by Amber Bardan
Julius makes a tsking sound, and glances up at me with those world-shattering eyes.
I fall into the vortex between us. Get lost in the pause. His grip intensifies, fingers squeezing my flesh.
I want to lift this knee, want to place my foot on his shoulder. Keep him down.
Have him bow to me.
I twitch. There’s no way to process this. Maybe I’m tired, or emotional, or something else. I don’t know. Just feel like an egg that’s been shaken. My yolk runs into my white. My membranes come apart. I’ve forgotten how to keep myself together.
“Take her to Pa.” Julius isn’t speaking to me, but his eyes don’t move, don’t flicker away.
He releases me and stands.
“Of course,” Ash says.
My attention snaps, and I glance at Ash, who moments ago may as well have not have existed. Julius leaves, taking the stairs two at a time.
“Come on.” The hardness to Ash’s words grazes me.
I stiffen, elbows locking. His lips pinch as though he’s tasted something bitter. Heat pours across my cheeks. Whatever he just saw, whether he has a right to be jealous or not, that was out of my control—that was real.
Real and terrible.
* * *
Pa dabs at my knee with a cotton ball.
“I’m fine, really.”
Pa’s thin white brows lift, making the lines on his face change directions. I rest my foot on the table in the dining room so he doesn’t have to bend. He discards the pink-stained cotton ball in the container with the other used ones, then dips another clean cotton ball into the antiseptic solution. The flow from the nicks has eased, but red drops still rise to the surface. He dabs my knee one last time, then picks up a plaster bandage and removes the wrapper.
“There you are.” The plaster bandage smooths over my skin with such care.
I take my bottom lip between my teeth, a sting blaring behind my eyes. What do you do? What do you do when something warm forms with your enemy?
When I know as easy as it’d be to pretend Pa is my grandpa, how neatly we could fall into those roles, he’s on Julius’s side.
He can’t be trusted, not with anything.
Especially not my affection.
I glance through the windows that dominate the room along with doors that lead out into the undercover entertaining area. The Connellys, Julius and his men, all sit around the massive stone table in the barbecue area. Casual, like they are when we’re all sharing a meal. Except no one’s eating and no one’s laughing.
Shoulders are drawn back on some, and hunched on others.
No one’s yelling but I don’t need ears down there to see the conversation is lethal.
“What happened?”
Pa’s sigh fills the room.
I’m not privy to their business, but they don’t hide it from me either. What’d be the point? Who am I ever going to tell?
In fact, Julius seems to get some kind of kick out of having me around when things go down.
“The shipment was taken.”
My attention snaps back to Pa. “The Feds?”
Pa packs up the trash, then stands. “No, the Pirate.”
I clutch the base of my chair. Try not to fly out of it. To keep my face even and the air in my lungs.
The Pirate.
That’s what they call him but that’s not his name. They all know it, just don’t like to say the name of the man royally fucking all of them. The man burning ships, stealing their filthy goods right out of their hands.
I get up and drift to the doors and go down the stairs, walk right up to the empty seat beside Julius and take it. The seat that always waits for me, especially when there’re guests.
Violence vibrates the air. Makes me want to smile.
“Four weeks and we can replace the entire shipment,” Jack says from opposite us.
Julius lounges in his seat, hands resting on the arms of the chair like it’s a throne. “I don’t need my merchandise in four weeks, I need it today.”
Jack scruffs his hair, then lifts his hand in the air. “It’s the best I can do. We didn’t expect this. We took extra precautions.”
Julius leans forward, attention locked on the man across from him. “But you let it happen.”
“We apologize. We’re working on figuring this out.” Jack’s throat bobs.
I wonder how many times in his life Jack Connelly has ever had to apologize. He is now, though. He’s practically begging.
“I know how.” Julius stands with predatory grace.
He reaches for his boot.
I swallow a gasp.
Besides the sunglasses, Julius isn’t dressed for business as he always is with guests. Not wearing the gray pants and white shirt that look so wrong yet so fine on him. His powerful legs in blue jeans, the black, skintight cotton of his T-shirt wraps around his torso, clinging to his pecs.
He’s wearing boots.
Julius is dressed for hunting.
He slides free the six-inch hunting knife from his boot.
I glance at the door to the house. It’s too late to go inside. As much as the idea of these bastards killing each other warms my broken little heart, my stomach just isn’t as ruthless.
“He didn’t do his job.” Julius raises the knife, the sharp point directed at the man next to Jack. A man who’s been through a fight—lip cracked, left eye swollen shut.
“Neil gave me his guarantee, yet my merchandise walked off his ship, and he’s still alive.”
Neil raises his chin. Even with one eye shut, equal measures of hate and grit pour from his gaze. “I accept that.”
Jack glances at Neil and swivels a thick ring on his left hand.
“Hand on the table,” Julius says.
A shiver crawls down my spine.
No one moves.
No one breathes.
Then Neil shuffles forward, spreads his fingers and sets his hand on the stone.
“Which one?” Julius asks.
Neil clears his throat, stares at his hand with his one eye. “Take the pinkie.”
Julius laughs, the sound sharp as his blade. “No, which one to keep.”
A bird screeches.
Neil’s palm twitches, his fingers shake.
My stomach shudders.
“Stop.” Jack lifts out of his seat. “I take responsibility. I’m in charge.”
Julius lowers the knife. “Now, Jack, how’s that going to look if I tax you personally?”
“Ten percent.” Jack’s face changes color, gets pinker. “We drop the price another 10 percent. That’s your tax, we’re making nothing on this now and you know it.”
Julius rotates the knife with a flip, then grips it tightly. “Fifteen percent, Jack, and you—” he points the deadly tip at Jack Connelly “—you are personally on that boat.” He sweeps the knife to focus on each Connelly in turn. “You all are.”
Moisture rolls from Jack’s forehead, the salt-and-pepper hair at his temples shines wet. “Be reasonable, Julius. That’s too dangerous a way to do this business.”
“Maybe for you. For me it means I can be one hundred percent sure you won’t let anything happen to my next shipment.” He nods at Jack. “If you’re on the boat, then you won’t allow it.”
Jack glances at Neil.
Neil nods.
“Fine, we’ll see you in four weeks,” Jack says.
Julius tucks the knife into the sheath in his boot, then sits back down.
I watch him move. Watch the way his body flows smoothly into the chair. I roll a loose curl between my fingers.
I’ve seen Julius mad. I’ve seen him livid. This isn’t it. His fury makes bladders clench. This doesn’t compare.
; He bluffed.
Never needed to take a single finger, let alone four.
He lifts a glass to his lips, then takes a sip. This is why Julius has me play for him at cards. He doesn’t want anyone learning his poker face.
But I just did.
“Now tell me about this Pirate, tell me about John Fury.”
My petty piece of satisfaction falls away. I sit straighter, every cell in my body coming alive.
“They all wore masks—” Neil begins.
I drag my gaze to my hands, my hope reviving with every word. Listen to them talk about the secret that will save my life. Fury is coming. He’s closing in.
When he does, I’ll be free.
Him
My fingers drum steadily on the arm of the chair. A movement at odds with the violent pound of my blood.
The once-great Jack Connelly controls the twitch of his shoulder I’ve caught twice now, but he can’t suppress the sweat plastering his skin with proof of weakness.
Weakness I absorb, tuck into my arsenal for later.
They’re afraid. Jack stares at the table while Neil hunches over it, revealing his failure to a group who tolerates none.
These mighty kingpins of blood, of death and murder, they’re all afraid.
Of a ghost they don’t have the balls to name and more especially—more important—of what I’ll do.
How I’ll react.
They’re right to be worried.
They think money can fix this. That I’ll take a bigger cut and call us square. Not even close. I’ll have my payment, but when I do, they won’t see it coming. It won’t be a hand on the table, it’ll be my knife in their backs.
The pins are falling and now there is only one King.
“What about their voices?” I fix my attention on Neil’s defeated form. “Language, accent? Anything to tell where they’re from?”
“They barely said a word.” Neil lifts his head, looks right at me. Who’d have thought he’d have the nerve. “They were professional, overwhelmed us in under ten minutes, then lined us up, took the stock and left. Just like that. All over in less than an hour. Knew where everything was. Like they were doing the fucking grocery shopping.”
His one-eyed gaze doesn’t waver, doesn’t flick, but his teeth grind when he shuts his lips. He’s a liar, a thief himself. There’s something he knows, or thinks he knows, that he’s not saying now.
“This is not the first time we’ve had a shipment intercepted this way.” Jack straightens again. “Is it yours?”
I smile, though my answer is not pleasing. “It’s not.”
Jack fixes his attention on me, being careful, very careful of what he gives away. “Surely we must now consider the possibility that we are being personally targeted.”
“Personally?” My hand slides down my thigh. I know where he’s going with this. He wouldn’t be so stupid.
Jack twitches. He’s walking in slick fucking quicksand and he knows it. “Perhaps there’s something we have that he wants, that he’s coming after?”
My teeth grind together—no.
Breaths rasp in and out next to me. The sound of her breathing sucks my attention out of the group, out of everything. That sound harnessed by my ears to echo in my head. She’s always so careful. Never lets me see a thing.
That’s all changing.
Her control slips. She’s giving in. Piece by piece I’m breaking her down.
What does she know? “There’s nothing we have.”
Jack nods. We don’t have anything. It’s what, or rather who, I have they know he’ll be coming for.
“Maybe it’s something that needs to be disposed of.” Neil, who’s tempted his fate one too many times today, says, and he, the fool he is, dares a glance at her.
His hand is on the table. My hand shifts back to my knife.
“Mr. King has his house and his priorities in order, I’m sure. Our focus now will be taking extra precautions.” Jack clamps a hand on Neil’s shoulder, saving the bastard’s life.
The sound of her breathing has stopped, like she’s held her breath far too long. She does know something... How?
I don’t look at her, but my pulse jumps slyly under my skin. How could I think I could bring her here? That I’d survive looking in her big traitorous eyes. She hates me. Even as I catch these glimpses in my peripheral, the sight of her tears opens my ribs.
I never know what I want more, to pull her apart piece by piece or beg her to put me back together. Neither will be gentle.
Neil finishes his story, but sheds no light on anything I need to know.
Jack’s gaze flicks past Sarah, touches on her for long enough to remind me why she is here. At least one of the reasons why.
They need to see. Need to look at what happens to those who cross me. They need to witness exactly what I now control.
They need to be afraid.
I watch the men opposite me. Watch them sweat and wring their hands. Not so invincible now. They are scared. Of me, and of Fury.
They should be of us both.
I long for the weight of my knife again, or my gun, when they talk about him.
John Fury. The one thing—the only thing—that might bring everything crashing down.
One day I’ll pay for my deeds. I’ll pay for the blood I’ve shed, the evil I’ve perpetrated. I’ll pay just like they will—but not until I’m done.
Chapter Seven
Bloody Birthday
1:20 p.m.
“I’m sorry he’s late, my son is looking forward to meeting you.” Mrs. Carlisle says, glancing past me to the driveway for the third time in thirty seconds.
I keep the smile plastered to my lips. “That’s very sweet.” Really, I couldn’t care less. Not about Mrs. Carlisle and certainly not about the precious boy I’m convinced she must still be breast-feeding. “I’m looking forward to meeting Benjamin also.”
I keep my expression as sunny as my yellow dress. I’m used to things for me not really being for me. That’s the nature of this business, sometimes using family to manufacture a bond. I can deal with that, don’t even mind that the only people at my party are the boys on my father’s payroll and Dad’s favorite new business partners, the Carlisles.
“You have lovely hair.” Mrs. Carlisle tilts her head, gaze running over my hair from my temples to where the ends rest on my shoulders. “You must have gotten your looks from your mother.”
My stomach dips a little the way it does whenever someone mentions Mom. I push hair from my face. Yes, I got these curls from my mother. Physically, I got everything from her except for the lilting Irish twang of her words.
Mrs. Carlisle cuts a glance to my dad on the other side of the garden. There’s no hint of the burly Sicilian in my appearance.
I smile. Appearances are skin-deep—genetics go further. I take after Dad in other ways.
“It’s not like Benjamin to be late.” She looks out to the bend in the driveway.
“It’s no problem, really.” I watch Dad chatting with his boys. Lost in conversation not fit for my innocent ears, judging by his jerky movements.
He’s taken things too far this time.
There’s not much I won’t do for my dad. Most of the time I even obey him. When he’s not getting carried away. “Excuse me a moment.”
“Of course—”
I don’t wait for her to finish, just march toward my father. My smile doesn’t falter. I tuck my hand into the crook of his arm. “Sorry, boys, birthday girl needs her dad.”
The men, nothing remotely close to boys, nod and make themselves scarce, dutifully as though they’ve just been addressed by a queen. In a way they have. I’m Anthony Mercedes’s one and only daughter, close enough to royalty on this sprawling ranch in
Montana.
“This is completely medieval, even for you.”
Dad’s wide black brows twitch innocently.
“I’ve spent most of my life between a girls’ boarding school—” I hold out my palm and gesture around us “—and the middle of freaking nowhere, and the minute I turn eighteen you do this.”
He rests his hand over the one I have on his arm and smiles. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Curly.”
“Yeah, you do know. I haven’t even been able to get the guys in this place to do more than kiss me and yet now I get the sense I’m about to be married off for convenience.”
I slice him with the same dare-to-fuck-with-me scowl that’s his own trademark.
“Never said anything about marriage.” Dad steps back, releasing my hand. “Hang on—who the fuck has been kissing you?”
I scrunch my nose. Crap. “Beside the point.”
Dad turns around full circle. “Is it him?” He points to Joel, his youngest guy, who’s walking the far perimeter of the garden. “Is it that little fucker over there?”
Joel’s the obvious choice, twenty-three years old and I know from personal experience the shotgun in his hands isn’t the only gun he’s packing.
Yep, it’s a shotgun-in-hand kinda day—as opposed to a shotgun-over-the-shoulder kinda day. Oddly, this is fairly normal.
“Let it go, Dad, he wasn’t any good anyway.”
Dad’s neck changes color. His skin goes from deep olive to red, from the top button on his shirt all the way to his jaw.
Dammit.
“Joel, you little cunt, get your ass over here.”
I groan. “Well, Dad, I’m sure shouting that kind of language is going to impress your guest.”
“Mrs. Carlisle has the filthiest mouth here, don’t you worry.”
Really?
Joel turns toward us.
“I said get your ass here.” Dad waves his arm in an arc.
Joel picks up his pace.
This isn’t going to be a bit awkward...
All this over a bit of sloppy kissing.
And possibly some hand stuff. And perhaps a little awkward mouth stuff.
