by Tara Leigh
What I think is this: Whatever Chad and I were, whatever I thought we would be—is over.
The truth is finally, painfully, obvious.
Either he’s not the man I thought he was, or I’ve been blind. But my eyes are open now, and there’s no overlooking Chad’s involvement and encouragement of my father’s corrupt scheme or his repugnant attitude toward my sick mother.
And I can’t deny my attraction toward another man.
“We’ll see,” I demur. I don’t have the energy for a confrontation with Chad right now—about anything—but I can’t avoid it much longer.
Chad’s lips are pursed, almost disappearing into a thin line that cuts across his face, as if he’s deciding whether to let my non-answer stand. After a long beat, he rocks back on his heels and changes the subject. “I hope you’re still coming with us.”
I frown. “What?”
“The Criminal Justice Association Man of the Year Award gala. It’s been on the calendar for months.” He speaks slowly, enunciating each word.
“Person of the Year,” I reply, automatically. “And don’t you think that’s a little … oh, I don’t know … hypocritical?”
“Aislinn—”
“How can you—How can he—” I rake my fingers through my hair, the updo I had this morning long gone. “My father is hardly the poster boy for criminal justice. He doesn’t deserve that award.”
“Regardless of what you think right now, your father is the best DA this city has ever seen. The lag time between arrests and trials is down. Convictions are up. Crime rates are down. Your father has done so much good. Don’t let a two-minute misunderstood conversation change the way you feel about him.”
I didn’t misunderstand that conversation.
“People will notice if you’re not there. Please. Think about it?”
I rub at my forehead and sigh. “Fine.”
25
Aislinn
K icking off my heels, I spend an hour pacing around the conference room, circling the table in my bare feet.
I’m torn. Even before Alzheimer’s made my mother’s public support of her husband’s career impossible, I attended every function my father asked me to. Actually, he didn’t have to ask.
Sherry would email me the details, and I would be there. I was proud to be there. I was proud of him, proud to be James Granville’s daughter.
It is a hard habit to break.
A heartbreaking habit to break.
I don’t want to go to this gala. I don’t.
But I need to know that I can. I need options.
Coming to a decision that isn’t really a decision, I step back into my shoes and leave the room. Inside Damon’s waiting car, I announce, “I have to stop off at my apartment for a minute.”
“No.” “Can’t do that.” My bodyguards respond at the same time.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes, counting backward from five. Emotions don’t win arguments. “Fine. I don’t need to stop off at my apartment, but that doesn’t mean one of you can’t.” I pull my keys from my purse. “I need a dress from my closet. Any of the long ones hanging in the back, still in a dry-cleaning bag will do fine.”
Tossing my keys to the closest man, I paste a bored yet irritated look on my face and I look out the window, drumming my nails on the armrest. “Your boss said not to be long, so we should probably hurry.”
As we pull up to my building, I add, “And there’s a red shoe box all the way to the right, on the top shelf. Can you grab that too?”
He doesn’t answer, but I yell a quick, “Thank you,” just before the door shuts.
I scroll through my phone while I wait, reviewing the newest articles in the Metro section of The New York Times. When I finish two of them and he still isn’t back, I look up. “He’s taking a long time.”
The other guard grunts, pressing something on the microphone discretely tucked into his right ear.
A minute later I hear him talking. “It’s been eleven minutes. I’ve tried him three times. He’s still not out.” Falling silent, he meets my eyes. “Boss is on his way.”
Now my only interest in my phone is checking the time. It takes Damon seven and a half minutes to arrive. Two black SUVs pull up behind us and four men, including Damon, stride confidently into the lobby of my building. I tug at the handle, needing to know what the hell is going on. The door doesn’t open.
I flash a malevolent glare at the driver and press my forehead to the glass, wondering whether my doorman will give them a hard time.
I immediately dismiss the thought.
Few people have the balls to give Damon King a hard time. Certainly not Larry, the seventy-two-year-old grandfather of twelve who spends his shift watching episodes of The Walking Dead on his iPad. If it’s not a zombie apocalypse, Larry’s not interested.
But I don’t have to wait long. Damon returns, the locks opening just in time for him to yank at the door. I jump to the side and Damon gets in next to me. His eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them and there’s a pink tone beneath his olive complexion, his massive body radiating heat. His jaw is clenched and a vein throbs at his temple.
“Drive,” he commands, his eyes on mine.
“What’s going on?” I ask, as we jerk away from the curb and into traffic.
“I told you that your apartment was off-limits.”
“And I heard you. I didn’t go in, I’ve been in the car the whole time. What’s the problem?”
“The problem? You want to know what the problem is?”
I lift my chin. “Yes. I do.”
He angles his head toward the front of the car. “Turn around.”
One illegal U-turn and a red light later, we’re outside my building again.
Damon’s fingers close around my wrist, dragging me behind him. Larry waves from behind his desk. “Busy day today, Miss Granville.”
“No rest for the weary.” The cliché slides smoothly off my tongue as I yank my hand from Damon’s grasp.
At my door, Damon steps aside and motions for me to precede him. Inside, nothing looks out of place. I spin back around, wearing a confused expression.
“Your room,” Damon says.
I walk down the hall, peering into the bathroom and the second bedroom that doubles as my home office. Everything is just as I left it.
That changes the second I enter my bedroom. The guard who had reluctantly agreed to retrieve a dress and shoes for me is now lying in the center of my bed, his head propped up on my pillows.
A head that is no longer connected to his body.
Bile rises up the column of my throat. I slap a hand over my mouth and run to the hall bath, barely making it in time. I retch into the toilet until there is nothing left to expel, and even then I remain kneeling as dry heaves cramp my stomach.
Standing in the doorway, Damon is unmoved. “You wanted proof, princess. Now you have it.”
26
Damon
I don’t think Aislinn noticed the message scrawled in blood across her bedroom wall.
Una cabeza por una cabeza.
A head for a head.
It’s been five days since the incident, and we haven’t spoken about it at all. By the time I come upstairs, she is already sleeping. And I leave before she wakes up.
Intentionally, on my part.
But each night, Aislinn has managed to scoot farther and farther into the middle of the bed. This morning, I wake up to find her cheek pressed to my bicep, a waterfall of blonde pooling in the curve of my neck. I lie there for longer than I should, savoring the warm gust of her breath over my skin, the slight tickle of her hair on my shoulder, the sight of her smooth forehead, temporarily unmarred by the frown I put there too frequently.
Unlike previous mornings, I don’t force myself to slip silently out of the bed. Out of the room. Away from Aislinn.
I lie there until she stirs, flinging an arm over my chest and snuggling even closer. My dick pulses in appreciation. Apparently he
is quite fond of cuddling.
I trail my fingertips along her forearm. “I’ll be back in plenty of time.”
A sleepy moan vibrates from Aislinn’s lungs and she slides her head away from me, her eyes fluttering open.
The second her blues make contact with my browns, she shrinks back to the opposite edge of the mattress. “In time for what?”
“To honor your father’s tireless work on behalf of the citizens of New York,” I drawl sarcastically, resisting the very real urge to pull her back against me.
Aislinn’s frown is back in full force as she clutches the duvet to her chest. “I don’t have anything to wear.”
I roll to my side, propping my head up with the palm of my hand. “Yes, you do. It’s hanging in your closet.”
Her skin pales, blending in with the white sheets. “I shouldn’t have been so reckless. I had no idea …” she breaks off, a sound like a hiccup coming from her mouth. “I know you told me, but I didn’t believe you. I didn’t trust you.”
“And now?” I keep my face impassive, not wanting to reveal how much her answer means to me, how much I need her to trust me.
“I believe that Los Muertos wants to play me against my father, yes.”
I fling the covers off and get out of bed, striding into my closet and yanking on workout gear.
The answer she gave isn’t the one I wanted to hear. It isn’t even close.
Not that I can blame her. I wouldn’t trust me either.
27
Damon
Criminal Justice Association Man of the Year.
Give me a break. Granville deserves that title about as much as Harvey Weinstein deserves to lead the Women’s March.
As a rule, I avoid stuffy events marked by overcooked meat, trying-too-hard handshakes, and bottom-shelf liquor disguised behind top-shelf labels. But there is an important reason for my presence. A name on the guest list that piqued my interest. Sebastián Cruz.
Few people in New York know of his connection to the Los Muertos cartel. Hugo Cruz has done an excellent job of separating himself from his son. Sebastián even attended the same Upper East Side prep school as Aislinn.
However, there isn’t a single yearbook picture of them together, and the school doesn’t keep records of student schedules going back that far. And Sebastián doesn’t maintain a social media profile to cross-check with Aislinn. I don’t know whether they are friends, and I purposely haven’t asked.
Sebastián works as an art appraiser. Not for one of the big auction houses, like Christie’s or Sotheby’s. But as a consultant for various smaller art galleries. Apparently, he specializes in an obscure area of medieval art: illuminated manuscripts. I did some research. Basically, very old books with the scribblings of bored monks drawn in the margins. Often featuring rabbits.
Charging into battle. Killing knights. Beating humans with clubs.
Rabbits. Go figure.
There are three things I’m watching out for tonight. One: Aislinn’s reaction to Sebastián Cruz. Two: Cruz’s reaction to Aislinn. Three: any interaction between Cruz, Granville, and Lytton.
I’ll be right by Aislinn’s side the entire night.
Well, as close as I can be. Aislinn Granville on the arm of Damon King …
That would be a hard no.
The first tap of Aislinn’s heels on the marble floor of my foyer has me spinning around. Air leaves my lungs in a rush, and I cover it with a cough.
She is stunning, blindingly so. Every inch of her. Aislinn’s face is a carved cameo crafted from the finest ivory, with a smooth, high forehead, symmetrical features, and bee-stung pink pout. Her blonde mane flows over her shoulders like spilled honey, the ends resting on the lush curves of her cleavage that rise with each inhaled breath.
She strides toward me, long and lithe and fucking luminous. Then stops, running nervous hands over the bodice of her dress. The black fabric is woven through with silver thread, flashing prisms of light throughout the room. “Do I look all right?”
All right? I want to tell Aislinn that she is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. That she’s a goddess among mere mortals. That the sight of her reduces me to a caveman who wants to grab her by the hair and drag her back to bed.
I want to say all those things, but only a single word emerges from my mouth. “Magnificent.”
For a moment, it remains suspended in the air between us, potent and heavy, filled with a kind of awe that cannot be denied. And I don’t want to deny it. Aislinn is indeed magnificent, and I am certainly awestruck.
By her strength. By her beauty. By the fire in her that remains undimmed.
She breaks the silence first. “Thank you. I’m really sorry …” Her voice trails off, a sheen of tears appearing over the deep blue of her eyes.
“It’s not your fault. You can’t blame yourself.”
She looks away, a tremulous swallow bobbing in her throat. “There you go again, telling me what I can and cannot do. I guess I should listen to you from now on, huh?”
“In this case,” I gently lift her chin with my thumb, “I hope you will.”
She blinks. “Easier said than done.”
I want to kiss the sad smile that twists her lips. I want to lick the guilt that clings to her tongue. I want to erase the frown that clings to her brows. I want to hold her and touch her and fuck her until every bit of the sorrow running through her veins is mine.
When it comes to Aislinn Granville, want is my default mode.
And there’s no goddamn off switch. She occupies my thoughts to such an extent that it’s been difficult to make room for anything else—even work. I’ve delegated most of the heavy lifting to my team, under the guise of giving them increasing responsibility. Hacking into the NYPD’s database, mining their data for asset seizures, probing the dark net to grow my already overflowing accounts. Activities that once consumed me have been reduced to aggravating obligations.
And I’ve slacked on my other responsibilities—ones with much more at risk than money.
Aislinn is a puzzle I haven’t yet figured out how to solve, or even whether I have all of the pieces. She is an enticing enigma. Beautifully captivating precisely because she is so complicated.
And sad.
“So.” Her forced smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Should we go?”
“Actually—” The elevator doors open before I have a chance to explain that we won’t exactly be going together.
“Chad.” She whispers his name like a curse. “What are you doing here?”
Lytton’s bark of a laugh cuts off my explanation. “You didn’t think you could show up with him did you? The DA’s daughter on the arm of Damon King? It would be a scandal.”
It is the truth. But hearing it from Lytton’s mouth makes me want to knock his teeth out.
I pin Aislinn with a stare full of everything I cannot say. “Don’t worry. I’ll have my eyes on you the entire time.”
28
Aislinn
T he same trio of German shepherds I almost ran into the other day are out for their evening walk when we step outside. They are truly beautiful animals, and I can’t help but stare admiringly as they pass. Their ears are pricked forward, their noses twitching. Every sense alert and vigilant.
Like them, I am keyed up tonight. Every cell in my body radiating energy, my skin hyperaware of the coolness of the air, the bite of the breeze.
I’ve always wanted a dog, but as a kid, I wasn’t allowed. And now … maybe now would be a good time. I’m not working, and I’d much rather have a real guard dog follow me everywhere than Damon’s hulking bodyguards.
A man in a baseball cap is holding their leashes. Maybe another time I can ask if he’s their trainer, or if he can recommend an organization to contact.
They pass, and we pile into the waiting car. Once the door closes, all dog-related thoughts disappear immediately.
Mostly because sitting in a limousine with Damon King and Chad Lytton is like being trappe
d between a wolf and a rabid racoon. Damon is physically bigger and infinitely more dangerous but Chad is too self-righteous and entitled to feel threatened.
The two men are so different, though both are menacing in their own way. Until recently, I hadn’t seen that side of Chad. Now, it’s hard not to see it.
And it’s making me wonder if trusting Damon is such a far-fetched idea, after all. At least he’s not a liar. He lays his truths down like cards on the table, no matter how dark they may be.
I’m not crazy enough to believe I could ever have—or want—a future with a man like Damon King. But he’s stirring up things in me I didn’t expect to feel for him and am not quite ready to dismiss.
Sitting beside Chad and Damon, there is no mistaking the fact that it is Damon’s energy I am feeding off of. His touch my skin craves. His smile I seek.
For a moment, in the foyer of his apartment, tonight had felt like a date.
Until Chad showed up.
And if not for the fact that Davina Richardson would be here tonight, I would have turned around and gone right back to bed. As the founder of an organization that distributes cell phones to victims of domestic abuse, she makes it a point to be a visible member of Manhattan society. Deep pockets are most easily emptied by a familiar face.
More importantly, Davina is my only contact within a group I know only as The Network. Our work is dangerous and done in secret. When restraining orders and criminal charges aren’t enough, we help women like Marisol escape their abusers. Permanently.
It’s been five days since I witnessed the savagery of the Los Muertos cartel. Six days that I’ve lived under Damon’s roof.
If he has a reason for attending tonight’s gala, he hasn’t shared it.
Then again, I haven’t asked.
When we are just a few blocks away, Damon clears his throat. It sounds like a growl. “You are not to speak with anyone you don’t know. And you will not leave my sight.”
I open my mouth to protest but Chad gets there first. “These things are made for networking. Aislinn will be just fine. In fact, you can go home. I’ll take care of her tonight.”
