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

CHAPTER FOUR

LIAM

Several beefed-up, mean motherfuckers glare at me from the three computer monitors stationed on my desktop. It’s been a hell of a week. Eight days with the Carver princess, three since I lost my shit on her for putting Ivy at risk with her trivial pastimes. I got my ass reamed for that, but it was worth every rebuke Wells dished out.

That single heated snippet of time when she narrowed her deep brown eyes—russet that morning with the sunlight bathing the foyer—and called me a cheetah was the highlight of my week. Fucking brilliant and delivered with such poised hostility. Impressive. As pissed as I was, she had me conflicted in that moment, biting back a laugh.

All I could think was that, based on her analogy, she thinks I’m pretty. She was also calling me empty, but I can live with that. There’s no way she can date those one-dimensional jerkoffs and still consider me shallow. Not that I fucking care about her opinion. I just think she’s entertaining when she’s all riled up.She’s resumed her frigid-bitch posturing, so I’ve kept my distance. Nothing good to see when she’s like that.

This morning’s meeting is in my office—the most tech-savvy room in the house since data mining is my domain—so we can dig into this security issue. My screens are mirrored onto widescreen wall monitors so we can all review our prospects. We’ve been at this for well over an hour.

Wells paces, dragging a hand down his drained face—doesn’t appear that the Chief has been sleeping. “The guys we want aren’t guys we can choose from.”

He’s referring to retired Navy SEALs, guys we know for certain have the skill set we’re searching for. That’s not an option since we’re believed to be the killed-in-action heroes posted in every Navy facility and SEALs bar across the states.

Juggling multiple identities can be a bitch.

“There are plenty of skilled warriors who didn’t serve,” I counter, flipping through a few without military training.

“That you’d trust?” Ty huffs, brows pinched in disgust as he glares at the current selection of enforcers.

“Fuck no,” I say, swiveling my chair in his direction. “But that’s what we’re dealing with. Hell, I wouldn’t trust the three of you on paper.”

“Irrelevant,” Gage snaps, inhabiting every square inch of the leather love seat, arms and legs spread wide. “Ivy should never be without us. This conversation is a fucking waste of time.” The Big Guy detests meetings, so his grumbling is par for the course.

“Natasha had a point,” Wells insists, his eyes flitting to mine with a laden pause before turning back to Gage. “Someday, you’ll all have people who are just as important, and our hands will be too full.”

Gage dismisses that idea with his usual no-bullshit approach. “Nope. You’re stressing over nothing, Wells. Any girl coming in gets put on the same lockdown as Ivy. That’s how it works here. They can take it or leave it.”

“Fuck.” I snicker. “That’s a good pickup line.”

“Yep,” Ty agrees. “Every woman’s looking for an epic captor-hostage love story.” He deepens his voice to a panty-dropping octave. “Hey, baby, what do ya say I lock you up?”

“Works for Chief,” I jeer, knowing full well that he and his Little Storm are kinky as sin.

“Jesus, fuck,” Wells hisses, but I don’t miss the upward hitch of his mouth.

Gage barks out a laugh, jerking his chin toward the Dom in question. “Take a page out of his fucking book. Change it to lock you down, and you’ll be stuck with that pussy for life.”

Per usual, Wells ignores our sidebar. “Regardless of what we do for security, lockdown is the reality for any woman you’re involved with. Even if it’s to a lesser degree, they’ll be targets.”

“Sounds like a life of one-night fucks, brothers,” Gage says, chugging from his Black Rifle Coffee mug with a gratified grin. Probably mentally playing out his next one-night.

Wells dives a hand into his black hair—a telltale sign of his distress. “I would never want that or ask it of any of you. So, let’s work through this security issue. Make the best of the challenging life we’ve landed ourselves in.”

He moves from compassionate-friend mode to Chief in a blink, hurling orders. “Get a list of ex-CIA and vet them thoroughly. I want to know their hobbies. Their music and literature preferences. Their habits—sleeping, eating, workout regimen. Hell, I want their favorite color, whether they wear tighty-whities or boxer briefs, and the nightmare they see when they close their goddamn eyes. Narrow it down to those without young families. We don’t want anyone flaking on our family to get home early to theirs. Those without strong ties rise to the top of the list. We can get them invested. Actually, the Little Storm will do that all on her own.”

That final thought has him smiling proudly. Whipped fucker.

“In the meantime,” he says, finally halting his pace, “let’s work with the security team Frank sent with Celeste. They’ve been thoroughly vetted by us and Frank. Plus, after several years with the family, they’re invested in Celeste and fond of Ivy.”

“I can see that,” Gage interjects. “Rex is solid. Same goes for his men.”

“Good.” Wells hedges—an unusual sight—so I press back into my chair, snicking my Zippo open and closed while he takes a breath. He’s clearly weighing his options. “We’ve had two of us with Ivy at all times. Maybe, after the baby arrives, we try one of us and Frank’s team of three for a well-controlled outing. We can use her driver, too, so four men are free to handle conflict.”

“Keeping an eye on Celeste is a taste of what it will be like with another woman in the mix,” Ty muses in consideration. “I’ve been taking her to the stables with her team, and it’s gone smoothly. They’re meticulous.”

“She might need to quit her extracurricular activities while she’s here,” I snap, pissed the hell off with no coherent reason. “If we’re going to be spreading ourselves thin with an extra person, she needs to get in line, like Gage stated. Locked down.”

No stables. No goddamn political douchebags.Because my blood is boiling. Reason enough.

Ty scoffs, his head lolling back. “Fuck, man. She’s not quitting the stables. Not happening.”

Fucking Christ.Why the hell is he jumping to her defense?

“It’s not your call, Ty,” I growl, restraining the urge to pitch my Zippo at his smug scowl.

“No?” He pulls his shoulders back with an incredulous taunt. “Well, it sure as fuck isn’t yours, unless you have something to tell us.”

What in the actual fuck?

His eyebrows dart up in challenge. “Because from where I sit, all you do is give her shit. And you have no right. You know nothing about that girl.”

“And you do?” I counter. “Two outings together, and you’re a motherfucking expert on Celeste Carver?”

The thought of that makes my stomach recoil. It shouldn’t matter, and yet it does. Because, like it or not, the pretentious temptress, who incites me in every interaction, has taken up residence in my head, and I’m unwilling to invite anyone to join us.

“Yeah, actually.” He nods. It’s a piss-off nod. And not something we see very often from Ty, which only makes me more irate. “And there are countless valid reasons for the way Ivy adores her. She’s hella impressive. You just can’t get your head out of your ass long enough to acknowledge it.”

I fling my hand through the air, ready to catapult out of my chair and pummel his ass. “Fuck your savior complex, Ty. It’s not your job to come to the defense of everybody with a damn cunt.”

He balks, lobbing a sardonic grunt at me. “It sure as hell beats terrorizing them because I’m not man enough to look a little deeper or too afraid of what I might find.”

“Terrorizing?” I mock. “Your ass hurts.”

That’s my colorful way of exclaiming he’s full of shit.

He ignores me to spew another accusation. On a motherfucking roll. “This is worse than the shit you pulled with Ivy, and Wells nearly killed you for that.”

“The loyalty test?” I question, aghast, assuming he’s referring to the kiss I was forced to give her. The scheme he pleaded with me to carry out for her own safety even though I felt like a creep.

“Before that.” He waves his hand through the air, features twisted in a disillusioned grimace. “Throwing your hat in the ring. Being a dick for no other reason than seeing her as nothing more than pussy. You were an ass in the beginning, and you know it.”

That was complicated. Why the hell are we rehashing this now? She was a pretty girl, who we’d watched for years, moving in. I didn’t realize how Wells felt about her. Once I did, I backed off and even pushed them toward each other. End of story.

“So was Gage, asshole! Why aren’t we fucking attacking him this morning?” My eyes fling to Wells, wondering why the hell he’s letting this all play out. Thanks a lot, Chief.

He stows his hands in his pockets and shrugs with squinted eyes.

“Don’t bring me into this shit show,” Gage snarls.

“Different than Gage because you clearly haven’t changed.” Ty rises, blood rushing to the surface of his tawny skin.

Why the hell is he this agitated over Celeste?

“That crap you pulled with Ivy,” he rants on, “was dickish, out-of-line flirting—pretty harmless and nothing compared to how you treat Celeste every time she’s here. Why is that, Graves? Huh?”

Because … hell if I know. What is he getting at?

“You have been a bigger dipshit than usual,” Gage observes.

Thanks, Big Guy. Feeling the love this morning.

“I don’t need this shit,” I spit. “You can all get the fuck out of my office.”

Unfortunately, right as I say that, Ivy storms inside, hot about something, and fiery blue orbs lasered on me.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

“C’mon in, High Society.” I wave her in with a derisive grin. “I see you’re here for the shit-on-Liam morning meeting.”

She pauses, clamping her pouty lips, as though that saddens her, which pinches my chest. She’s always so worried about me. But a moment later, she resumes her wrath, leaning on my desk aggressively with her other arm cradling her belly for support. “I need you to promise me to be on your best behavior tonight.”

I have no idea what tonight is, but I don’t like her this worked up. “You gotta sit down if you want me to hear you out.”

Wells dips his chin to me in gratitude because we’re all getting a little freaked out by her mood swings and her tiny frame engaging in what looks to be a painful-as-hell stretch.

She stares me down in defiance, but I hold my stance until she huffs in concession. Gage hops up, helping her into the chair as Wells saunters over, probably to massage her back, and Ty pours her a glass of water from my corner minibar.

“Thanks.” She frowns. This weaker version of her body is grating on her nerves. It’s been rough since mid-December. She’s still working out, training as much as the doctor permits, but she wears easier. Her eyes flick to mine, and they start to spill.

“What the hell is going on?” I ask, hating her tears. “Talk to me.”

Ivy doesn’t cry often. It’s like kryptonite for the four of us.

“It’s just …” She swipes a hand over her cheek, collecting her emotion. “It took me all night to convince him and then all morning to convince her. And I’m so stressed because Jensen is pulling ahead in the polls. I really need this. But if you fuck it up, then it’ll make everything harder.”

My head cocks to the side. “I gotta be honest, High Society. The only thing I understood in that jumbled mess was about Jensen, and I’m doing my damnedest to find something on the guy. Patience. It’s being handled.”

That probably offers little comfort. Ivy’s main concern in election years is to fill positions all over the country with people who will do KORT’s bidding—from the president and his or her cabinet, down to state governors, congressmen, senators, and judges. It’s an exhausting year, especially being new to the role.

Oliver Jensen is running for president. Ivy met with him in September and felt sick about it. She insists something’s off. It’s not like she’s in the habit of working with people who are on the up-and-up because those officials aren’t willing to sell their soul to KORT. But Jensen is different. Squeaky clean. A country favorite. And causes visceral reactions in Ivy. We’re all on high alert with him.

“I know you will.” She swallows, rubbing her temples like she’s trying to clear her thoughts. “I’m kind of obsessing about him, which isn’t healthy, but I can feel it—the darkness around him. That’s not why I came in here though. God, please erase all these crying fits from your minds. I’m such a mess.”

And the tears keep splashing. The anniversary of Tom’s death was this week, too, so emotions would have been high, even without the hormones.

Ty glowers at me while scooching closer to Ivy and holding her hand. “See? This is the shit.”

Right. Everything is my fault.

He kisses her temple. “You’re all right, Freckles.”

Wells leans down to Ivy’s ear, hands kneading her neck and shoulders. “Let’s slow it down, Ives. Talk through it calmly.”

That spurs Gage to sling a satirical chuckle, my eyes latching on to his in understanding. Talking through things calmly isn’t a natural state for Wells, who generally prefers to bark orders. If I wasn’t still internally seething, I’d crack a joke.

Ivy sucks in a deep breath. “I want to go to La Lune Noire before the baby comes. I’ve missed our lunches there. It’s been months, and I need to get out of here, or I’m going to lose my damn mind.” She sniffs. “It took me all night to convince Wells.” She throws a thumb to her husband, which has us all fighting laughter.

“Good night, huh, Chief?” Too easy. Seething or not, I can’t resist softballs.

It’s a good thing Wells is behind Ivy because the man can’t hide his shit-eating grin. So, a really good night. No wonder they’re both so dog-tired.

“Anyway,” she says, “then I told Celeste, and she had some reservations. I called Ryker and took care of one, but—”

“Which was?” I interrupt, unable to mask my curiosity.

“She wants anonymity while there. The last thing she needs is to feel like she has a file of indiscretions on her.”

And the motherfucking plot thickens. Tell me more.

“Is she planning to partake in indiscretions?” Sign me up. Sounds like the girl who captivated me last year when I analyzed her swanky puns and brazen texting thread with Ivy to mimic her voice.

“No.” Ivy shakes her head. “But she knows that, sometimes, it can be made to look like someone’s done or said something when they haven’t.”

Smart girl.“Okay. So, how do I come into play? I certainly wouldn’t fabricate anything.”

“Of course not.” She huffs, annoyed, which makes Wells chuckle, relishing the sight of me enduring the ire typically reserved for him. “She’s my best friend, Liam.” Her lip quivers, and I see the desperation. “Please be nice. I don’t want her to leave before the baby’s born or even after really, but whatever. I know she’s got her own life, just not yet.”

Was she considering leaving because of me? Even being one of the reasons Celeste doesn’t want to go to La Lune Noire makes me feel like shit. I’m not really a dick.

“We’re good,” I promise. And I mean it. Not that the three guys staring at me seem convinced, but, Jesus, I can’t have Ivy weeping in my office. I push out from my desk and make my way to her. When I squat at her legs, she throws her arms around my neck. “I’ll be on my best behavior,” I assure her.

“I need you both,” she whispers, and I can’t argue with that, no matter how vexing her enthralling friend is.

“I know.”

The guys and I are all dressed in our suits for an evening at La Lune Noire. I went with my slim-fit black suit over a black button-up—top buttons unfastened and no tie. A hint of my chest tattoo peeks out, which generally supplies just the right amount of intrigue. And my black-diamond necklace and rings complete the ensemble. For the exclusive speakeasy invitation we’re entertaining tonight, it’s a fitting look even though we’ll primarily be in the Noire brothers’ penthouse. The resort is a haven for those who teeter the line of lawlessness or even those who leap right off the edge.

We’ve been waiting a while for the girls. Ivy takes a little longer getting ready these days, but Natasha and Celeste are helping, so she’s in good hands. It’s unnerving for Wells to relinquish control and let someone else take care of his wife, but he muttered something about her needing more girl time, so he’s dealing. Makes sense. I don’t know how that girl puts up with all our shit.

Halfway through my second Modelo, the harmony of melodic giggles croons from the front staircase, so we saunter toward the door. Wells swaggers past us to reach Ivy while I mosey behind Ty and Gage in no hurry to get this evening started.

Ordinarily, a night at La Lune Noire is a welcome escape. But after getting my ass handed to me this morning and shouldering Ivy’s tears and anxiety, I don’t feel much like a party. Especially not one where I have to play nice with a girl who gets on my last damn nerve.

“Absolutely stunning, ladies,” Wells declares before, I’m assuming, sweeping Ivy into his arms. She giggles as he praises, “There’s my gorgeous girl. So beautiful, Little Storm.”

“Not so bad yourself, hot stuff,” she sings.

Before I round the corner, chugging the remainder of my beer, Gage and Ty both extend their gentlemanly compliments, which Celeste receives in her sweetly elegant lady voice.

Ready to go, I pitch my empty bottle in the bathroom trash en route to the foyer. And when my eyes catch sight of the hourglass goddess still on the stairs, I swear my vision clouds.

Fuck me.

Gage lands a pointed smirk on me, and I realize I said that shit out loud, but I don’t fucking care. My hand glides over my mouth and jaw in astonishment. I’ve never seen anything so goddamn beautiful in my life. I mean, Celeste always exudes sex. It’s part of who she is. Whether in a T-shirt and shorts or an upper-crust worthy pantsuit, she can’t hide the seduction that pours off her.

But right now, Christ Almighty. A simple floor-length black evening gown, spaghetti straps, scooped neckline, elevating the plumpness of her ample tits. The lush fabric hugs every curve, dipping into her cinched waist and accentuating her rounded hips that are imploring to be gripped. Tugged. Caressed. And the slit up the side, just high enough to showcase the sheen of her shimmery olive skin on her toned thigh. Even the strappy black heels and the thin necklace adorning her collarbone are hot.

And that doll-like face of hers, framed by thick, soft curls of shiny espresso hair. Big brown eyes, fringed by long-as-hell black lashes and smoky lines. Luscious lips with a perfect cupid’s bow, painted a glossy magenta. Kissable.

Goddammit, she fucks with my head.

A rage I am wholly unfamiliar with surges through my bones. The thought of taking her out like this, to the fucking Noires’ of all places, has me seeing red. Unhinged. They’ll pounce on her. Although who the hell wouldn’t? This is such a bad idea.

Our eyes lock, and somehow, it feels like we’re having a whole conversation, fifteen feet apart and silent. But those motherfucking eyes. I want to dive into those whiskey pools, figure out what part of her I’m privy to tonight. She’s never the same.

I see you, Carver. You’re a goddamn dream.

Her chest heaves, hostage to this connection like I am, either angry at the sight of me or turned on. Either is okay. I suddenly want it all. She parts those full lips, and I find myself hefting a breath, oddly eager to hear what she has to say. But it isn’t her voice that severs this magnetic link; it’s Ty’s.

“You two coming?”

This motherfucker today.

I turn toward the entrance where he’s standing and realize Wells, Ivy, and Gage are gone. Never noticed. Celeste sashays past me, so Ty holds the door for her, which I’m fine with because it provides the most devastating backside glimpse.

Knowing an expletive is about to fly out of my damn mouth, I bite my fist. Hard. Celeste Carver rocks every angle. My fist is not what I want to be biting.

Ty escorts Celeste to his armored Mercedes while I collect myself and lock up the house. Wells and Gage have Ivy tucked into the Rolls-Royce Cullinan. It’s armored as well. We don’t have any vehicles that will comfortably transport the six of us, so it seems we’re splitting up.

When I turn around, Ty is tromping back to me. “I’ll take Celeste. You go with Wells.”

Fuck that.

As much as I’d like to lash out at him, I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt here and empathizing because Ty is a sensitive guy, especially where women are concerned. Polar opposite of Gage. So, he’s probably stressed about Ivy coming unglued this morning. Hell, I’m stressed about that. But I can subdue my tongue for one night, and even if I fail, I’ll be damned if he’s keeping me out of that car.

“It’s all good, brother. Better the girls both have two of us with them. Let’s go.” It’s a sound argument since Wells told her security team that we’d be guarding her on our own tonight.

Ty eyes me warily but leaves it at that. I occupy the seat behind him because the catercorner view is phenomenal. Best reason I’ve ever had to endure back-seat leg cramps. Even the scent wafting to me is entrancing. Wildflowers and cashmere.

Jesus, I need help.

Unfortunately, toward the end of our journey, the small talk sullies the mesmerizing scenery. Ty enquires about her dating prospects, and in spite of what Daddy suggested, she sounds perfectly content to play the political-dickwad field. It seems Scott Filmore had some pressing business to attend to and will be out of town for the next few weeks. They had a riveting conversation though, and she looks forward to his return. I pull the pretty boy up on my phone for the thirtieth time and plot his murder. Losing my fucking mind.

She conquers the disappointment surrounding Lover Boy Number One by informing Ty that she has a date next week with another eligible bachelor. “Dustin Barclay. I’m not super fond of the name, but what are you going to do?”

“For reasons previously discussed, Lettie?” Ty asks with a glance while switching lanes.

“Yeah.” She laughs, bold and musical. “It’s right up there with Nelson.”

Lettie?My hands curl into fists. She hates anyone other than Ivy calling her Lettie. When did this start? And who’s Nelson? Why the hell does this feel like an inside joke of theirs? They have no business having inside jokes.

I’m just about to flip out and tell them to fuck off with their damn code when Ty adds, “And Sheldon,” to which she giggles.

That I understand because Ivy watches When Harry Met Sally anytime she’s mopey, which happens a lot with pregnancy hormones. I’ve seen that movie at least six times in the last year and a half. So, Carver doesn’t want to scream Dustin in bed.

Point one for Mr. Barclay.

“But he comes from a good family, is a lawyer with a fantastic record, plans to enter the political scene in a couple of years once he’s married, and isn’t bad-looking.” She turns to face him, and the smile she offers isn’t as genuine as the laugh from moments ago. “Kinda like the younger guy in Suits, although not quite. Actually, that’s a bit of a stretch. But you never know.”

“Sounds like you do,” Ty observes, veering onto the last stretch toward our destination.

“He was a little bland on the phone. A little too Sheldon.” She blows out a puff of part giggle, part lamenting sigh. “But I’m trying to keep an open mind because he seemed like a good guy, intent on making some sort of difference.”

Ty reaches over and nudges her, my eyes tracking the movement of his knuckles grazing her shapely thigh. Visions of breaking his fingers assault me. He’s one of my best friends, like a brother. What is wrong with me? My forehead is sweating. I’m in the middle of some sort of mental breakdown. I might need an intervention.

Who gets this strung out on a chick? Not me. I’m the guy who fends off stage-five clingers after a quick fuck. Not someone who sweats, speechless in the back seat of a car because a girl happens to be breathtaking. It’s all the stress over Ivy’s pregnancy and this security bullshit—not to mention KORT work, erasing clients, and this fiasco with Frank Carver and the Skulls. That’s it.

“But Scott Filmore? Not so bland?” Ty teases as he pulls into the parking lot.

And she smiles. Or beams, all bright and glowing.

What. The. Fuck?

Is that smile for the Filmore prick?

My veins are on fire. No idea why because, on most days, I can’t stand this girl, except when she’s like this—looser and free. Like she is with Ty because it’s as though I’m not even in this vehicle with them. Not helping my fury.

My new mission—compile an incriminating and scathing file on the Filmore philanderer. Goddamn cheetah. How quickly the princess forgets in the face of something shiny. Predictable.

She sweeps her hair around to her other shoulder, giving me a perfect view of her slender neck and collarbone. “Makes sense that he’s a playboy. Witty. Clever. Charming. And definitely attractive. I’m not discounting Ivy’s warning, but I see the appeal. I suppose that’s always been my problem though. Eagerness to tame the wild ones.”

Fucking hell. I’d love to see what tactics she uses for that.

I’ve got some of my own, Carver.