by Eva Ashwood
Is this how she felt?
Grace.
I always come back to her in my thoughts, no matter what.
Is this how she feels?
Overwhelming need for her consumes me. I want to hold her. To be with her. To let her take away the pain that’s lodged itself in my soul like a knife. I need the feeling of being complete right now, when everything else is so absolutely fucked up.
Ciro is the last to enter the room, not joining the row of men standing in front of me but coming to stand at my right shoulder. Myles betrays no emotion, but I know he doesn’t like this one fucking bit. He was my father’s second, and he’s clearly not happy about losing his position to my best friend. But he’ll just have to fucking get over it.
The only person I’m going to have in that role is the man who’s always been there for me. Ciro was my second yesterday and he’ll be my second today. Just because my position in the syndicate has changed, that doesn’t mean his will.
I challenge Myles with a glance, daring him to say something, but he wisely keeps his mouth shut.
“The body has been moved to holding until funeral arrangements can be made,” I begin, clearing my throat. “We don’t want the cops involved—they’ll only get in the way of our own investigation, and when we find out who did this, we won’t want them standing in the way of our vengeance either. In the meantime, we’ll proceed as my father would have wished. You will now be receiving orders from me, and I hope I’ll prove myself as worthy of your loyalty as he was.”
I give each of them a look, and they square their shoulders, giving stiff nods. They may not like that I’ve been given power at such a young age, but I’m not planning on stepping aside. This is my family legacy, and I’m going to uphold it no matter what it takes.
My only focus now, the goal that drives me, is to find the mole and take whoever the fuck it is down. Because I have a feeling they’re responsible for my father’s death.
“Report,” I say shortly.
“Nothing was found on any local security cameras,” Frank says, stepping forward. “The plates on the car had been stripped to avoid recognition and the vehicle abandoned shortly after. There was no forensic evidence inside of the car. But the shooter wasn’t alone, there was evidence of a second person in the car.”
They got away too fast.
My leg twinges, pain echoing through my body. If it weren’t for my old injury, maybe I could have caught up, shot the fucker before he got away, but my leg prevented me from going faster and avenging my father’s death.
Maybe I am too fucking weak to deserve this position.
I grit my teeth, forcing the thought out of my head as Frank continues.
“Whoever was behind this didn’t leave a mark behind, and none of our rivals or enemies have stepped forward to claim responsibility. For all we know, it could have been a hit and run.”
“Could’ve been. But I don’t think it was,” Myles cuts in. “If it were a random hit and run, it wouldn’t have been such a clean, quick job. No one else but Damian was shot, and he was shot with precision. They had a plan. A strategy.”
Myles speaks the truth, as much as I fucking hate it.
I nod, forcing words past my tight throat. “I agree. Whoever shot my father knew what they were doing. They knew Damian would be where he was, when he was there.”
Which means they knew about the deal, the victory, and the party. They knew too fucking much.
The men before me all grow silent at my words. Myles nods in agreement, the movement small. They’ve all picked up on the words I didn’t say, and I watch their expressions change as they absorb that information.
Someone betrayed us.
Up until tonight, my father kept his suspicions of a mole in our midst buried. The only people who knew were me and my men, Grace, and my father. But after what happened tonight, I can’t pretend to be ignorant of the possibility of betrayal. Myles was already reaching the same conclusion as he spoke his thoughts aloud.
“If I may be so bold,” Myles interrupts my thoughts, stepping forward. He’s a bit older than my father, with a hawkish nose and sharp eyes. “I think there are other questions we need to ask ourselves as we proceed.”
“Continue.”
I already don’t like where this is going, but I’d be a fool to ignore him, even if I hate him for speaking the truth.
“Consider this: someone took out Landon first. Ratted him out so he ended up with his ass in jail,” Myles says. “Now, Damian’s been taken out. I wouldn’t call that a coincidence. Someone is out for this syndicate, and I doubt they’re going to stop now. Landon’s arrest weakened us. Damian’s death could cripple us.”
My jaw clenches. I resent the implication that I can’t run the syndicate as well as my father, but as I replay his words in my head, it strikes me what he’s really getting at. Old wounds cut deep, and Myles is one of many who will never forgive or forget what Samuel Weston did to Landon. My father’s captains each felt that betrayal on a personal level. My uncle was beloved by many, and everyone took his arrest hard.
“Who’s the common link between these two incidents, Hale?” Myles gives me a penetrating look, his dark brows rising. “Who was connected to both events? Maybe we didn’t see it directly at first, but you know what I’m talking about.”
Grace.
That’s who he’s insinuating is connected. First, Samuel ratted out Landon, putting the next in line to command the Novak Syndicate in jail. The question has always been—why? Why did Samuel throw away his career, his home, and everything around him for a life on the run?
Because he wanted to bring the Novaks down.
Somehow, he managed to hide his hatred long enough that we wouldn’t suspect him. He must’ve lain in wait for years before he executed his plan with perfect timing and escaped into the night. But Samuel is dead now, which means he couldn’t have been directly responsible for my father’s death.
But indirectly?
What if he wasn’t working alone all those years ago? What if he brought up his daughter to follow in his footsteps? What if she’s been lying to me all this time?
My stomach twists as I consider the possibility of what Myles says, what he’s hinting at. It’s not as far-fetched as I wish it was, and I hate the doubt that spreads through my chest like poison.
Have I let my heart get so fucking caught up in her that I’m ignoring the obvious?
Myles takes a step away from the desk, dipping his head respectfully. He never seemed to think I was strong enough to lead the Novaks—I know he was one of the ones whispering in my dad’s ear that I wouldn’t be a worthy heir to his empire—but he’s been careful to demonstrate his fealty to me in the wake of my father’s death.
I watch him as he settles in beside my father’s old captains.
He’s said his piece, and he’s done. But his words are still infecting my mind. I want to speak up in defense of Grace like I did when we brought her in to meet with my father… but with my father lying dead on a slab somewhere, the words won’t come.
Because a tiny part of me wonders if Myles is right.
Did she play me? Did she play us all?
I drag in a breath to clear my head, then change the topic back to what needs to be done right now.
“I want you to spread out, interview everyone,” I say. We’ve got a web of informants throughout the entire city. “I want to know if anyone has seen or heard anything. I also want reports on the movement and activity of all other criminal groups in Chicago over the past three weeks. Big or small, I don’t care.”
I can tell Myles thinks I’m dismissing his suspicion of Grace and is displeased, but he doesn’t say anything. I’m not about to feed into his arrogant satisfaction by telling him that he might be right, not until I’ve looked into things myself.
A spark of anger ignites in my chest, but I push it down, smothering the flames.
“You may leave. Report back to me tomorrow.”
They f
ile out of the office and I gesture to Ciro to follow me out.
Grace comes next.
22
Grace
Zaid and Lucas pace up and down the length of the living room. They’re both practically radiating nervous energy, and it seems to fill up the whole space, making it hard to maintain my fragile grip on my own emotions.
Everything has completely changed. The world of the Novaks has been turned upside down, around, and back again; power has been challenged and shifted, the perfect balance of the syndicate shaken. The day that no one was ready for has come, and it came with no fucking warning.
My whole body trembles. I’m sitting on the couch, but my knees bounce up and down. I can’t keep still any more than the twins can. I blow out a breath, trying to calm the thoughts swirling in my mind. Zaid and Lucas are focused on working out theories, trying to come up with an explanation for the sudden death, but I can’t think about anything besides Hale.
The look on his face…
When he leaned over his father’s body, I saw something I never wanted to see. I saw myself in that same position, months ago, my world forever changed. I saw the blood splattered on my dress, on my face, the hot liquid cooling as it soaked my skin.
Pain.
I’ve never seen such raw pain in a person as I saw on Hale’s face tonight, but what breaks my heart more than anything was seeing it pushed away for duty, for the role that was just shoved upon him. Hale’s not going to get a break, he’s not going to be given time to grieve like a normal person. He’s going to have to bury his feelings so he can step up to the responsibilities of his new position.
And that’s just… fucked up.
I just want to go up to my room, crawl into bed and try to sleep away the nightmare, but I doubt Zaid or Lucas will leave my side until Hale gives them orders to. Hell, maybe not even then.
Damian Novak is dead.
My stomach rolls over and over again, replaying what happened in my head—Damian being shot, Hale’s cry for help, the chaos that followed. Worse, I can’t get rid of the thought that I’m somehow involved in this, that maybe that attack was meant to be another warning for me.
Damian had plenty of other enemies—people who wanted him dead. It might not have had anything to do with me.
I tell myself that, but the words feel hollow, even inside my own head.
Zaid’s phone rings, and he answers quickly as he stops pacing. Lucas freezes too, and I look up as Zaid listens for a moment, then murmurs something and hangs up.
“They weren’t able to pull anything from security footage.” He shakes his head, shoving the phone back in his pocket. He stripped off his jacket a while ago, and his tie is gone too. The top few buttons of his dress shirt are undone, and he’s rolled his sleeves up on his forearms. “Plates were gone, windows tinted. The surveillance videos were basically useless.”
“Were they able to get into city surveillance and figure out where the car went?” Lucas asks.
“They’re working on that now, but the car was abandoned pretty quickly,” he says. “A couple of Hale’s shots did enough damage that they had to dump it. And yes, before you ask, they already ran forensics on the car. Nothing.”
“Bastard knows how to cover his tracks.” Lucas starts pacing again. “This was planned.”
It’s what I’ve been thinking too, but I didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to speak it into existence. At this point, I’m not even sure what would be worse—Damian being a victim to one of the many common and brutal hit and runs in this city, or murdered in cold blood by one of his enemies.
“Whoever it is,” Lucas mutters, running a hand through his coppery blond hair, “Hale won’t stop until he finds them. None of us will. They aren’t gonna last much longer.”
“Do you know if there are connections to any of your rival gangs?” I ask, hesitating. I know it’s not my place to speak up, but I feel like I need to help in any way I can. “You’ve probably already considered that, but…”
I trail off, and Lucas and Zaid share a look.
Zaid speaks up first. “Yeah, we’ve considered it. But we have no evidence to tie it to any of our rivals. Nothing concrete. Damian didn’t stand for acts of violence just because someone may have acted against us, and I doubt Hale will either. Although…” He shakes his head. “I dunno. I’m not sure where his head’s at right now. He’s hurt, and he’s pissed. Maybe he won’t want to wait until we know for sure.”
A door slams somewhere in the house, and I’m so wound up that I jump about a foot in the air. Zaid and Lucas both tense, hands drifting toward their weapons. Footsteps echo on the polished floor as Hale storms in, Ciro right behind him.
Hale’s gaze finds mine as he steps into the room. He looks like a predator on the hunt with one thing on his mind, and I catch only a flicker of emotion in his deep blue eyes as he strides past Lucas and Zaid, roughly taking my wrist and pulling me up from the couch. Without a word of explanation from him, I follow. Ciro takes a step aside as Hale drags me out into the hallway.
He’s not being gentle. He’s not being soft. But I didn’t expect him to be.
My bare feet slap against the cool floor as I struggle to keep my shaky legs under me, keeping up with his pace.
Even though my wrist is still caught in a possessive hold, I follow him willingly.
Part of me needs this.
This is what I’ve been waiting for since the moment it happened. I’ve been waiting for the pain I saw inside him to explode, and I have a strange compulsion to be there when it does. No matter what happens.
He needs me, and in a way, I need him. We’re linked by more than the memories of our past now. We’re connected by a bond that two people should never have to share, by the twin experiences of seeing our fathers murdered in front of us. Specks of blood still stain Hale’s hands and face, although I can see that he’s washed most of it off.
My pulse accelerates as we take the stairs two at a time, then turn on the second floor landing. He’s taking me toward his room, not mine. The emotions that churn inside of him are infecting me too, pouring into me through the connection of our skin, consuming me like a burning flame.
Fear. Anger. Sadness.
They’re not just his emotions though. They’re mine too. Not only do I feel what he feels, I bear the weight of having done this all already. My own feelings of grief are resurfacing, triggered by the events of the day and adding to the dangerously volatile emotions that already clog my chest.
He pulls me into his bedroom, slamming the door behind us. The curtains are closed, and only a flicker of moonlight penetrates the room, leaving us robed in murky shadows. He presses me back against the closed door, his large frame looming over mine, boxing me in. His hands come to rest on either side of my head, and for a moment, his own head droops. I can hear his sharp breaths as he drags in air through his nostrils, bracing himself against the door.
Then, finally, he looks up at me. But it’s not the Hale I know gazing at me. It’s not even the grief-stricken Hale I can sense hiding inside him, but a wild, animalistic beast. His lips curl back and his nostrils flare as he narrows his eyes at me. I can hear his heart and my heart thundering to the same beat, a tangible pulse that hangs over the room until he opens his mouth and speaks.
“Tell me you had nothing to do with this.”
I blink. My thoughts from downstairs earlier flood back through my head—my worries that I’d been the target of the shooting, not Damian. Or that Damian’s murder was somehow connected to whoever tried to kill me.
But that’s not what Hale is talking about. He’s asking if I planned this.
“No. I didn’t.” I grope for words, not sure how else to say it.
“Tell me you didn’t do this, Grace,” he growls.
“I didn’t—”
I make a move to step toward him, but my words break off as he slams me back against the door, pressing his body into mine.
He grabs my face and forces m
e to look up at him—to confront the beast behind his eyes, the one trying to tear its way out of his body and slaughter me. His thumb presses into my cheek until I can feel it against my jaw, his entire body shaking with rage against mine.
“I want to hear you say it again,” he grates out, tightening his grip even more.
“Hale, I didn’t. I swear—”
But he’s so far gone, lost inside himself. So swallowed by his grief that a simple no doesn’t stand a chance against his consuming pain, the tempest that’s raging inside of him. It hurts, having to watch him like this, having to see him go through this. His grief is tearing him apart.
And that’s what makes me ache the most, because I know how he feels. More than anything, I know.
I somehow manage to snake my arms up between us, grabbing his forearms with my hands, trying to bring him back to me with a touch.
“I didn’t have anything to do with your dad’s death, Hale. I promise you. I swear on my own father’s grave. I swear on my life. I know what it’s like to lose your parents,” I whisper, catching his gaze and holding it. “And I would never do that to another person. I’d never do that to you.”
I watch his throat convulse as he swallows. He wants to believe me. I can see it in the way his eyes track mine, hope hovering just behind the pain.
“The last time Damian and I spoke alone,” I say, my voice thick, “I promised him I would never hurt you. I didn’t expect him to believe me, but he did. Because I think he could see what I couldn’t even admit to myself. He could see how much I care about you. I need you, Hale. I need you to stay with me.”
Hale blinks.
His jaw twitches as silence stretches between us. I wait for him to make his next move, wait to see if he’ll allow himself to be brought back. The monster trying to take over his soul puts up a good fight, but finally, his face crumples as Hale comes slamming back into his body, the full weight of grief rushing over him.
