind Smith and had wondered what their purpose was. No one went anywhere that heavily guarded unless they were the queen.

  “Very well, Mr. Smith.” He had returned his attention to the figure in front. “I will look into the matter. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

  Smith had bobbed his massive head. “Certainly, but there is another matter I wish to discuss.”

  Killian had waited, his patience waning.

  “It’s the matter of the amount I lost. I don’t believe it’s fair when the House clearly had the upper hand.”

  The House always has the upper hand, Killian had wanted to tell him, but he had been too busy scrutinizing the man watching him with those beady little eyes of his.

  “I don’t think I understand.” Killian stared hard at the man. “Are you asking me to return the money you lost betting on the wrong fighter? Certainly that’s not the case, is it, Mr. Smith? As someone who admits to frequenting my gaming rings regularly, I would hope you understand the rules of the games you are playing. There are no refunds.”

  Eyes the brittle cold of winter had peered into Killian, all good humor gone. The men behind him had shifted, but remained in place.

  “It’s only sportsmen-like, Mr. McClary,” Smith had said in a manner that said very clearly that the matter was not some elaborate joke.

  “I’m curious.” Killian had moved several steps closer, his strides even and non-threatening. “Do you make it a habit of barging into people’s homes, three hours before your appointment to cry about making bad choices? I certainly hope not, because if that is the case, I would feel inclined to ban you from my arenas. It’s bad form to put money down on games knowing the odds could go either way and then complain when you lose. I am almost certain we would not be having this conversation if you had won. That said, I will talk to my gaming manager and he will investigate the matter. Should my fighter be in the wrong, as you claim, I will handle him accordingly. As for returning your loss, no. That is why it is called gambling.”

  Blood had welled beneath the doughy folds of skin on Smith’s square face. It had reminded Killian of a walking tomato in cowboy getup.

  “You are making a grave mistake, Mr. McClary.” Smith’s mouth had barely moved beneath the bushy patch of fur over his lip.

  “The matter is closed, Mr. Smith,” Killian had said, putting absolute finality in the words. “Perhaps you’re better off trying your hand at the tables instead.”

  Killian’s second mistake that day was turning his back to return to his desk. In normal business conversations that usually meant the meeting was over and the other party should leave.

  The forearm had appeared out of nowhere and closed down with impossible strength across Killian’s jugular. The pressure had pushed into his windpipe, blocking his airway and making his heart escalate to make up for the sudden loss of oxygen. A hard chest had pushed into his back, holding him prisoner as the door to his office was closed and locked with a quiet click.

  In the background, he heard the pop-pop of gunfire, the shout of his men. Then the boom of weight slamming into his office doors; it wouldn’t have taken Frank long to get in, but Killian didn’t have the minutes.

  “I think we should really renegotiate, Mr. McClary,” Smith had drawled. “See, I’m not a man who is accustomed to the word no and I definitely don’t like hearing it where my money is concerned. So, from one business man to the other, I would like for you to think very hard about your answer.”

  Killian’s response had been the slam of his head into his captor’s chin. The forearm had lifted just enough for him to bow forward, pull back his arm and drive his elbow into the other man’s ribs. He’d grabbed the wrist connected to the arm holding him, twisted, ducked under, and wrenched it with enough momentum to hear the shoulder pop.

  The other man had dropped with a howl. Killian had finished with a knee to his face that shattered his nose and sent him across the floor before rounding on the five gawking at him.

  “My answer is still no,” he had panted, pushing wisps of hair back off his brow. “Now, get the fuck outta my house.”

  A second man had flown forward, hands out like he’d wanted to wrap them around Killian’s throat. Killian had dodged, ducked, and came up beneath the man’s outstretched arms. He swung five clenched fingers into his side, ducked again, came up, grabbed an arm, and twisted it until there was a crack.

  Something had slammed into Killian from behind, hard enough to send him down on his knees. A boot had planted into his ribs and he’d gone down. From there, there was no getting up again. It was four against one. The most he could do was curl up and cover his head as the blows rained down on him with a vengeance that made him see stars. Splotches of gray flickered across his vision and he’d known he didn’t have long.

  “I want my money, Mr. McClary,” Smith had drawled as he made his way forward.

  “Fuck you!” Killian had spat back before a foot caught him in the spine.

  Smith had crouched down. His fat knees had popped as he’d bent to eyelevel with Killian. One stubby finger had knuckled his hat higher on his brow.

  “Now, Mr. McClary, let’s not be unreasonable. You give me what I want and we will have no more trouble.” He’d paused a moment before adding, “Perhaps I need to find that pretty little cunt you had in here with you. Maybe she has my money.”

  Rage, blinding, flashing, blood red roared to life through every vein. It splattered across his vision like brain matter exploding across a wall. He felt the spray of it sear through him with a raw rage that knew no master.

  He lunged with a roar that momentarily silenced everything else. The men jumped back in surprise and it was all he needed to close both hands around Smith’s pale throat. The drive of Killian’s weight threw Smith backwards, taking Killian with him. They landed in a heap with Killian gouging his knee into the man’s chest.

  All the pain had inexplicably vanished in the time it had taken to realize the bastard was threatening Juliette. Crimson waves had surged over the room, painting it a violent blur vibrating with his rage.

  Beneath his palm, Smith’s pulse had jumped, mirroring the terror in his wide eyes. His mouth had flapped, releasing a series of squeaks and squawks that meant nothing. The heel of his cowboy boots had cracked on marble with his flailing, but he wasn’t going anywhere.

  Killian had dug his thumbs into the soft tissues of the man’s flabby neck, crushing the pipes and snaking under the sharp point of Smith’s Adam’s apple.

  “You will never touch her!” Killian had snarled.

  Out of their shock, the men had lunged into action. Hard, pointed shoes had drilled into his sides, his back, his legs, but his hold never loosened. Smith had writhed beneath him, a helpless worm on the end of a hook. His hands had grappled at Killian’s wrists, his arms and shoulders, but Killian wasn’t letting go for anything, not even when Smith had gone a frightening shade of purple.

  His thrashing had slowed. Killian had known Smith had a few more minutes before there was no coming back and still … if he let go and Smith lived, Juliette would be in danger. Smith would go after her and Killian could not allow that.

  Over his shoulder
, he had a vague recollection of a hammer being cocked back. The rattling sound of metal in the hands of someone unsteady had crackled in his ear. The stench of gunpowder had filled his senses, but it wasn’t enough to make him pull back.

  Two bangs had shaken the room simultaneously. Only one had metal piercing through him. Blood had sprayed in a crimson shower over the unmoving form of Dan Smith, staining his plaid shirt. Killian’s hands had finally unraveled. His body had toppled off the other man as more bangs rattled the windows. He had lain there, staring at the ceiling as heat had pooled beneath him. Then Frank’s calm face had appeared above his.

  The rest was a blur of being mended, which was probably worse than being shot in the first place.

  “Anyone we need to be concerned about looking for him?”

  “I am looking into that now, sir. I will keep you notified. Anything else?”

  “Yeah.” Killian fixed his gaze on the other man. “How long was Juliette here for?”

  “The whole time, sir. She took the week off to stay with you.”

  “You didn’t think to offer her a bed?”

  Frank visibly bristled. “I did, sir. She declined.” He shifted his massive shoulders. “She’s very stubborn, sir.”

  A grin turned the corner of Killian’s mouth. “Aye, she is. It’s one of the things that make her irresistible.”

  Frank straightened. “Sir, if I could speak freely?”

  That was the oddest request Killian had ever heard coming from the man. Since when had he ever censored himself? Frank was Killian’s conscience. The only person Killian trusted to give him the truth.

  “Of course,” he said, bemused.

  “Perhaps it’s time you considered a different source of employment.”

  A prickle of annoyance furrowed Killian’s brows. “And what do you suggest? You know no one walks away from this life.”

  “Yes sir.”

  But there was more. Killian could see it on the man’s face, in the muscle along his square jaw.

  “What, Frank?”

  Dark eyes swung just over Killian’s head. “I’m not certain it’s my place, sir.”

  Killian stared at the man for several heartbeats, his own mind churning.

  “Frank? How long have you been in this family?”

  The question seemed to surprise the other man. He blinked and then frowned as he tried to do the math.

  “A while, sir,” he said at last.

  “Since I was in diapers,” Killian said for him. “That’s a damn long time.”

  Frank nodded slowly. “Yes sir.”

  “My dad trusted you and I trust you, probably more than anyone.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Killian ignored that. “So I think it’s safe to say that you can pretty much say anything freely and I will listen.”

  A muscle flexed in Frank’s rugged jaw, reminding Killian of someone chewing steel. The tension ran along his enormous shoulders and whitened at the knuckles clenched around his phone.

  “It’s about Miss Romero, sir.”

  Killian fought not to stiffen as he seemed to involuntarily do every time her name was spoken. “What about her?”

  Frank sucked in a breath that expanded his massive chest before fixing his gaze squarely on Killian.

  “I was there the day your parents met.” A softness took over the harsh lines that usually hugged the sharp points of his features. “It was the first frost and her car fishtailed into the back of ours. She had been so embarrassed, but your father had laughed and said the only way he’d forgive her was if she had dinner with him. They were married six months later.”

  Killian had heard the story a million times before. It had been his favorite for a long time, but it had always changed depending on who was telling it. His father claimed she’d done it on purpose to get his attention, to which she would gasp in indignation and swat him. His mother used to say she’d been busy looking for a street and hadn’t noticed the car stopping in front of her. It was interesting to hear it from a third party, even if it didn’t explain what the other man was getting at.

  “What are you saying, Frank?”

  “That it’s a rare thing to find someone who accepts the things we do, sir. For your father, it was your mother. She knew who he was and what he did and she still loved him. That love never faltered in fifteen years.” He paused, seemingly bracing himself for what he was about to say next. “A man can’t live alone forever and when a woman comes along who accepts him, his faults and demons, maybe it’s time he reevaluates his future.”

  “Marriage and kids?” Killian guessed.

  “Yes sir.”

  The idea of being with Juliette forever, of having little girls with their mother’s eyes, hit him in all the places she had already made dents in his titanium wall. The impact had cracks splintering across the expense, but he held it together. He had to.

  “You know why that can’t happen. Even if I got out, you know you are never really out. For the rest of my life and theirs, I would have to look over our shoulders, always afraid that I might lose them if I’m not careful and when I’m gone, this is the life that would be left behind for them. It needs to die with me, Frank. My children will never know this life. They will never have to go through what I did.”

  Frank didn’t look ready to let the matter drop, but he inclined his head. “Yes sir. I understand.” The bigger man shifted, clearly uncomfortable. “Tyson and John are here.”

  Killian sat back gingerly. “Send them in.”

  He fired them both. It hadn’t been a simple decision. For a moment, he had even considered letting it go this once, but life didn’t work that way, especially when their vigilance was the reason he’d hired them in the first place. It didn’t matter that Juliette was a grown woman. They were responsible for keeping an eye on her, keeping her safe, and they had failed. Because of them, she could have been hurt or worse and that was inexcusable no matter how loyal they were. He needed men who could do their job. Not that that would save Juliette once he got his hands on her. She had no idea what she’d be stumbling into and had foolishly put herself in incredible danger. It was pure luck that she’d arrived mere minutes after it was all over. Even an hour earlier and … Killian stiffened all over at the thought of Juliette in Smith’s clutches.

  Endy Kinch had been the head of Killian’s gaming business for over eight years. He wasn’t much to look at with his bulging brown eyes and squashed face, but he had a head for numbers and ran a fierce house. Killian had found him hustling tourists in the park with the tired ball under a cup trick. But he’d been good and made a solid grand a week. It was that sort of skill Killian had been looking for. He’d hired Kinch on the spot and had never once regretted it.

  Nevertheless, Killian allowed the man to defend himself against the allegations Smith had made, even while Killian hadn’t believed a word of it.

  “He threw a fit and I kicked him out,” Kinch explained simply. “There was no cheating. I check all the fighters before they go on and I checked Jameson like all the rest. I got video surveillance to prove it. He’s just a good fighter, a bit sloppy, but decent.”

  “I want those tapes,” Killian told him. “And I better not find anything I don’t like on them, Kinch.”

  Kinch inclined his head. “I’ll vouch for my fighters, sir. And the way I run my games. May not all be legal, but they’re damn fair.”

  Killian believed him. It was hard not to when there was only one complaint in eight years.

  There was nothing but a week’s worth of paperwork waiting for him after Kinch left. A mountain that seemed impossibly high. Thankfully, Frank had taken care of most of the emails and phone calls in Killian’s absence or it would have been much worse.

  He was just beginning to get into the familiar rhythm when Juliette arrived. Her presence momentarily baffled him before he realized it was already after seven and the world outside had grown dark and gloomy in the early November night. He set his pen down as she
headed towards his desk with a small smile. Her movement was it’s usual hurried pace of someone on a mission, but he had enough time to enjoy the way her burgundy skirt clung to her hips and hugged her legs all the way to the calves before flaring out. Her coat was open to the soft, black blouse underneath and there were black heels strapped to her feet that cracked with every stride.

  “You’re up,” she said in the way of greeting. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better,” he said, gathering his papers and tucking them into their folder. “How was work?”

  She shrugged. “Busy, but nothing exciting happened.” She watched him and he wondered if she was waiting for him to cry out in pain or pass out again. “I noticed John and Tyson are gone. Are they on holiday or…?”

  He yanked open his drawer and stuffed the folders into them. He shut them in and rose to his feet.

  “I fired them.”

  There was a flicker of confusion on her face, a fine wrinkle between her brows. “Why?”

  “Because they didn’t do their job,” he told her simply. “They didn’t watch you like they were supposed to so I have no need for them.”

  Her mouth parted in a silent O of stunned silence that radiated the horror shining in her wide eyes.

  “What?” She shook her head like by doing so, it would make the situation less true. “Why would you … that’s … it wasn’t their fault! I’m the one who got away from them. You can’t—”

  “I can,” he interrupted sharply. “I pay them to do a specific job and that job is to make sure you are safe.”

  “They were doing their job!” she cried, her eyes glistening with tears of anger. “It was my fault.”

  “Five men in a secured house and they couldn’t keep an eye on you.” His voice vibrated with a sort of rage that scared even him. “How can I trust that they can keep you safe when you’re out? How can I trust that they will be efficient enough not to lose you in a crowded mall? Your safety was put into question and I won’t have that, not when the thought of something happening to you is the only thing that can break me. You’re my weakness, Juliette. You’re my Achilles’ heel, the key to bringing me down and I can’t lose you.”