Ruthless Sentinel

by Burke, Lynn

  I’d stood on the outside, watching mother sob as Marisa held her on the love seat, Father staring out his study’s window, a glass of cognac clutched in his shaking hand.

  Shared grief should have bonded us together, at the very least, buried all other hurt for a time, but Cristian’s death raised the wall between us higher—thicker.

  Father’s gaze had met mine the second I’d walked in—the hurt pulling me up short of going to Mother. His eyes had said it all.

  He wished it had been me in that car.

  At least I’d been numb already. I’d managed to look away without the hurt his disappointment always stabbed into my chest.

  Three days had passed, and the silence in the house had only been broken by Father’s outbursts at everyone who crossed his path. Rather than grieve, he ranted about the stories in the paper, his numbers falling in the polls because he’d bowed out of a debate and two visits to areas he needed to win over in the two days following Cristian’s death.

  My hatred of the bastard doubled, and while I no longer had my baby brother to keep me from fleeing the house, the family, I couldn’t fathom ruining my mother by the loss of a second child in so short a time. She hadn’t left her bed in those three days, and I’d only managed to sit with her for five minutes a day before my numbness threatened to ease up.

  I sat in my room instead, avoiding everyone, burrowed in a cocoon of escapism with my e-reader. Thankfully, I managed to lose myself a few times in the stories, but the second I turned off the screen, Cristian’s face came to mind, and I couldn’t sleep.

  Dark circles hung beneath my eyes, and I couldn’t find it in myself to care.

  I dressed for his funeral with the same amount of giving a fuck, twisting my hair into a knot, going makeup-less. The family had driven in the limo in complete silence.

  I’d caught sight of Logan a few times during those days, but couldn’t even be bothered to meet his gaze or answer when he asked how I was doing. Twice, he squeezed my hand, and I clenched my teeth to keep from breaking wide open.

  Thankfully, he hadn’t driven in the limo with the family to the funeral, but I felt his gaze on my back as the priest droned on. I’d heard Logan had insisted on a quiet, private affair rather than a full-on funeral, but Father needed to be seen grieving. Not the type of exposure he’d said he wanted—but losing his only son and being seen in his grief would only help him gain those numbers back he’d lost.

  I wondered if he was bastard enough to be thankful for the exposure, a part of him in some sick way happy his only son had died.

  My jaw ached from clenching my teeth, my feet itched to move, to take off far away from the pain I squashed deep inside me. The funeral finally ended, thank fucking hell.

  Close to a dozen Vicious Vipers showed up for the final goodbyes at the cemetery, their black leather vests clearly stating what club they rode with. Although they hadn’t known Cristian, hadn’t been hired by Father to watch over the rest of us, they spread out around the small group by Cristian’s grave, focused on our surroundings rather than the casket.

  Standing by the gaping black hole, I stared dried eye. Tightness rose to my throat, but I refused to be moved even when placing a single rose atop the box his body would rot inside.

  One long as hell ride to the country club—a celebration of Cristian’s life—a chance for me to drink a few while Father was preoccupied chatting with people as though truly thankful they attended. The fucker just wanted their support.

  The Vipers hadn’t been invited, and I noted only a few of our family’s friends—most eating and drinking on my father’s dime, had been invited for political gain, of that I had no doubt. Even Cristian’s best friends from school and their parents hadn’t been included in the so-called celebration. Neither had his beard of a girlfriend, the poor girl.

  Cristian’s guard had wrapped the car around a tree while driving him to his friend’s house that night. Head trauma had taken my brother along with his guard, and I hoped it had been quick enough he hadn’t felt a goddamn thing.

  The thought of his suffering even for more than a split second hurt too much to handle. At least the wine helped keep my numbness in place while having to listen and graciously accept condolences every few minutes.

  We finally arrived home in early evening, and I escaped without a word to my room, stripped down, and sat in the tub. Steam rose, heat soaking into my limbs that had frozen through while at the grave site and hadn’t thawed at the country club.

  Silence rang in my ears, and I closed my eyes. The tightness once more rose to choke me, and I finally allowed myself to let go.

  ****

  I’ve heard it said that time heals all wounds, but the hurt from having your favorite person in the whole world ripped from your life hangs on with stubborn bitchiness even though the hours slide by.

  Only two weeks had passed, two long as fuck weeks where the raw grief remained, and neither Marisa nor I were allowed to leave the house. She, at least, was able to work remotely, while my career suffered. Not that I wanted to smile or give a camera smoldering looks while photographers gushed about how gorgeous I was.

  I spoke with Fab a few times, but even the good news of his getting me two of those three longed-for photo shoots for later in the spring couldn’t entice me to find joy in life. At least I no longer sobbed myself to sleep every night.

  The numbness had returned in full force, and I felt like a damn zombie, going through the motions of eating sawdust-like food and only showering after realizing my armpits stank to high hell.

  My bed became my newest best friend, same as Mother.

  Drawn and shaky, she sat at the table three times a day at Father’s command, but only managed to push her food around on her plate with a fork. She lost weight, her cheeks sunken, so I forced myself to eat at least a little to keep from wasting away like she appeared to be doing.

  I saw Cristian’s smiling face in my dreams, his twinkly eyes—I saw his head smash against the car’s window—and I’d wake, my heart in my throat.

  After almost fourteen days of the same fucking dream waking me every damn night, I lay in bed, shivering, the images in my head on replay—and I couldn’t make them stop.

  I considered reading, but hadn’t been able to focus on words the previous couple of days. Needing distraction, needing to just move, I crawled out of bed, wrapped myself in my robe, and crept out into the hallway thinking I could hide away in the media room and watch a movie.

  Silence met my ears, and I turned toward the stairs.

  Logan stood at the foot, in jeans and a long-sleeve t-shirt.

  The new cameras ... of course he’d seen me leave my room if he’d been on watch.

  For the first time in over two weeks, I met his gaze, the compassion without an ounce of pity in his eyes sweeping the numbness from my mind and heart. Tears slid down my cheeks, and I rushed to meet him, throwing myself in his arms.

  “So sorry, baby.”

  I couldn’t speak, but clung to his hard body, his strength, as silent tears fell. Once I stopped crying, he led me into the closet being used as a security room, sat on the office chair in front of a half dozen computer screens, and pulled me onto his lap.

  Snuggling in with a sigh, I breathed in his scent that I’d forgotten in my grief. Warmth encased me, a sense of peace seeming to drape over me as though his arms shielded me from the pain.

  We sat in silence for a time, his fingertips gently rubbing my back, his lips sometimes brushing over the top of my hair. I realized I hadn’t washed my hair for at least three days—and I actually cared.

  “Sorry,” I whispered as his heart thumped against my ear.

  “You don’t have to apologize, Giada.”

  “My hair needs washed—I need to shower. I stink.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Silence fell again, and I sighed, my eyes closing as I focused on the feel of his hard chest and arms cradling me. A twinge of interest woke between my thighs, easing tha
t numbness I’d been experiencing since Cristian’s death.

  Exhaling slowly, I decided to allow myself emotion. Allowed my body to react, respond in whatever the hell way it wanted—I needed to live since Cristian couldn’t.

  “Unable to sleep?” Logan’s hot breath caressed my forehead before I could make a move.

  “Nightmares.” The truth spilled unintended and snapped all thoughts of arousal from my body.

  “Want to talk about them?”

  I kept my eyes wide open so I wouldn’t be faced with the horror again. “I see Cristian’s head splatter against the car’s window.”

  “Shit,” Logan muttered, squeezing me tighter. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

  “I just hope he didn’t suffer.”

  “Me, too.” Logan kissed my forehead again, and I realized I’d tensed up. A slow, steady inhale and exhale, counting to eight, and I melted against his chest once more, taking comfort in his gentle hold.

  Totally relaxed for the first time since I could remember, I decided to sleep right where I was and gave over to the darkness where no pain existed.

  Chapter Eleven

  Stone

  “It was Arturo.”

  Devil’s declaration jerked my head up from my cell, and I met his gaze across the table. Vigil and Ryker sat with us at the club, having a few drinks to unwind from the week, and both men tensed as I did at the mention of that fucker’s name.

  “Say again?” I asked.

  Devil looked up from the laptop that always sat in front of him even when the club rocked around us. “He’s the one responsible for the Burtonelli kid’s supposed accident.”

  “Fuck.” I scrubbed a hand down over my face. “You’re sure?”

  “As fuck. Got the damn emails to prove it.”

  “Any news on his whereabouts?” Vigil asked while I considered the non-accident that had stolen two lives—and what Burtonelli’s reaction might be to that news.

  “Arturo disappeared off the goddamn map,” Devil muttered, scowling. Our tech wiz hadn’t been able to track him down through any of his usual sneaky-ass means.

  Arturo had left his estate in Columbia, his plane enroute to Boston, but he’d never arrived. While I’d hoped his aircraft had gone down in the gulf, we hadn’t heard news of any going down, nor had Devil been able to learn where Arturo’s plane had landed.

  He could be anywhere—and with no knowledge of his whereabouts, the hitman Devil had helped Shaun get in touch with sat on his hands awaiting orders.

  “We gotta tell Burtonelli the truth,” Devil said, glancing up at me. “About the origin of the threats and his son’s non-accidental death.”

  I turned toward Vigil, needing his input even though the Vipers weren’t directly involved with Tellier Security. I’d been pleased as hell, though, that a few of my brothers had attended the burial where the family had been out in the open, easy pickings.

  “Fucker will want Arturo’s head, that’s for damn sure,” Ryker added his thoughts as Vigil seemed to consider.

  “We give Burtonelli the info,” Vigil finally said, “and we make him a deal—we do away with the threat once and for all, and he keeps his nose out of our business when he takes office.”

  “Would be better if the fucker owed us one in return,” Ryker suggested, flagging the pledge behind the bar and holding up four fingers for another round. “Something to keep in our back pocket for the future.”

  “And if he doesn’t get elected?”

  “How about we help him get elected?” Vigil said, sitting back, a gleam in his eye. “Win-win.”

  I nodded—and so did Devil. Ryker held Vigil’s gaze for a few seconds. “Ricky will be on board.”

  Vigil nodded. His brother, our VP, had gotten clean after a few years living in hell. He’d paid a massive price for his poor decisions in more ways than one. A campaign to rid New England of the opioid epidemic had been his desire since sobering up.

  “Want me to call Warden?” I asked, but Vigil shook his head.

  “We all know where his thoughts on Arturo lie.” Vigil slapped his palms on the table, startling the approaching pledge with his tray of beers, but the kid kept his balance, not spilling a drop.

  “Stone, can you get us a meeting with his hind-ass?” Vigil asked once the pledge disappeared again.

  “Burtonelli eats breakfast like clockwork every day at seven. Show up at seven-fifteen, and he’ll have no choice,” I said. “Otherwise, you might get brushed off.”

  “Tomorrow,” Vigil said, nodding. “I’ll let Ricky and Warden know. We’ll meet here at six-thirty and drive down together.”

  ****

  Even though I wasn’t one of the Viper officers, I stood at the back of Burtonelli’s home office along with Ryker and Warden as Vigil told him the news Devil had dug up concerning the origin of the death threats and the non-accident that had ripped his son from the family.

  Burtonelli had hated being interrupted while eating breakfast, but I’d insisted quietly in his ear as he sat at the head of the table that he would want to hear what the Vipers’ officers had to say.

  “You know this how?” Burtonelli asked, his face flushing and eyes hardening into a scowl as he sat behind his desk like a damn wannabe dictator across from Vigil, Devil, and Ricky.

  Vigil nodded at Devil who pulled three sheets of paper from his leather case and handed them over to the judge.

  Burtonelli read over the information the officers had been informed of the night before. “A second car?” he muttered, glancing up at Devil.

  “The original police report was buried in exchange for a mere ten grand.”

  “And how do you know Arturo ordered my son’s car run off the road?”

  “See page two.”

  Burtonelli flipped over to the second paper, his lips thinning. “Fucking hell.” He swallowed, the muscles in his jaw flexing repeatedly while reading. “You’re sure this email was sent by Arturo?” he asked, his voice the slightest bit shaky.

  “We’ve had our eye on him for months,” Devil said with a shrug. “I got myself a nice little collection of love letters from the fucker to various contacts of his. All encrypted, of course, but I figured his ass out.”

  “The FBI would have done away with him if gaining this sort of information proved this easy,” Burtonelli argued as though to convince himself Devil lied.

  Devil grinned. “FBI doesn’t have the skills I do.”

  Burtonelli’s lips thinned again as he scanned the rest of the emails—including the final page where Devil had included the original death threat sent to the judge’s email—and the last order to take out the heir since Burtonelli hadn’t bowed out of the race by the date he’d been ordered to—New Year’s Eve.

  “I want his mother fucking blood,” the judge spat, his face twisting as he fisted the printout in his trembling hand.

  “And we’re going to spill it for you,” Vigil said.

  “At what cost?”

  “A favor.”

  Burtonelli stared him down, waiting.

  “I’ll let you know when the time comes,” Vigil supplied the answer to the judge’s unspoken question.

  The two men continued to stare at one another, neither shifting.

  “I don’t like to be indebted,” Burtonelli finally said.

  “You want him gone. We’ve got the contacts to make that happen—unless you’ve got another idea to do away with the head of the cartel, the fucker who’s willing to pay over a million to keep you out of the Senate?”

  A muscle spasmed in Burtonelli’s clean-shaven jaw again. “You could hand this information over to the FBI and allow them to do their job.”

  “And how long would the legal course of action take?” Vigil crossed his arms. “As you read in that last email Devil intercepted, you’ve got until February first—less than two weeks to drop out, or else.”

  The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the stillness as Burtonelli considered.

  “What say you, good man
?” Vigil pushed, his arms crossing.

  Burtonelli ignored him, taking in each man in his office—their cuts, the hard gazes, the promise of violence, the viciousness our club was known for. He finally nodded, probably not wanting to voice his agreement out loud—just in case.

  Fuck knew he didn’t need any more sins littering his past.

  Vigil stood, offering his hand over the desk. “It was good doing business with you, Senator.”

  Burtonelli wasn’t as quick to rise, by he shook our president’s hand. “A bit premature, but I’ll take your vote of confidence.”

  “It’s not confidence, Burtonelli,” Vigil told him, their hands still tightly clasped. “It’s assurance.”

  Burtonelli’s chin tilted upward as they both stepped back, his gaze narrowing.

  “Let’s just say the Vipers like the change you’re promising to make once elected,” Ricky said while rising from his chair beside his brother, speaking up for the first time since arriving. “And we have ways of helping to get you that seat.”

  The judge peered at Ricky before turning back to Vigil. “Care to share those ways?”

  Vigil didn’t crack a smile, but Devil did. “I have a ... knack, shall we say, at uncovering unsavory bits of peoples’ pasts they’ve tried to bury. The man running against you...”

  I half expected Burtonelli to wonder over the anonymous extortionist that had fattened the Vipers’ pockets over his past indiscretions, but no flicker of suspicion crossed his face. Thank fuck my brothers knew how to keep their own emotions on lockdown.

  “Gentlemen.” Burtonelli straightened, righting his suit coat. “I think this is the beginning of a long and beneficial friendship.”

  Vigil dipped his head once in agreement—and the Vipers filed out of the office.

  Chapter Twelve

  Giada

  I settled into a routine, dragging my ass out of bed around ten. Swim in our indoor, heated pool, shower, eat, read, watch TV, nap, eat again... Boring as hell, but the time passed.

  Mother began eating again, but I’d yet to see a smile or trace of laughter from anyone in the house.

  Cristian had been gone for almost a month, and even though the pain had faded enough I could function and sleep, tears tracked my cheeks daily. I’d offered to help pack up his things and donate them to the needy, but Mother wouldn’t hear of facing the truth Cristian wouldn’t ever sleep in his bed or wear the clothes in his chest of drawers and closet. It would come eventually, so I didn’t push. I just needed something to do.