by Zara Cox
Being forced to face Axel again after years of meticulous avoidance has been ten different kinds of hell. Doing it night after night from behind the mask of my rage has been crucifying. But the state of being that sustained me all these years did nothing to protect me from what seeing him again did to me.
What it continues to do to me. Even now, I can barely contain the trembling inside, the volatile electricity pulsing through me.
I wrestle down my emotions and watch Finnan cross the room to the drinks bar he had custom built two years ago. Like most of the prominent furnishings in the house, the initials FR are etched into the polished teak surface.
Finnan Rutherford is very much into branding. He placed his most intimate brand on me on my nineteenth birthday.
In silence, I watch him pour a shot of premium single malt Irish whiskey into a crystal tumbler. At this early hour, anyone would be forgiven for thinking he suffers from a drinking problem or that he’s rattled by the outcome of another failed assignment. Or even that he slots his early morning drinking under the it’s-always-five-o’clock-somewhere excuse.
But the shot is merely part of his morning routine, much like his twice-weekly kippers-and-boiled-eggs breakfast. Worse of all, Finnan does his most ruthless thinking fortified with that single shot of liquor.
He knocks back the drink, sets down the glass, and turns to face me. Eyes so much like Axel’s, and yet infinitely different, drill into me as he approaches. There was a time when I made the game interesting for him by showing fear or retreating several steps backward to prevent contact. That time has passed.
I stand my ground, rigid and resolute.
His forefinger touches my cheekbone for a second, lingers, then traces downward to my jawline. I don’t shudder. Or gasp. Or pull away. I don’t lean into the caress to express false pleasure. Those are all wasted efforts, useless gestures I don’t exert energy on. Every last reserve of my strength is saved for other things.
“You think I took the decision lightly to send you, my most prized possession, to him?”
Some women might enjoy being at the receiving end of such a blatant statement of ownership from one of the most feared men in the country. Others would perhaps protest, albeit diplomatically—unless they had zero self-preservation—at being labeled a possession. I don’t react one way or the other because Finnan’s words are the truth.
He owns me. In every way thinkable, save for a signed paper proclaiming me his chattel, I belong to him. Ever since I discovered the chilling and calculated way he dealt with my parents, I’ve accepted the futility of protest.
“No, I don’t think you made the decision lightly. But it’s clear it needs rethinking. Axel—” I stop, realizing that, although he features prominently in my thoughts—how could he not when he’s the star player in my end game?—this is the first time I’ve said his name out loud in years. I’m not prepared for the onrush of memories that accompany uttering his name. I absorb the shock of it and take a frantic moment to regroup. “He dug his heels in the moment you sent Ronan.”
Finnan drops his hand from my face and walks around to drop into the high-backed seat behind his desk. “Those two have been bickering like wet hens since they were in diapers,” he says, his jaw tight.
A situation Finnan encouraged at every turn, steeped in the unfortunate thinking that pitting one son against the other would breed healthy competition. All it did was breed resentment.
Seated on his throne, he returns his attention to me. “Enlighten me then, my sweet. How would you have gone about bringing my errant boy to heel? Considering he was just as stubborn before I sent Ronan.”
I wouldn’t refer to him like he’s a truant child acting out, for a start. I clench my gut as I recall the last look Axel gave me before he disappeared through the door behind the bar. “At this point, he’s going to toy with whoever else you send after him.”
“Whoever else? Are you taking yourself out of the running already?”
“I should never have been in the running.” I can’t prevent the angry bite in my tone from filtering through.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re questioning my judgment for the second time since I walked into the room. Are you, my petal?”
My sigh is as weary as the hand I massage my temple with. “I’m tired, Finnan. I haven’t slept, and I’ve been forced to endure high decibels for hours. My head is pounding.”
His head jerks up, and I almost see him scent the air. “Forced?”
Shit.
Anything other than his son’s indifference will be seen as engagement. And there’s nothing Finnan loves more than the getting under his last-born’s skin. Even now, when every single day grows more precarious for the Rutherford empire, Finnan is most engrossed with discovering his son’s weak spots.
In his eyes, exploiting Axel’s weaknesses would be the quickest way to gain his attention and cooperation. It isn’t a theory I disagree with, but with my own horse in this race, I prefer to keep any advantage I find to myself. Which is why I’m choosing not to tell him about the meeting I witnessed between Vardan Petrosyan and Axel.
“Ax—He kept me waiting all night. Then he threw me out.”
Finnan’s mouth twists. “That boy has always possessed the manners of a cockroach.”
Not always.
There was a time when Axel would’ve paved a path of pure silk for me if I wished to walk barefoot across the world. A time when my every wish was his command.
Or at least that was what I believed.
That time seems like a distant, ethereal dream now, insane moments fashioned by witches and leprechauns for their hideous and brief amusement. A sketch they evidently grew tired of very quickly. Because why else would something so beautiful and rare have turned so ugly and savage so fast?
Was it even love? Wasn’t love supposed to last forever?
I don’t know. What I know is hate lasts a hell of a lot longer. Especially when it’s fuelled as lovingly as I tend it.
Realizing memories are hell-bent on breaching my closely guarded vault, I straighten. As cute as my four-inch Jimmy Choos are to look at, they pinch something fierce after hours of constraint. I’m also in desperate need of a shower.
Most of all, I’m eager to get away so I can reaffirm my carefully laid-out plan. A plan that, for a single moment tonight, when my eyes met Axel’s across that packed dance floor, I failed to prioritize.
That single moment of faltering drowns me in shame now as I wait to be dismissed from Finnan’s den.
“Fine, go and rest. You’ll try again tonight.”
It takes every ounce of control to prevent my fists from clenching. “No.”
“Excuse me?”
“I told you, it won’t work. There’s only one way you’ll get his attention, and that is if you call him yourself.”
His eyes turn arctic cold. “Are you sure you’re ready for the kind of attention he’ll receive from me if I have to track him down myself? Especially now I have confirmation that he’s behind the Armenians’ defection?”
My sharp inhalation gives me away.
Finnan gives me a small, cold smile. “What, you think I want him to come home just for a nice father-son chat?”
I shrug. “How would I know? You didn’t tell me why you wanted the meeting.”
“Because I know you’re not as dumb as you want me to think.”
I hold my breath and don’t answer because I feel the icy fingers of his rage crawling over my skin.
Finnan leans forward in his chair, his jaw set. “I know he’s in bed with that fucking weasel Petrosyan. I also know he’s throwing money at the Albanians. What I’m yet to fully grasp is whether he’s idiotic enough to think he can get away with it or whether he’s doing it to get my attention. Either way, what he’s doing needs answering.”
There’s much more to it than that. For one thing, Finnan’s recent troubles have had little to do with Eastern European drug lords, unless they’ve starte
d operating out of the Pentagon and the Capitol Building in Washington, DC. But I do know he’s been trying to get back into the mob business, which he claimed to have walked away from years ago.
But I also know Finnan isn’t one to let a slight stay unaddressed, no matter how small.
Vivid memories of the kind of violence he favors flash before my eyes. “I don’t have feelings about him one way or the other except to say that my time is better spent elsewhere and not running another fool’s errand.”
I didn’t intend to let the veiled insult slip. I can only blame my weariness. But my heart races as I wonder if I’ll be taking my shower with one or two more bruises to add to the collection already on my body.
But Finnan remains seated. Calmly, he tugs open a drawer and picks up a remote.
My heart ejects itself into my throat. I haven’t seen one of Finnan’s videos in over six months. Of all his instruments of torture, this one is the most effective. It’s probably the reason I’ve blocked it out, maybe even convinced myself he’s grown bored of it.
But no. Evidently not.
He presses a button on his desk, and the panel on the opposite wall slides back to reveal a sixty-inch high-definition screen complete with surround sound for maximum viewing experience.
Fear rolls through me.
“Finnan, I didn’t mean—”
“You seem to have forgotten what I’m fighting for. What we are all fighting for. I thought, since you’re part of this family now, that you were on board with what needed to be done, but it’s clear your motivation needs a tune-up. Watch the video, Cleopatra. I’m confident it’ll help you gain some perspective.”
I want to shut my eyes. Turn away. Cover my ears so nothing filters through. But of course, my gaze fixes on the screen.
The screen turns a mottled gray for a second before the frame settles. Against my better beliefs, words of prayer roll silently through my head.
Please, dear heaven, let it be me. Don’t let it be someone I know. Don’t. Let. It. Be. A. Child.
Recalling the one time it had been a child, I lose my bravado. My numb fingers grip the edge of the desk. “Please, Finnan.”
“Watch.” Ruthless. Barbaric. The single word is uttered with a relish that cuts through my useless prayers.
At the first sight of the teenager skating along a quiet suburban street, nausea punches upward.
Oh God.
Gary Gordon lives two streets over. He turns eighteen in two months and was just accepted into college on a football scholarship. I only know this because I managed to talk my ever-present bodyguards into letting me out of the house to go running last week when Finnan was out of town. Sheila Gordon was also on a run and wasted no time inviting herself to join me to brag about her son.
A son who, oblivious to the danger stalking close by, bobs his head to the music from his headphones as he rolls down the road.
The car speeds past him, turns the corner, and parks. Whoever is operating the camera—it can only be one of Finnan’s men—reaches for a silver baseball bat lying on the passenger seat and exits.
“No.” The word trembles from my lips. Please, please, please.
Gary rounds the corner and comes face-to-face with the camera-wielding thug. He stumbles off his skateboard then covers his embarrassment by flicking it up and catching it mid-air.
He pulls out one earbud as his gaze drops to the baseball bat. Apprehension crawls over his face a second before the video cuts.
Before my screaming senses can give in to the relief they crave, a close-up of a page with neatly typed words appears on the screen. The header is in all caps, the single word underlined.
EULOGY
I turn from the screen to the monster seated behind his desk, willing my legs to keep me upright. “You didn’t have him killed. He’s not dead.” I have no basis for my assertion save for the need to believe it. The alternative is unthinkable.
“Pay attention,” he says, his voice returned to its deadly softness.
Reluctantly, I refocus on the macabre words written for a child who could still be alive. After a few sick lines celebrating Gary’s life, I force myself to return to the beginning. I notice the date set three weeks from now.
Relief punches through me, and my whole body trembles with it. “He’s not…” I stop and swallow. “He’s okay?”
“For the time being. He’s joining his father and me for golf next week. I promised Bob I would teach Gary how to swing properly. But I could just as easily be helping Bob arrange a double funeral for his wife and son if you don’t get me what I want.” He nods to the screen.
This time it’s Sheila approaching the driver secretly filming her. The gun with the silencer is in his lap as he asks for directions, which she happily supplies. I detest the snooty, know-it-all housewife, but the last thing I wish for is her death.
“Okay.” My voice is as weak as my legs. I clear my throat before I say the words he wants to hear. “I’ll give it one more try.”
Finnan’s smile is sinister personified. “I need you to do more than try, my dear. My son needs to be brought back into the fold sooner rather than later. Make it happen or Sheila and her son will only be the start of your worries.”
I drag in a breath. “Okay, you win. I’ll get you what you want.”
With a flick of his wrist, the TV retreats into its panel. Finnan’s features settle back into the twisted, deceptive affection.
“Before you think me unreasonable, I have another way to get you access to Axel.” He slides a file across the desk. “That’s a membership to one of his clubs. Have to hand it to the boy, when he’s not busy being a fucking pain in my ass, he has a half-decent brain. At least he did when he came up with the idea for this club.” His gaze rests in the middle distance for a moment, a memory slowly hardening his face. “Shame he can’t see that he owes it all to me.”
I pick up the file. “Can I go now?”
He focuses on me. After a moment, he nods. “I’ll let you exercise your discretion as to when you want to use that. But whatever you do, I want to hear from him by this time next week.”
I stumble out of the den on weak legs. Shutting the door behind me, I gasp in a breath, the sound echoing in the long, silent hallway. My lungs burn, and my vision blurs. I’m crying. I lift hesitant fingers to my face, surprised.
Dear God, when was the last time I cried? The day I buried my father?
No. On that particular occasion, shock and horror were the paramount emotions. With my universe shifting relentlessly on its axis, there had been room for very little else. But I’d also harbored deep resentment against my father because I knew that, had he stayed put on his side of the mob divide in Boston, he would still be alive and my mother would be safe.
Michael McCarthy’s greed was what brought us onto Finnan Rutherford’s radar in the first place.
An upper-level Southie mafia jock from the roughest part of Boston, he rose in the ranks very soon after marrying my mother, the daughter of the head of the Boston Irish mob. The fact that my grandfather died shortly before that marriage happened isn’t a fact I dwell on, even though I’ve heard the rumors that my father killed my grandfather to grab the throne and got my mother pregnant almost immediately to solidify his position. Except the empire he usurped was already on its last legs when he assumed the throne.
With the rise of Eastern European mafia outfits on the East Coast, not a lot of attention was paid to the once prominent, but now dying, Irish mob. My father made a few rash attempts to gain back that prominence, losing a few of his men through defection, a few more through old-fashioned shootouts, and a whole load of money and real estate in the process.
That was when he foolishly decided to look beyond his immediate borders and chose to make clandestine moves in Finnan Rutherford’s New Jersey and Connecticut territories.
As Finnan took pleasure in informing me years later, he’d let my father encroach, slowly drawing him into his trap. Predictably, my father
grew bolder, greedier, not realizing he was dealing with a much more cunning, even greedier opponent.
Ultimately, Michael McCarthy paid for his miscalculation with his life. My mother barely escaped with hers. That life still hangs in the balance depending on whether I toe Finnan’s line or not.
Which leaves little room for stupid tears now. I swipe my hand over my cheeks and lurch away from the door. The sweeping staircase leading up to my room on the third floor feels like it’s a million miles away. Halfway there, I stop and kick off my shoes. Scooping them up, I run the rest of the way. Attempting to flee my demons will only make them laugh louder, but I don’t care.
In the false sanctuary of my room, I slam and lock the door, a useless action since I’ll have no choice but to open it again should Finnan demand entry. I drop my shoes and the file on the floor. My dress and underwear come off next, and I stumble into the bathroom naked.
The scalding water pounds me for fifteen minutes before my trembling ceases. With a vicious twist, I yank the tap to cold and will clarity back into my mind.
Tears won’t save me or any other person on Finnan’s sadistic radar. For now, all I can do is find a way to give him what he wants.
Axel.
The full-body shudder that runs through me has nothing to do with the cold water. It’s a physical manifestation of the raw hate that burns in my soul for the youngest Rutherford son.
I don’t delude myself into thinking hate is the only emotion I feel for Axel. From the moment I set eyes on him, my sensation cauldron was set to overflow. Even at age nine, I knew that the boy with intense, unnerving gray eyes, staring at me from across the Thanksgiving banquet table in my parents’ house, held my very existence in his twelve-year-old hands.
That boy grew into a man I was prepared to lay down my life for.
The man whose name I happily etched on my skin in a twisted fit of rebellion and ecstasy, never once guessing he was merely playing a role in my life. That the black sheep Rutherford was staging a sick, brutally evil game that was destined to end one way. With my father dead, my mother on life support, and my soul in tatters.
He succeeded. Then he walked away, leaving me at the mercy of those who were too eager to finish me off.
