Carving Graves: A Dark Mafia Romance (The KORT Series Book 2)

CHAPTER ONE

CELESTE

There is no escaping choices. They swirl around us, lurking inside life lessons and simple mundane actions alike. Empowering? Sometimes. Exhausting? Definitely.

Eat the forbidden fruit or ignore the slithering snake licking at your neck.

Never look back or turn to salt.

Obey the king’s absurd edict or be devoured by lions for your convictions.

No wonder children harbor so much anxiety—that was just first grade in Catholic school.

None of which prepares us for the real choices. The everyday plagues that shape and mold and define. The ones that tag you for life, hanging around like a strung-out stoner.

Forget going to Heaven or Hell.

Being or not being.

I’m talking about big, important choices.

Which is precisely what I’m facing in the here and now—tweed blazer or no tweed blazer?

Maybe that doesn’t rank up there with the existential questions put forth by Socrates, Nietzsche, and Confucius, but if I’ve learned anything, it’s that life has a way of swallowing us.

Youth. Passion. Purpose.

Loved ones.

But we always have a choice in whether we let it—or so I delude myself into believing.

Which brings me back to the tweed because I’m staring at a text from my best friend, making that the consideration above all others.

Ivy: Be ready to twist. You’re Mia Wallace.

Ivanna Kingston Wells—or Ivy, as she prefers—has always been my missing piece, the one who sees. She nearly lost her life last year and is now weeks from birthing a new one.

I’d do anything for her, least of all forgoing my Dolce Gabbana jacket. Sacrifices. So, at present, the only choice that matters is the one that will carve these coming moments with her into my soul.

Shimmying out of my pencil skirt in favor of my black leggings and ankle boots, I leave my white button-down on and tuck the blazer into my suitcase, sending off my confirmation.

Me: Dance good, Vincent.

She hearts my response as my father’s plane finally rolls to a stop at the private airfield, and I prepare to disembark. While my curves are decidedly un-Uma Thurman—the actress I’ll be portraying—I use a clip to fold my long, dark hair up so it’s chin length. Ivy will be impressed with the commitment.

Hemmed in by my security team—Rex, Dante, Keith, and my driver, Arnold—I trail down the steps to the waiting BMW XM. Having four guards is a bit overkill, but my father has been ridiculously overprotective this past year, ever since he discovered that Ivy and her husband, Wells, are two of the five leaders for KORT—the country’s most powerful cabal. It’s the same cabal that The Order—the secret society my father is a member of—serves, so his paranoia shouldn’t be newfound.

It was an eye-opening period for us both. Up until then, I believed my father simply owned a successful home-development business. He does, but it’s also a front for shady dealings, whatever they may be.

Once I’m settled in the back of the SUV, I crack the window and take a breath. The air is sixty degrees, crisp with a damp, piney musk. January in Louisiana is far different than my hometown of Royal Oaks, Ohio. The terrain is barren, but less bleak than the frigid, muddy snow I’m accustomed to. This land is still alive, thriving with sunshine and a hint of the lush greenery it flaunts in warmer months. Southern plantations and naked weeping willows whisper over swampy ponds. I can see why Ivy chose to move to New Orleans—well, thirty minutes outside of it.

My phone rings when we’re still a few minutes away. Not recognizing the number, I silence it and wait for the beep, signaling a message.

The voice mail plays on my Bluetooth as I keep my gaze on the blurring scenery.

“Hi, Celeste,” the smooth drawl croons. “This is Scott Filmore. Your grandfather may have mentioned I’d be calling. These things always feel a bit awkward, especially when the family line is involved.”

He chuckles knowingly, and I smile, wondering who roped him into this.

“In spite of the unnatural meeting, I’ve heard a lot about you and would love the opportunity to treat you to dinner. It seems our travel destinations may align this month. After you internet-stalk me, call me back.” His voice drops an octave, a rough bedroom tenor. “I’m really looking forward to getting to know you, Miss Carver.”

Mr. Filmore sounds charming, but they usually do. It’s bred into them. He’s not interested in me as much as whatever I bring to the table for his future campaigns. That doesn’t mean we won’t possibly click. We could. But that’s secondary to the stakes—a truth bred into me.

While my family would never come out and say it, I’ve been raised as a pawn. A tool to achieve what they deem as greatness. It would be easy to resent them for it, except behind their misguided notions is their estimation of my worth and value.

They don’t see me as a pretty face with nothing to offer. They see me as a secret weapon, full of talents that can work in their favor, carrying on the honor of the Carver name.

“Cee, with the right placement, a pawn gets promoted to a queen. And you know who calls checkmate more than anyone? The queen. You hold all the power, squirt. You just don’t know it.”My older brother, Ben, gifted me that perspective when I was fifteen.

The men in my family always view life through the lens of a chess match. In fact, the only Carver who wouldn’t hold their own in a national chess championship is my mother. That doesn’t mean she should be underestimated though. She’s a brilliant strategist in her own right, wholeheartedly agreeing with my brother.

“That’s the truth, beautiful girl. It’s like wearing an elegant evening gown that only hints at your assets, as is expected from a cultivated lady, all the while going pantyless underneath. Never let them see, always keep them guessing, and play their game. When you finally reveal what you’re hiding beneath that plastic veneer they’ve forced you to craft, you’ll render them speechless long enough to seize it all.”

My mother came from nothing. She was raised by a single father, who struggled with drug addiction. Much of her childhood was in and out of foster care. But against all odds, she mastered the game and married a millionaire. My father is tightly wrapped around her finger, so she speaks from experience.

Play their game. Hold the power. Be the pawn who becomes the queen and wins the whole damn battle.

That’s always at the center of my thoughts when I’m making choices. Even if I have no idea what war I’m a pawn in. I’ll find my way. Every move has a consequence.

Every action, a reaction.

It’s why the majority of my sexual exploits are limited to giving head. I get off on the power.

A woman who drops to her knees is a woman who can knock a man on his ass.

I even had a guy crymax on me once. The playboy was embarrassed and rightfully so. I’m not one to sex shame, whether it be kinks or fervid emotion. We just certainly weren’t there yet, but I thanked him. It was a checkmate kind of achievement for me. In most cases, I don’t ask for anything in return. My vibrator has proven superior in that department.

Shoving that voice mail to the back of my mind, I return my attention to my surroundings. The car pulls up to an ornamental wrought iron gate, and Arnold announces our identity to the guard shack. The house isn’t visible from here. It sits at the end of a winding brick driveway behind a curtain of vast evergreen and scantily clad shade trees. All one hundred sixty acres are fenced inside a stone wall, encasing the property.

Once we’re granted approval, the gate glides open slowly, and we wheel forward until the sprawling French chateau comes into focus—soft white with a charcoal-gray gable roof, dormer windows, balconies, and a stately stone stairway, fringed by matching round white columns. Every detail is pristine—from the exemplary landscaping to the lavish driveway fountain.

It’s a bit ostentatious in its grandeur, and I come from money. But Ivy’s plan is that it will house not only the family she and Wells create, but also the wives and families of their three dearest friends—Ty, Gage, and Liam. It’s an odd setup, but she’s deliriously happy, so I stopped questioning her about their bizarre family dynamic.

When Arnold cuts the engine, Dante helps me out of the back while the rest of my team unloads my luggage.

“You can go on up, Cee.” Rex jerks his chin to the French mansion. “Wells would prefer that we not enter the main house, so we’ll carry the luggage up and check on you later.”

“Whatever you need, as always,” Keith adds while Dante throws in a goading, “Give ’em hell, Celeste.”

Dante appreciates my rebellious antics. They all do, but Keith stresses the most. He’s got a girl to get home to. It’s made him all warm, fuzzy, and introspective, so he prefers everything to run smoothly. As the head of my team, Rex masks his amusement when I cause trouble, but it’s always there beneath the surface. And Arnold has been around my family since before I was born, which is why he simply chuckles and winks.

My guys aren’t worried about Wells though, who is paranoid and suspicious of anyone who isn’t a resident of the manor before us. They always afford me as much freedom as possible, and my father approves because he trusts both Ivy and Wells. There’s a guardhouse on the property, in which my security team will bunk while I’m here.

While I really do plan to be on my best behavior for this trip, I scoff in mock offense and flourish a cheeky smirk before sauntering up the walkway. “Well, I never. I’m a proper lady. What would I possibly do?”

Their volleyed laughter warms me. We don’t get overly personal, but they’re like extended family nonetheless.

Before I even reach the top step of the porch to rap the gorgeous, antique door knocker, the massive arched wooden door flies open, revealing my bestie with her swept-back ginger locks, gleaming blue eyes, and a megawatt grin. While I’d like to tackle her with a proper greeting, the opening notes of Chuck Berry’s “You Can Never Tell” blare from the house, so I stay in character.

This silly reunion has all the flare of our younger, freer days, but is especially hilarious now that she’s a cabal boss. Although, considering her new position, role-playing gangsters seems about right.

And I’m generally up for anything.

Ignoring the pinched eyebrows on the four men gaping behind her, I quickly step inside, kick off my boots, and begin to twist.

Tryingto ignore might be more accurate. My body vibrates with an awareness that’s tough to deny. The cocky one in the back always pulls my gaze, no matter how hard I strive to force it away. It’s like Liam Graves is on the other side of a pendulum I’m involuntarily attached to. My focus always swings to him.

Infuriating, but we all have character flaws.

Ivy is cloaked in one of her husband’s black suit jackets, hiding her round belly. It doesn’t seem to be throwing her off-balance a bit as she nimbly adds in the Monkey and the Hitchhiker. So, I match her energy with the Swim and the Jerk. She makes me feel fifteen again—the last time life was simple. Oddly, her life is as far from simple as it gets. But she’s unabashedly herself, no matter the circumstances. Goals.

Wells’s eyes are firmly planted on his wife in utter adoration, like always. It makes my insides twist with a longing I never felt until I saw them together last July. Their love is hard to look away from.

We dance our way up the stairs to the second-floor landing, never missing a beat and paying no attention to the amused murmurs of the men she calls family. It’s just us and our nostalgic bubble. Like old times.

“Pulp Fiction,” Ty mutters to the other three.

Ivy has schooled him well. While it irks me that he so easily slid into the best-friend role, understanding her references and nuances with ease, I’m grateful she’s had him while we’ve been apart. He offers a lighthearted camaraderie far different than what Wells delivers in his intensely protective demeanor.

When the song ends, we’re at the top of the grand curved staircase, visible to the entryway beyond the catwalk railing.

Ivy hurls her arms around me. “God, I’ve missed you, Lettie.”

She’s the only one permitted to call me that. It was her childhood nickname for me but doesn’t quite fit the persona I’m going for now. Although neither does acting out scenes from movies, like we did in high school. Ivy unlocks all the hidden parts.

“Missing doesn’t cover it, bestie,” I croon into her hair.

Liam snickers as Ivy begins dragging me away, and although I don’t allow my gaze to drift below, his disdainful leer is audible within his reproach. “Don’t worry, Carver. We’ll get your bags.”

I brace my hip against the railing, flashing my pearly whites in a saccharine smile. “Great. Thanks, Graves. Glad to see you’re on top of things. It’s so hard to find good help these days.”

I would have gladly gone back down and carried my luggage inside myself since my team isn’t authorized to do so, but if he’s going to flap his smart-ass mouth, it might as well be while he’s doing something useful.

The howling laughter of the other men echoes through the house as Ivy tugs me along.

“So, this will be as smooth as always with you two,” she deadpans, noting the rocky path Liam and I seem to always trudge over.

“It’ll be fine,” I assure her as I chance a covert glance at the tall, blond, deliciously built, conceited prick gathering my suitcases while Wells and Gage guide my team to the guardhouse.

My guys got to know those two this past October when they brought Ivy to Europe to visit me. Liam and Ty stayed behind, which was undoubtedly for the best.

Not wanting Ivy to stress about anything, I link our hands and pour it on a little thicker. “I’ve got far too much on my mind to let him get under my skin this visit. I’m here to spoil you and that precious baby.”

The truth is, I think about Liam Graves far more than I’d like. I haven’t seen him since July, when I was here for a visit. A few weeks later, my father arranged an astounding opportunity for me to shadow a photojournalist who was composing a piece entitled The Many Faces of Affliction throughout Europe. It was incredible—not something I’d ever planned on doing, but an experience I couldn’t pass up.

It was probably to get me out of the way because I’d expressed interest in the more nefarious side of his business. I’m a quick thinker and a keen strategist. While law school didn’t appeal to me, I could be an asset within his organization, but he swiftly shut me down. Carver men believe high-level positions are best suited to Carver men. No matter. It bought me an amazing four and a half months, sparking a fire deep inside me, so no complaints.

It’s rare that something lights me up.

Which is precisely why it makes no sense that the arrogant, golden fuckboy constantly entered my mind—still does. He’s irritating and intrusive even if there are seas between us. A constant annoyance I can’t seem to fend off.

Ivy leads me to the family room outside her master bedroom. The entire house, despite its opulence, is so her. It’s an enormous undertaking to mold a mansion into a cozy cottage. And yet she’s done it. Every room oozes warmth and charm. Rich woods. Ceiling beams. Flickering sconces lining the hallway. Neutral wall colors with perfectly placed art bestowing splashes of color—many of them her masterpieces, ones collected by her husband before she even knew he existed.

She’s such a grown-up now. Husband. Child on the way. Three trained assassins she can’t shake. And doesn’t want to. She deserves every bit of happiness she can scrounge up. I want that for her, but it’s hard to know where I fit.

If you’re going nowhere, I’m coming with you.

Our childhood vow coasts through my mind. It’s not meant to be literal, of course, but sometimes, this grand life of hers has me feeling a little lost.

After a pizza and catching up, Rena shows up. The three of us have a well-utilized group text, so even though I’ve only hung out with Rena a few times, she’s become another cherished friend. Her brothers are as demanding as my grandfather in the way of marital expectations, so bonding was easy.

“Axel has three guys currently lined up,” she volunteers from her curled position on the floor at Ivy’s elevated feet.

Her oldest brother has insisted she can’t date anyone other than someone handpicked by him and the next oldest brother, Ryker. The scowl on her face suggests she’s not thrilled with the tributes.

“That’s great news.” Ivy beams. “It’s better than scaring off every man who speaks to you. Progress.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Rena concedes, shoulders slumping with her doubt anyway. “I’m not holding my breath though. They don’t look like my type.”

“What’s your type?” I ask while commiserating with how little that matters. Some choices aren’t ours to make. Those are often the parts of life that enwrap us, like a noose.

“I’m not sure.” She twists her pink-and-blonde hair around her finger, furrowing her pierced brow in consideration. “I’ll know when it’s right. Tall, dark, beautiful. Dominant yet sweet and comforting in the same breath. Protective but gentle. Flexible and fun. A few demons of his own wouldn’t hurt, but he needs to be trustworthy with my deepest desires and secrets. And therein lies the issue. Very few men in my world encompass all those qualities. I understand the tightrope Axel and Ryker are walking, trying to find someone who won’t be a threat concerning our family business, but is also good in the way they’ll treat me.”

Rena’s family owns La Lune Noire. I’ve yet to go, but it’s a resort, complete with all manner of scandalous seduction—covert corruption, gambling, and salacious debauchery. They cater to the wealthiest of the wicked. My alter ego is dying to experience all they offer, but the sophisticated guise I’m expected to tout thinks it’s best to avoid it.

“At least the guys your brothers choose won’t be boring,” I counter, settling in a little deeper to the cushioned comfort of the opposing sofa while I lament. “I’m plagued with a life of waxy shells. Many are charismatic and attractive, but typically too in love with themselves and terribly dull. Insipid narcissists.”

“Truth.” Ivy laughs. She’s stretched out and shrouded by pillows. “And no amount of cliff jumping, canyoning, or galivanting around the globe in search of your next rush is going to soften that blow, Lettie. Maybe you should tell Grandpa Carver to hang his hopes on someone else.”

A disgruntled sigh flows out of me, wishing I could. “You know it isn’t that simple.”

Abandoning this plan of his would be like watching my grandfather grieve another death. I can’t. My father was my only hope, but since he wouldn’t let me touch his business with a ten-foot pole, it’s done. There’s no appealing to my mother either. She’s all too eager to see me as political royalty.

Ivy’s head whips toward me, nose scrunched incredulously. “What I know is that those politicians he’s forcing on you are often dangerous and downright despicable human beings.”

Her primary responsibility within KORT is finding representatives who align with the organization’s needs. From what little she can tell me, it’s evident she brings a shade of integrity to the role, but it isn’t a position marked by searching for the most upstanding government officials. My chest shudders while I imagine the evil secrets she uncovers.

“I won’t deny that. And you would know.” I choose my words delicately since Rena is only partially privy to Ivy’s position. I’m not sure she even knows that the organization is KORT. I know far more than I should, but that’s because of the cruel and absurd trial they put Ivy through a year ago. She filled me in at the time as a matter of survival—at least mental health survival. “But while you’ve hit the jackpot as far as a doting husband, you are married to and living with black-market royalty, so it’s hard to point fingers at the big, bad, waxy congressmen.”

She twists her mouth in a challenge-accepted simper, always passionate and unwavering in her loyalty. “I’d rather have a black-market king, who loves me with the untamable fury of Hell, than a devil who dresses in white, regards me below his career, and flashes his bewitching smile to hide his blackened soul. Tell Grandpa that.”

“Grandpa would not concur, but I can’t argue with that logic,” I confess, agreeing wholeheartedly and having no idea what that means for my life. I’m stuck. I’ve been stuck for nearly eight years.

Ivy’s eyes ping to Rena’s. “I assure you that men like you described exist in our world. There are four downstairs. Keep the hope and don’t settle.”

There’s a wistful yearning that coasts across Rena’s features with the downstairs comment. I’m pretty sure Ty would be the object of said yearning, although she never admits to it.

“Wells doesn’t hide who he is.” Ivy yawns long and hard, squirming and adjusting the pillow she’s holding against her baby bump. “He shows me everything, but that means I get it all. Even the jagged edges. And something about that makes even the hardest truths glint with beauty. I hope all the guys find someone who appreciates that in them. You all deserve to have an epic love.”

It’s clear that she’s drained after so much socializing, which is always rough on Ivy. She’ll be escaping into her mind soon whether she shuts her eyes to do it or not. I exchange a look with Rena, who grins in understanding.

“Maybe we should call it a night and get some sleep,” I suggest.

“No,” Ivy whines. “Sleepover. I’ll have Wells set up some air mattresses, and we can have a mattress movie night, like when we were kids. Popcorn and cookies. Oh, and Gage will make us nachos.”

“That sounds perfect.” I chuckle, soaking in her enthusiasm as I stand to stretch my legs. “You’re staying too, right, Rena?”

“Absolutely, girl. Any night without lockdown and the watchful eye of my overbearing brothers is a win. Sweet freedom. Plus, snacks.” She claps with a subsequent whoop, like the biggest decisions in life should all be boiled down to junk-food availability, which is a fair point. “It’s as satisfying as getting another piercing.”

That’s high praise because she has well over a dozen.

Ivy blows out a sleepy giggle and takes Rena to borrow some nightclothes while I saunter to my room to change. There are sixteen bedrooms in her palace, all with their own en suites. Like the rest of the home, the room I’m staying in is adorned in a homey elegance—a Brazilian rosewood four-poster bed, coordinating with the wood-and-white coffered ceiling. Creams and yellows and cornflower blues dress the bedding, drapes, and chairs. Elegant comfort.

Pulling my hair into a ponytail, I perform my nighttime face-washing routine and throw on a silk camisole and short set. With a hoodie in hand, I amble into the hallway and nearly crash into my nemesis, who is far sexier than should be permitted.

Maddening.

Liam stares back at me, his pompous smirk quirking his cheek into the subtlest dimple, nearly obscured by the golden scruff lining his jaw and upper lip. His dirty-blond hair is shaggy, but messy in a purposeful way. Obnoxious and enchanting. But it’s his eyes that piss me off the most. Menacing green-hazel orbs probing me from his towering six-three stature.

“Going somewhere”—his roguish gaze rakes slowly over my every curve while he licks his lips—“half dressed, Carver?”

God, the way he looks at me, like he’s starving and I’m a seven-course meal to devour. It’s addictive. Too bad he’s such a dick.

I swallow, my poker face firmly in place, but decide to keep this interaction brief so I don’t falter. “Yes. Sleepover.”

He steps closer—close enough that there’s a crackling, like the very molecules of the air are pulverized by whatever this energy is between us. But I don’t back up. I’m familiar with guys like Liam who expect me to crumble at their feet. Who think their breath on my neck will have me covered in goose bumps or cause a shiver to cascade down my spine. Who have the audacity to believe I’ll cower, intimidated, because, somehow, their mere proximity will harden my nipples, wet my panties, and strain my lungs to the point of panting.

Cocky assholes, full of themselves.

And maybe that is my current state, heated everywhere and shallow breathing. With a layer of goose bumps that makes zero sense because I’m so damn hot. But it’s most likely just the difference in my attire. I’m adjusting to the climate and probably jet-lagged. That’s all. That’s why I’m dizzy. It’s not his scent.

Cloves and cedarwood, like a toasty fire in a winter ski lodge.

Definitely not that.

His head cocks to the side, and for a moment, a boyish wonder passes through his ever-changing hazels. Gold-flecked and rimmed in hunter green. Alluring. But I’m not a novice at staring at counterfeit charm. It’s prime currency in my world. Feigned intrigue to draw others in. I’m not biting.

“This you?” he asks.

That’s unexpected. I have no idea what the hell he means and yet it feels intensely personal for some reason. Like he’s searching too deep. Seeing too much. Penetrating.

I brush that away, knowing he’s incapable of such depth, but my voice betrays vulnerability anyway. “What?”

As he leans down, his rosy lips come dangerously close to grazing my ear, but like the rest of him, he maintains a full half inch of distance. He forgoes an explanation of his bizarre query in favor of another. “Nervous, dollface?”

While I’m not fond of any of the stupid nicknames he assigns me, that low, husky, thundering rasp is … so … captivating.

Shit.It might be him. Maybe he is the cause of my vitals going haywire.

Could be. Possibly.

Of course he is. Damn traitorous body.

God, I hate him. I hate what he does to me, that I think about him. That he’s a beautiful shell of haughty ego and nothing more, aside from a desire taunting me. I’m so over empty fuckboys.

No distractions. I’m getting serious with my life. It’s time.

So, I ignore my hammering heartbeat and the peculiar urge to dust those dirty-blond locks off his forehead—tangling my fingers inside the silky, mussed strands—and straighten my shoulders to refute his gibe regarding me being nervous.

“About my sleepover?” I shake my head as my tongue darts out to wet my lips, relishing the way his eyes track the movement. “No. I’m never the one nervous, walking into a sleepover, Graves.”

With that, I strut away, swaying my ass just enough. He can eat his shallow heart out.

“Enjoy your night,” I call over my shoulder.