by Zara Cox
“You’re still throwing those feeble fists like you used to do when you were a baby, and your ma, God rest her soul, tried to give you a bath. It does the heart good to see some things never change.”
I let loose a smile of my own as the familiar promise of combat oils my limbs. “You know what does my heart good? You. Thinking everything that has led to this has been a tantrum. I implore you to keep thinking that way. Believe that there’s even a single scenario where you triumph.”
“I don’t need to. You will do all of the heavy lifting for me. Same as you’ve always done.” His gaze flicks to Cleo, and I hear her sharp inhalation. Whatever passes between them ends when his eyes return to me.
I barely manage to keep my fists from tightening. “Sure. I’m happy to do one last act of heavy lifting for you. Just call the undertaker and pick a box.”
Behind me, Cleo makes another sound. A twisted projectile of noise. Broken, yet powerful in grabbing my attention. The urge to turn around blasts through me. But that is not an option, not when my horns are locked in battle. I keep my attention on Finnan.
Your move.
“You must get this wild death wish from your mother’s side of the family. If memory serves, her brother, your uncle Paddy, was also one to run his mouth off without forethought. Right until someone put a gun in it.” His eyes gleam with a sinister light that makes me think that someone was him.
“Is that someone still around? I’d love to teach him a neat little trick that I learned in Manila.”
“Axel.” Cleo’s voice quivers, her warning getting lost in the maelstrom of emotions coiling through the room.
Finnan’s eyes shift to her again. I have to lock my knees not to step in front of her and block his view. Blot out every image of the two of them together that has attached itself to my psyche.
All traces of mirth are now drained from his face. “We’ll continue this conversation in my den. Alone.”
Ronan steps forward, affront bristling. “Pa—”
I make one last-ditch attempt to save my brother. For what reason, I don’t know. “Listen to the man, Ronan. And if you feel like making drinks, I’ll take a whisky, neat.”
His jaw juts out. “I’m not your damn waiter.”
I shrug. “Fair enough.” I turn back to Finnan. “Lead the way.”
I don’t look at Cleo simply because I don’t want Finnan’s eyes on her. I don’t want to dwell on the bruises hugging her ribs. Not right now. Not if I want to stop myself from driving my fist into Finnan’s face until he stops breathing.
What I do savor is the fact that she’s naked beneath that dress. That when I’m done here, she’ll be readily accessible for the taking. And I intend to take her for as long as this insanity rides me.
Finnan heads for his office. I follow. I hear her footsteps retreat, and I detest that I already miss her presence.
Unlike the other parts of the house, Finnan’s den has undergone a change since I was last here. An elaborate bar now resides opposite the huge desk and chair from where he rules what’s left of his corrupt empire. He doesn’t cross to it or offer me a drink. Despite what I said to Ronan, I don’t need one. I’m dealing with Finnan stone-cold sober.
He steps behind his desk and sits on his throne. “This ends now. I know you’ve been running around with the Armenians and those other Eastern European assholes. I’ve even allowed you to run your little nightclubbing circus for long enough. It’s time to come home.”
“That ‘little circus’ was valued at eleven figures at my last audit. I’m sure one of your minions can verify that for you if you don’t believe me. But let’s not dwell on that for now. Or even on the fact that you believe you can order me around. This ‘home’ you wish me to return to, what do you foresee my purpose here being? Exactly?” I snap my fingers a second later. “Oh wait, could it be some hare-brained idea that I might help you with…something?”
“Watch yourself, boy. Need I remind you about that little video I have on you?” His voice has dropped to a pitch that terrified me a lifetime ago.
Now the urge to laugh is only halted by the permafrost weaving through my core. “I wondered when you would play that card. Is that supposed to terrify me?” I taunt.
“It’s supposed to bring you clarity. Remind you that I’ve dealt worse a hand for lesser insults. I’m giving you the chance to focus your mind on what’s important.”
“Believe me, I’m focused. Are you though? Because I could’ve sworn this whole tiresome song and dance these past weeks has been to get me here to talk about a different subject entirely.”
His shrug attempts a nonchalance that doesn’t quite hit the mark. “Sure. Let’s discuss that small business at Taranahar,” he says.
I take a slow, steady breath. “You mean the one where your merry band of brainless thugs slaughtered over a hundred people?”
“There was never a definitive count.”
“That’s the thing with dropping half a dozen bombs on a village the size of three city blocks, Pa. After a while, they stopped counting body parts.”
His lips curl. “From the way you speak, anyone would think you were on their side. Don’t forget they bombed us first.”
The inhumanity of that statement staggers me for a moment. “I haven’t forgotten. But I’m on the side of not blowing people up for money or power.”
The first sign that I’m getting to him is the hand that fists on his desk. “Life isn’t all pansies and Kool-Aid. I thought I taught you better than that. Clearly my lesson didn’t do enough.”
A tremble rolls up from my feet. The breath locks in my lungs as images of bloody baseball bats, knuckle dusters, tire irons, and other instruments of mayhem flare across my senses. I count to ten to stop from lunging across the desk and adding to my own body count. “You think it’s okay to teach your child a life lesson by forcing him to take a human life?”
“If he wants to succeed in this world, yes! What kind of world do you think you live in, boy? Take a look around you. The whole fucking world is eating itself.”
“And so your solution is to help things along by blackmailing a general so you can bag millions along the way?”
His face twists in a mask of contempt. “Why the hell not? If McCarthy and I hadn’t taken the opportunity, someone else would have. Whatever else he was, Courtland was a patriot, and he was not afraid of a little sacrifice in order to stick it to the bastards who bombed this country.”
“And what about the other sacrifices that had nothing to do with the war? What about the girl he killed in McCarthy’s brothel?”
He doesn’t seem surprised that I have all this information at my fingertips. He merely shrugs. “Collateral damage that facilitated a smoother relationship.”
A red haze rises before my eyes. “She was someone’s daughter!”
“She was a whore,” he clarifies, as if that justifies everything. “The only thing that mattered was that Courtland was a top-level army bureaucrat who happened to be in the right position to gear us up for long-term success. He handed me…us the deal of a lifetime. You think I should’ve walked away because one whore snorted the wrong shit up her nose? My ma didn’t birth me to be a wimp! She taught me that survival was everything. She beat it into me as many times as was necessary for me to learn that lesson. But you, a son of my ribs, want to be coddled for the rest of your life after one unfortunate incident?”
“So survival is everything, even survival against an enemy that doesn’t exist, isn’t that right? You used to see shadows everywhere. Clearly that hasn’t changed. Tell me, is it your paranoia that has you now making up a mother who doesn’t exist? You grew up on the streets of Belfast after you were tossed out of the orphanage for beating up another child, remember? Presumably a child who was helping the world eat itself?”
“Enough with this nonsense! I need the Taranahar issue to go away. You’re going to help me.”
I could ask him how he imagines that would happen in a million years
. But that isn’t how this game will play out. I don’t smile. I don’t posture. I stare at him a minute before I ask. “How?”
The fact that I don’t immediately tell him to go to hell stuns him for a moment. He regroups quickly although his gaze remains wary. “People get excited when the term ‘war criminal’ is tossed around. I need you to work with my lawyers on getting the excitement to die down, and preferably get the indictment thrown out.”
“How?” I ask again.
“You have a Bronze Star Medal and a Distinguished Service Medal, plus a personal commendation from the president and useful contacts in the military. I need you to be the public face of my case when the time comes. I’ll take care of the smaller behind-the-scenes matters. I’ll even forgive this nonsense with the Armenians and Albanians, as long as you put a stop to that too.”
Bile rises up my throat and floods my mouth. I swallow and force myself to speak. “What smaller matters?”
He rises and strolls to the bar, the confidence that I’m right under his thumb where he wants me easing his tension. “Nothing you need to concern yourself about.” He reaches for the bottle of Irish whiskey and pours out two glasses.
I force myself to take the one he offers me. I raise it to my nose and sniff the less-than-premium brand he drinks these days before I twirl the glass. My interest in the drink is enough to satisfy him. He turns away, downs his shot, and returns to the bar to refill his glass.
“You do this for me, and you have my word the video will be destroyed,” he says as he sits back down.
His word. Cheaper than the drink in my hand. I pretend to think it over.
A full minute passes before he leans forward, my silence taken for acquiescence. “There’s a place for you back in the family, boy. Do this for me, and it’s yours.”
I nod.
He sits back in his chair. Smug.
“War criminal investigations can drag on for years, what with the red tape of international jurisdiction and all that,” I venture. “They cost millions too, as I’m sure you found out with the first investigation.”
He shrugs. “As long as I’m not sitting in some black hole of a maximum security prison, it can take forever for all I care.”
“It’s going to put a strain on my time. On my business.”
“So?”
“So, I’m going to need…more.”
“Define ‘more.’”
Tension ramps back up my spine, thicker than before. I raise my head, look him in the eye. “Cleo.”
The expression that creeps across his face makes my skin crawl. The need to speak her name in his presence makes me want to pummel something.
“She told me I was wasting my time sending her to you,” he muses, a repulsive smile curving his mouth. “You’d think she’d have picked up by now that I know what makes my own son tick.”
“Is that a yes?”
“You return her to me when this shit is over. I’m not finished with her yet.”
“If you still want her when I’m done with her.”
His teeth bare. “Unless you’re superhuman, you won’t be able to wear her out that easily. Trust me, I’ve tried.”
The manic wave is cresting too fast. I need to leave. But I need answers. “I also want to know what you’re holding over her head.” Fuck. I realize my slip the moment the question leaves my lips.
Finnan’s smile widens. “She didn’t tell you?”
My jaw clenches, and I remain silent.
“I’ll tell you what, show me some evidence that you’re on the Taranahar case, and we’ll come to an arrangement about your precious girl.”
I stride to the nearest surface and dump the glass still holding the liquor. I’m long past saturation point. The brutal need to take vengeance snaps at the anchors of my control as I head for the door.
“I’m leaving. And I’m taking her with me.” I grab the handle. Yank it wide open.
“You’ll meet a little resistance but I’m sure you’ll bring her round eventually. Oh, and remember what I said. I want her back.”
I look over my shoulder. His expression is still smug. I can’t resist the urge to wipe it off his face. “What makes you think she’ll want to come back to you when I’m done using her?”
He shrugs, his demeanor remaining the same. “She may temporarily share your bed, but she’ll always be mine. I only need to crook my finger for her to trot back to my side.”
My brain screams at me to let go of the door. To rip and maim and smash and burn. I grip it tighter, pull the door wider.
“Axel?”
The change from boy to my name is probably what stalls my feet. Even if I were bothered to recollect the last time he used my name, it would be a futile exercise.
“What?” My voice bleeds blackness I won’t be able to restrain in the next ten seconds.
“We have a deal. Attempt to double-cross me at your peril.”
Chapter Thirteen
SPECIAL DELIVERY…OR NOT
Cleo
The futility of pacing finally drives me to the shower half an hour after I retreat to my bedroom. But standing still under the torrent of hot water doesn’t stop my racing thoughts.
The two men who destroyed my life are locked in a room, colluding two floors beneath me. I don’t delude myself into thinking somehow I will escape being caught in the middle of whatever sinister arrangements are being hammered out.
I’m not leaving here until I get what I want.
All I can think about is how to survive the impending hell long enough to finish the job and save my mother.
Because hell is coming. The look in Axel’s eyes promised it. The ferocity with which Finnan pursued this meeting and the way he looked at me downstairs confirmed it. I will be collateral damage at the earliest opportunity. Or a sweetener to seal the deal the second it’s required.
What I don’t know is who will emerge the victor in this round. Finnan has innumerable aces up his sleeve. Including the video whose existence confirms the solid reality of monsters.
But Axel was…is the most cunning man I know, otherwise he couldn’t have deceived me so completely. Couple that with the extra edge the army has honed into him and every fear that lurks in my heart is ramped up another thousand degrees.
I shut off the water and step out of the shower. My body is as clean as it can be with Finnan’s brutality still stamped on it. Before the attack, he hadn’t touched me in months, his preoccupation with Taranahar relieving me of his interest. Even as I threw myself between him and the maid, I knew it was a bad idea. But my conscience and my heart couldn’t withstand letting him traumatize another human being. Not when I could stop him.
My fingers trace my midriff. Axel’s cream has worked wonders. The muscles that were screaming before now merely throb with each heartbeat. The ribs that were on fire no longer deliver agony with every breath I take.
Grabbing a towel, I pat myself dry then sit in front of the vanity. I avoid my gaze in the mirror as I apply moisturizer over my body. I also avoid acknowledging the sneaky little tingle between my legs that has resided there ever since Axel walked through the door at his macabre club.
Yes, I’m ashamed I writhed at his erotic command and momentarily set aside my goals for a taste of what his touch promised.
I release my hair from its knot and brush it out, taking refuge in the mundaneness of the act. When my scalp begins to tingle, I drop the brush, rise, still naked, and leave the bathroom.
Axel is leaning on the wall next to the door leading to my dressing room, arms folded, legs planted. A dark overlord bringing nothing but chaos and destruction.
My gasp fades to silence as we stare at each other.
I can attempt to pass him, get some clothes to cover myself. Or retreat back into the bathroom and grab a towel. I do neither.
The seconds pass, and I accept that there’s no use rushing to cover myself. He’s seen me naked more times in the last week than anyone else has in a long time.
&
nbsp; But still he looks his fill. Bold eyes burn a path down my face, my throat, my breasts. He lingers there for an age, compelling my nipples into painful peaks until, satisfied by my reaction, he continues tracking a course down my body. His jaw clenches when his gaze drops to my bruises. But the slit between my thighs soon draws him away.
Axel lingers the longest at my pussy, his nostrils flaring as he scents me audibly from across the room. The raw, animalistic nature of it weakens my knees while keeping me locked in place. “I double-locked the door. How did you get in here again?”
It’s false security, locking my door in a house where I’m a prisoner, but it’s one I cling to nonetheless. Staring at him, watching his powerful arms drop as he prowls forward, that security dissipates faster than a snow cone in hell.
“I picked up a lot of tricks during my time in the army, sweetheart. Infiltrating places I’m not supposed to be was a job requirement. Especially in my last year. Remind me to tell you about it sometime.”
The connotations of that spike panic inside me. “You say that as if we’ll see each other again anytime soon.” I know we will. But my intention was for it to be on my terms.
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, his gaze conducts another sizzling scrutiny, this time from the feet up, lingering again at my now-throbbing sex.
Then he walks around the room, taking his time to run his hand over the silk scarf draped over the armchair next to my dresser, my bottle of perfume and the gilt frame holding the picture of Saint, the dog I lost when I was twelve.
His touch is clinical, devoid of emotion. Not so the face he presents to me when he’s done fingering my things. A face etched with naked, savage intent. “Did you think we would not? Shame on you. Especially after everything you did to ensure this very outcome?”
He starts to cross the room.
I take a step back.
“Stay,” he growls.
