Covet (Beautiful Sinner Series Book 2)

by Elena M. Reyes

  What he’s saying to me can’t be right.

  There’s no fucking way that...

  “Son, can you hear me?” Dad’s face comes into focus then. He’s leaning down to get a good look into my eyes, and it’s his red-rimmed ones that slam me back to reality within the hospital’s waiting room. In that instant, sounds and light rush back to the forefront as I watch his own emotions burst forth. A man that for most of his life has been stoic is breaking apart at the seams. “I know this is hard, Casper. Fuck, this is hard, but I need you here with me. “

  He. Needs. Me.

  He. Needs. Me.

  “Who?” That’s all I say as I look away from a man I admire but would love nothing more than to give a bunch of fives to in that moment. One or two solid punches to the mouth would help this growing need for violence that slowly consuming me. This pain is eating away at my rationality like a disease.

  Had he been with her instead of staying back to talk shit with my uncle.

  Had he insisted she take more than one guard.

  Had he, my mum...

  Motherfuck.

  I can’t say it. Can’t think it.

  “Casper, we have someone in custody. The sack of shit claimed to have information on her—”

  I’m out of my chair and in his face before Callum can blink. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

  “Cousin, I know this is painful.”

  “You know fuck all at the moment,” I seethe, chest heaving as my vision becomes hazy. The anger and hurt and pure venom flowing through my veins makes it hard to understand anything, and yet the words he said to me upon arriving continue to play on a constant loop.

  “Aunt Penelope died on the operating table.”

  Those seven words broke something inside of me that will never be repaired. No one ever wants to think of a parent dying. Of the pain it will bring.

  Then, with that sadness comes a regret that I’m not ready to deal with; she will never meet my Gem. A beautiful girl that I walked out on without looking back because the sadness in her eyes made it difficult to do so. She herself has been in my position. Dealt with this all on her own because her bloody cunt of a father forgot how to be a real man.

  Because real men don’t abandon their families.

  Because real men don’t skive on their responsibilities.

  Because a real man takes care of those he considers his.

  I stretch my neck from side to side. “Where is he?”

  “Beneath the pub.”

  “Good.” Turning my head slightly, I look at my father. “I’ll have everything taken care—”

  “We planned for this, son. Your mum...” He pauses to clear his throat as a single tear rolls down his cheek. I know this is hard for him. She was his everything for over forty years and I’m fighting to remember that. “Y-your mum and I planned for this when you two were boys. Granted, I thought I’d always go first, so I took care of everything to make it easy for her. She picked the flowers and location while I put together the rest.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.” My voice is terse, and Callum gives me a look that screams not now, but I can’t control it, nor do I want to. My emotions are high, a battle between ire and sorrow that’s suffocating me.

  There’s nothing I can do to fix this, but at the least, I’ll avenge her. My beautiful mum didn’t deserve her lot. Didn’t deserve to have a bunch of delinquent arseholes as family.

  I’ll gut the son of a bitch that did this. He and anyone else involved are dead men walking.

  “Let’s take a walk, mate.” Callum puts himself between us, and I didn’t realize I’d moved. “We don’t need to be fighting. Family first.”

  “I left for less than four motherfucking days,” I yell out, fist pounding my chest hard enough that the sound in the room makes a passing nurse jump. “Four days, and my mum, bro. My mum…” I trail off, unable to finish.

  “Casper,” Dad says then, the tone in his voice one I haven’t heard in a while. Not since he was boss, and I look back at him through narrowed eyes.

  “Yes.”

  “Find him and bring him to me.”

  “You can have the scraps when I’m done.” With that I walk out, pausing just long enough to squeeze his shoulder on the way out. I’m angry. Fucking furious, but I love him, and past the tumultuous emotions swirling within, this isn’t his fault.

  He won’t feel my fury, but the rest of the world won’t be so lucky.

  The pub is empty when Callum and I arrive.

  It’s quiet, the streets almost empty, and the night holds an edge of eeriness that mimics my mood at the moment. Even the few people walking to their cars or entering another eatery are quiet and with their heads down.

  No one makes eye contact. No one so much as breathes in my direction.

  Closing my eyes, I take a moment to help my mind settle. To focus on what’s important: the death of an enemy.

  “Jeffrey is the only person inside,” my right-hand says, and I open one eye to meet Callum’s. “How do you want to handle this? We can wait outside if you like?”

  “Just you and me.” I shift my Glock to behind my waistband so the arse doesn’t see it upon my entering. Not yet. They can become intimate after a friendly chat.

  “Send him home?”

  “No. He can clean up afterward.” The back door is just a few feet from me, and with each step I take closer, my muscles tighten and hands begin to clench and unclench. Death is close.

  I can feel it all around me; a heady sensation overtakes my senses whenever I take a life.

  Because while the man below didn’t plan or pull the trigger, he helped by not coming to me.

  The door is unlocked when I turn the handle, and my foot has not fully crossed the threshold when a scream rents the air. It’s masculine and reeks of fear, making goose bumps appear on my skin.

  All doors and the divider are open inside the dark kitchen. Moreover, I follow the sound without pausing. Don’t need to.

  Step after step, I make my way through my office and then down the staircase that leads to my playground. The lighting is soft and music even plays in the background, a song all football fans know by memory as a war cry for their team.

  And there in the center of it all is a man around my age that I’ve never seen before mouthing what I think is a prayer. It’s the same lip movement over and over, and it causes my glare to deepen while I take in the rest of him.

  His hands are bound above him to a small metal pipe and his chest is bare, bruises and a few deep cuts littering his upper torso. Lower, I take in the streaks of blood that meet at the center of his chest and then flow as one down to his lower abdomen, staining his beige trousers.

  The red liquid is dry, and his skin looks pallid. A bit sickly.

  “My condolences, boss,” Jeffrey say lowly from the prisoner’s left, and the man’s eyes snap to mine. It’s obvious he knows who I am. They widen at the sight of me, his fear growing the closer to him I get.

  I give my man a nod in appreciation for his words. “Wait outside and close the door behind you.”

  “Of course. I’ll await orders.” His footsteps are loud inside the room as he exits, but more deafening is the harsh breathing of the arsehole tied up in my prison. He’s fighting against his restraints, pulling hard enough that blood appears at his wrist as he breaks the skin there.

  Bloody idiot.

  Callum takes his place behind him while I stop a few inches from his face. Eyes on his. “Name?”

  “This is a mistake, sir. I don’t—” He doesn’t finish as my hand across his face silences him, snapping his head back and jostling his entire body as it sways.

  “Answer the question and nothing else,” I say, my tone even. I’m watching him, cataloging his reactions to make sure the idiot doesn’t pass out from fear before I get what I need. Because fight or flight is quite an interesting thing. Causes reactions in people that they simply can’t control, and escaping into your own mind i
s one of them. “Name, mate. If I have to ask you again, it will hurt.”

  “Andre Gellar.”

  “And where are you from, Andre Gellar?” Because his accent is American. Callum meets my eye from behind him and I nod for him to proceed, beginning to push the buttons of my long-sleeved vest through their respective holes. One by one they become undone and Andre watches, sometimes flinching if I make a certain rapid movement with my hand. He does so again when I take it off and toss it somewhere behind me. Still no answer. “Last warning. Where the fuck are you from?”

  “New Jersey.”

  “Where in Jersey?”

  “Patterson.”

  I crack my knuckles. “And what exactly is a man from New Jersey doing in London?”

  “Just on vacation. I swear to you that…please!” he cries out through a split lip, blood rushing to the new cut after my strike. “This is a mistake.”

  “The mistake was running your mouth and claiming you set up the hit on my mum.” His mouth opens to deny this, but before he gets a single word out, I bring my closed fist forward and clock him in the nose. The sound of it breaking, bone crushing behind the hit, only ignites the fury I have within.

  I don’t stop after one punch. I land one after another as a red haze overtakes my senses, using his face as a punching bag without feeling the stress on my knuckles. If anything, I want to feel that kind of pain—to forget for just a few minutes that because of this cunt and whoever is working with him, I lost the most important woman in my life.

  Another bare-knuckle strike lands across the bridge of his nose and the skin gives way, opening to form a gash that bleeds profusely, splattering across my hands and bare chest.

  “No more.” It leaves him on a nasal whimper, and I stop for half a second to admire the damage. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  “All right.” I stretch my hand out, head tilting to the side as I appraise that sack of shit. “Talk.”

  “Mr. Jameson, I’m just an errand boy.”

  “Gathered as much. Talk.” Turning away from him, I walk toward the back and grab a folding chair, bringing it with me to sit in front of his bloodied form. My eyes connect with Callum as I do, and he moves into position with a large plastic bag in his hand behind him. “Amuse me.”

  “My job was simply to deliver payment to the man hired to make the hit.” Andre swallows hard, trying to see what Callum has in his hand from the corner of his eye. “He was supposed to kill a male member of your family, not your mother. It was a mistake.”

  “I want names,” I grit out. Now isn’t the time to fully lose control, at least until I get the information I need to proceed—to unleash my wrath on those who crossed me and mine.

  “I’ve never met the man hired by my boss—” His airflow is cut off by the plastic bag closed over his head. At once, his body thrashes as breathing becomes difficult with the lack of oxygen. The expression on Andre’s face is of pure terror a second before the material becomes foggy.

  Callum removes the bag. “Tell us the truth.”

  Andre is gasping, face red and eyes a bit bloodshot. “I swear on my—”

  I pull my gun from the waistband of my trousers and cock it, holding it up in his line of sight. “Let’s try this again, Mr. Gellar. Who pulled the trigger?”

  “Before making the delivery, I’d never seen the man before.”

  “I’m beginning to lose my bloody patience here, mate. You have three minutes to give me the name of your boss and the hired help.” Still no answer; the arsehole is too busy watching the Glock in my hand. To help him along, I fire a warning shot to his kneecap. “Clock is ticking.”

  “Motherfuck!” he yells out, body trying to fold into itself as the rush of pain hits his nervous system.

  “Names.” This man has got to be the most incompetent man I’ve ever encountered. Bullet hole in his leg, battered face, and my cousin behind him ready to suffocate his arse, and still he doesn’t speak up. Instead, he whimpers, a pathetic little sound that grates my nerves on a level that leaves me with little choice. “Again, Callum.”

  “Of course, boss.” Callum places the bag once more, this time tightening the plastic so it molds to his facial features as he sucks in a desperate breath. “I loathe liars,” my cousin seethes next to Andre’s head, finally letting his own emotions out as he pulls the bag off a minute later. My mum was like his own. Probably more so since Aunt Miriam lives to travel and pretend that what funds her expensive lifestyle isn’t drug and gun money. “Give up those names or it’s your life.”

  “All I know...” he coughs, bloodied spit dribbling down his chin “...is that the guy lives on and off on a Caribbean island and takes on jobs like these as a hobby.” Andre takes another pause, and I raise a brow. There isn’t much time left in my countdown.

  “Carry on, bloke. Today is not the day to test me.”

  “Please. I have a wife and kid on the way.”

  “No, you don’t,” Callum interjects, yanking his head back, exposing his neck. “When Jeffrey picked you up and offered you cheap pussy to strike a conversation, you told him you were newly divorced and desperate for an easy fuck.”

  Andre flinches when I use the barrel of the gun to scratch my chin. “His name is Mauricio Hernandez and he was paid $500,000 in cash to do it.”

  “And who the fuck do you work for?”

  “He lives in New Jersey but is looking to take over the state of Massachu—” Andre doesn’t get to finish as I put a single bullet between his eyes. That’s all I needed to know.

  13

  THERE’S SIX OF US carrying my mum’s casket down the row of the cemetery where she’s being laid to rest. We own the entire area where the family’s mausoleum is—toward the back end away from others—and the surrounding graves; about thirty of them outside of ours.

  My grandfather bought them just in case someone who works for the family needed one, an example we continue to follow:

  A Jameson always takes care of their own.

  And we will. My mum’s guard who died protecting her, who took six bullets while trying to save her, will also be buried here in a private ceremony for his family. He will receive full honors, and they will be under our care for the rest of their lives. My care.

  It’s also that sense of loyalty that brought so many here today to pay their last respects. It’s why everyone, including a few of the wives, are carrying and not concealing it. With our family being well known in the UK, many are out to see for themselves—to catch a glimpse of us in our private moment of grief. Magazines, international newspapers, and even social media bloggers turned conspiracy theorists are out to feature this story.

  They have no respect.

  Especially this one son of a bitch I’m seconds away from putting a bullet in the body of: a particular reporter for the largest network news station. He’s cocky and pushing the boundaries; he’s continuously getting closer with his phone out and recording our walk.

  My father is at the front with mum’s brother and I’m at the back, eyes on the man who just took another step.

  “Leave it, brother. I have it,” Malcolm Asher, a business associate and long-time friend, says from beside me. His voice is low so only I hear, and I flick my eyes toward him for a second, giving him a small nod that he understands. We’re cut from the same cloth. Trust each other. “Ignore him until later. Javier will keep the man entertained for a few hours.”

  At the mention of Javier, his right-hand, I notice the reporter’s gone. Not a single trace of him left behind, nor is there any commotion from the bystanders dissecting our every move.

  Either way, I don’t question it.

  Know better than most that people have one-track minds and easily miss the obvious. A person could get stabbed in the middle of a concert surrounded by large bodies of strangers and not a single person will remember seeing the attack. It’s why corrupt governments get away with so much.

  Distract the mind and kill without repercussions.<
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  We walk a few steps further and reach the open mausoleum, a tall Victorian building that houses our grandparents and now will have my mum. Everyone halts their steps and the employees help us put her down gently into a lift of some sort that will help them place her safely within.

  And the moment we do, the skies open and a light sprinkling of rain begins to feed the earth. Her favorite flower, large pink peonies, are in full bloom, and I walk over to the nearest growth and pluck a single one as the priest begins to talk. I tune him out. I tune everyone out; my focus is on her.

  My memory of her baking cookies after my football games.

  The look on her face when I graduated from secondary school and then got my acceptance to Oxford.

  The first time I killed a man, an arsehole that tried to rob me, and she helped me wash his blood from my favorite coat.

  Mum was always there. Always.

  My throat bobs harshly as I swallow back my emotions. This hurts. My anger and guilt are a heady combination, but showing any weakness is forbidden.

  Not in public. Not until I avenge her death.

  “Your mum would’ve loved these,” my father says, coming to a stop beside me a few seconds later. He’s been a pillar of calm for the last few days, but the tremble in his hand as he reaches for a flower speaks volumes. “Thank you.”

  “Thank me when I bring you the head of her killer.”

  He gives me a barely perceptible nod. “Are you heading back to the US?”

  “Soon.”

  “We need to talk.”

  “We will, but not for a few days.” At my response his mouth opens, but when I look over at him, the rebuttal dies. I don’t know what he sees in my eyes—grief or regret—but his backing down helps.

  Right now I’m not okay.

  I’m a ticking time bomb.

  “...let us pray.” The priest’s words meet my ears and I turn around, taking in how every head bows. How they all begin to recite their own plea to God above for her soul and our solace.