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

CHAPTER TWELVE

LIAM

Celeste and I are currently at a crossroads. I should rephrase that. Celeste is mistaken.

No.

She’s fucking wrong.

Our night together was the kind of night you don’t forget, the kind of night old, wrinkled souls in retirement villages reminisce about over and over again, detailing every damn intoxicating minute, while the other decrepit souls roll their eyes, wishing that schmuck could think of something else to go on about.

I’m never opposed to annoying people—completely down with being that guy.

But there’s two different types of reminiscing. Those who recall the night with the lover they spent their lives with—a beginning to a life full of treasured memories they’ll carry with them until the end of their days.

The other is the remembrance of regret—the lover who got away, who gifted them a night of raptured bliss, only to have it be the bar by which every moment forward would fall short. Maybe it ended in tragedy. Maybe it was a forbidden affair not meant to be realized beyond that one magical rendezvous. Or perhaps they simply didn’t fight hard enough.

Celeste seems to believe we fall into that latter category—the one-night gift. We had hours of etching ourselves onto one another long after the bath. We cooked and cuddled and talked until dawn. And I delivered mind-blowing orgasm after mind-blowing orgasm. My girl was exhausted in the best of ways. And when I held her peacefully sleeping body in my arms, I finally knew the meaning of true contentment.

But our progress paled in one area. By the time my family was arriving home, she was still insisting that we leave it all behind to that one night. Our secret. She swore I’d keep her warm in the chill of her future obligations for years to come. A cocktail-party daydream. A Sunday-brunch secret.

As if that was some sort of consolation.

But Celeste doesn’t know me well enough yet. If I don’t get the cards that I need to win the hand, I fucking take them. Too many years were spent at the mercy of fucked-up dealing. I’m not the guy who makes the best of shitty hands. I’m the guy who swindles the dealer, shuffles the cards in my favor, and claims the goddamn ace.

She’s mine now.

Whether she accepts it or not.

The thing is, I can’t simply take her. She’s too fiery and obstinate. Well, I could—and will if necessary. But she grasps for control in everything because she has none. I’d like my girl to feel empowered to choose me rather than coerced to let go of her fucked-up rescue mission—a plight her family should not be forcing on her. Loss or no loss.

So, for now, I’m allowing her the space to come to the inevitable conclusion that being with me is the only plot twist in her story that makes sense.

Space and subtle acts of convincing, but we’ll get to those in time.

I’m confident I’ll be on her mind for the next several days, simply due to the ache between her legs and my cum that’s probably still wetting her panties.

That’s enough to satisfy me for the time being.

Yesterday was utter chaos. Felicity arrived, intent on making her presence known. The quiet, cooing doll from the hospital found her voice. Smart girl. She already knows how to read a room and own it—unsurprising, considering she’s the product of Ivy and Wells. All that to say, sleep is a distant memory and might be for some time. Even with seven adults taking shifts, we’re still finding our footing.

I’m off duty at present, and while I already miss the feel of my little princess tucked into my elbow, there are some pressing matters that need to be tended to.

My first stop is to find Wells. He’s drained but relieved now that his girls are safe and sound at home. Still, when I find him in his office, fatigue shadows his features.

I knock on his open door. “You okay?”

“I’m good.” He pops out his sucker and waves me in. “Natasha and Celeste are helping Ivy with the baby, so I’m working for a bit. What’s up?”

I lean against the doorframe, not wanting to settle in if he doesn’t have what I need. “Do you still have the files from that handful of erased clients we were passed when we first took over?”

When the CIA revamped us as their go-to contract erasing and identity-mining team, we were given some past off-record cases to follow up on. Our CIA and FBI contacts tend to dip their toes in both the pool of righting wrongs and the lake of excusing them for kickbacks. Offloading those cases once the benefit is realized is essential to maintaining their duplicitous cover. That’s where we came in. New kids on the block, given a stack of fugitive miscreants they didn’t care to follow anymore. Dry wells. Most were well established in their placements, so we didn’t do much beyond being a contact should they encounter trouble.

Wells’s eyebrows scrunch together, his concern divot staring me down. “Yes. Why?”

“I have a hunch,” I say, retrieving my Zippo from my pocket. This may be an angsty process.

“Sit,” he orders, expecting me to elaborate.

I shut the door and mosey into his office, plopping down on his couch with a whoosh. “If you’re too worn out, I can handle this, Chief. I hear parenting can make you age overnight.”

He glares at me while chomping his Tootsie Pop to bits.

“All business it is, old man.” I smirk and pause just to fuck with him for another minute. He’s keeping it together better than anticipated, so I get to the point. “Celeste’s brother died in a car accident.”

“Yeah,” he confirms. “Drag racing.”

“Right.” I focus on the billowing flame while I spill. Even the thought of this guy incites a murderous rage inside me, but I don’t want to reveal that now. “She has a picture of him with his best friend, who was in the car with him. It’s Easton Lancaster, Pruitt’s older brother.”

That piques his interest. He chucks his sucker stick and straightens to attention, jaw tight. “And?”

“Before she even told me the guy’s name, I recognized him. His face is familiar. I couldn’t place him, but—”

“You don’t think he’s dead?” He starts sifting through a box of USB flash drives in his drawer.

“I don’t.” My pulse accelerates. Snick. Flick. Flame. Curling and uncurling my fist in my lap, I clarify the hunch part. “My gut tells me he’s a missing piece.”

“Ben’s best friend,” he muses while still digging. “Any idea how close he was to the Carvers?”

I won’t share Celeste’s private matters involving that motherfucking predator unless I’m certain they’re relevant, so I simply say, “Close.”

He rises with the flash drive in hand, his mind drifting to where mine’s been since she told me his name. “So, running into Pruitt—”

“Not so coincidental if Easton is alive,” I finish.

That’s not a sure thing. It’s possible that even if Easton is alive, Pruitt doesn’t know, and it was an innocent run-in, but coincidences rarely happen in matters such as these. And all five of us felt that prick was hiding something. Hiding Easton is a big something.

Unable to wait patiently, I wander behind Wells to watch him scroll. Each client file has pictures and the details of their entire erasing experience attached. Gotta know what you’re erasing someone from. Their lack of transparency with us generally results in their eventual exposure because something vital wasn’t covered up. While the guys who handled these cases weren’t as fail-safe in their thoroughness as we are, there’s still a wealth of information on these clients.

“Jesus Christ,” Wells hisses, swiping a hand through his hair. “He’s here all right.”

The file opens, and the bastard’s face has my jaw popping. He may have survived that car wreck. He will not survive me.

But as I read the information on his case, my stomach recoils. “What a sick fuck.”

Easton Lancaster didn’t only survive that car accident; he left Benjamin Carver trapped inside, slit the throat of a homeless man attempting to offer help, and threw him into the burning vehicle so the remains of two bodies would be found. No investigation into the identity of the car’s inhabitants was done, as there were over two hundred witnesses who had watched them race. My girl being one of them.

So, not only did this motherfucker take sexual advantage of Celeste as a minor, but he also killed her brother and disappeared. The question is, why? A question unanswered in this report.

If Easton didn’t want to divulge his rationale to the people erasing him, it was a reason he deemed worth more than his best friend’s life, a possible murder charge, and the millions he paid to have himself erased and those crimes glossed over. Quite possibly a reason still relevant.

Wells draws the same conclusions, but that doesn’t get us very far. “Let’s take a breath and think this through,” he says, pouring us both a scotch.

I prefer beer, but I’m thinking this requires something harder.

He lifts his glass but finishes his train of thought before drinking. “If Easton’s motive has something to do with the Carvers, then Pruitt was targeting Celeste that day and somehow knew where she’d be.”

I guzzle the drink in a single swig. My nerves are shot. “And also had a reason to contact the Noires, which Axel considered valid. I can’t make sense of that piece.”

“They’re coming here on Tuesday.” He swallows a respectable sip, far more collected than I am. “Had to push it back because of the baby.”

That’s unfortunate but necessary. The Noires were originally scheduled for today, but with Felicity’s arrival home yesterday, none of us are in any shape for that meeting.

“You think Frank knows anything?” I ask, soothing myself with the clink-clank of my Zippo. Nothing about this is sitting right.

He scrubs his fingers over his chin. “Doubt it. If he knew Easton had survived, he would’ve had a manhunt for him.” Shaking his head, he glances at me and sighs. “I think we should wait to involve him until we know more.”

I start pacing, too much anxiety to be quelled by the simple flame. “Agreed. I’ll work on locating Easton. In the meantime, I think it’s time for Gage to pay Pruitt that visit.”

“I’ll get him on it today.”

“I’m going too,” I insist.

“That’s not really where you’ll be best utilized, is it?” He’s asking something different, so I don’t answer. At my silence, he tries another route. “Why is it important for you to be there?”

My hands flail as my rant flies. “I’ve got all these moving parts and no fucking idea how they fit. The Noire piece doesn’t fit with the Skulls threat. And the Lancasters aren’t the type to be mixed up with the Skulls, but they’re linked to both the Carvers and the Noires somehow. And there’s that fucking black book that the thugs who broke into Frank’s house mentioned they were hired to find. But Frank knows nothing about it, and we’ve only unearthed nonsensical chatter regarding it. On top of that, Ivy has one of her weird aura vibes with Oliver Jensen, and we find out he’s related to the Lancasters. But shit gets even more convoluted because that’s not the only relation. Jensen’s aunt, who is also Easton and Pruitt’s grandmother, is the stepsibling of Johnny Balzano—the prick who makes every KORT meeting a nightmare for Ivy. It’s all connected, but certainly not linear. I’m losing my goddamn mind, trying to make sense of it.”

“I share that frustration,” he groans. His narrowed gaze trails the path of my irate pacing until he snaps, “Stop.” When I halt my frenzied trek and look at him, he stares for a long beat, fingers rubbing over his lips. “Is that it, Liam? Anything else I need to know?”

Wells is the one person I hate to lie to because he rarely does. Never does, is more accurate. He evades, but doesn’t lie. He tells us lying is the same as an apology because, on some level, we believe it isn’t something we should own. If you can’t justify your behavior, no matter how skewed that justification may be to others, you’re headed down the wrong path.

But that’s not where I’m at. I know the right path for me. No doubt in my mind. All roads lead to Celeste. But if I tell him about our night and that she doesn’t want me, he might tell me to walk away because I shouldn’t drag someone through Hell if they don’t want to be there.

And I don’t think I can handle that from him right now.

“There’s nothing else,” I say, and although his eyes flash with disappointment, he nods.

It’s Tuesday afternoon, and the Noire family will be here for a visit in less than a half hour. Their purpose is twofold: visiting the new addition to our crew and finally filling us in on Pruitt’s distant relation to them.

Unfortunately, Pruitt’s whereabouts are currently a mystery. It’s safe to say he’s aware of Easton being alive though. Otherwise, the sudden disappearance doesn’t jive. It’s a waiting game at this point. We have our eyes peeled for both. If either makes a move, we’ll know.

But at the moment, I don’t give a fuck about any of that. It’s been five days since Celeste and I have been together. Other than the occasional sidelong glance, she’s kept herself busy with Felicity and Ivy and editing her pictures.

And acting as though I don’t exist.

Now that I understand her better, I know it isn’t a snub. It’s her way of swallowing the future she’s choking on and avoiding the one she craves. At least, that’s what I’ve convinced myself to believe.

But today, I need to extend one of those subtle reminders, so when she sashays upstairs via the back staircase, I sneak up the front and run like hell to cut her off. Everyone else is preparing for our guests.

Her eyes widen in alarm when she catches sight of me hurtling toward her, but that does nothing to deter me. I scoop her into my arms, throw her over my shoulder, and tromp to my room.

She smacks my back repeatedly and whisper-yells, “What the hell, Graves? Put me down.”

Once I’m beyond the threshold, I kick the door shut, spank her ass, and comply by dropping her onto my bed. Where she fucking belongs. “There. That’s better. Something’s been missing.”

A smile climbs her cheeks, even as she crawls off and chastises me. “This isn’t keeping to our agreement. If someone sees us, it will open a whole can of worms.”

In a manner of speaking, the can was cracked open before I even kissed her behind the barn. The guys know all about the worms—Jesus, I really hate that analogy right now. Nasty. Anyway, they’re guys. We talk around shit sometimes, but they’re not fools. No sense in broadcasting that though.

“If you remember, I never agreed to anything of the sort, but no one saw us.” I pick her up as she starts to bolt and station her back against the door, my hand flattened firmly against it to keep it closed. “They’re all busy, and so are we for the next fifteen minutes.”

Her eyes close, that carefully curated mask faltering to reveal a fissure of agony. After a barely discernible sigh, she sets those brown beauties on me. “Ivy doesn’t miss things.”

That particular can is still intact, but admittedly fragile with the way Ivy senses things, so I don’t offer a verbal response. I palm the back of her head and press my mouth to hers before she can protest, licking and nipping at the seam of her lips. It takes a few stubborn beats, but she relents and lets me in. She tastes like waking up. And everything she returns tells me none of this is one-sided. Her entire body melts against mine, purring titillating contentment into my mouth. Fifteen minutes isn’t long, but we could accomplish plenty.

Flashes of our night pummel me. Her naked in the pool, plump lips sucking my cock. Bent in half beneath me, shouting my name while I thrust inside her soaked pussy. Her juices coating my tongue as she bucked into me.

Christ Almighty.

But we’ve barely spoken since then. So, I reluctantly pull back, cradling her face and pecking her forehead.

“There you are, Ace,” I rasp. “Jesus, I fucking missed you.”

A coquettish grin tips her lips as those gorgeous eyes—whiskey colored today—peer at me from beneath the fringe of her long, thick lashes. “Now who’s greedy, Graves?”

My fingers tease the waist of her pants as I chuckle. She’s already dressed for our company—casual black pants that hug her ass, thighs, and hips deliciously and a cropped shirt. It shows little and yet hints at every damn thing.

I tighten my grip on her waistband and yank her against me, my free hand roving to the swell of her ass with a squeeze. “We both know after three minutes, I could have you begging, screaming, and threatening to hump my corpse if I don’t give you what you want.”

Her breath hitches, her mouth twitches, and her body heats against mine, but her words don’t match. “Wanted. One night.”

“Really, Carver?” I challenge, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. “You haven’t thought about how I wrecked that perfect pussy last week?” Her chest rises against mine, the faintest of whimpers ripping from her lungs, so I press further. “Been thinking about coming on my cock, baby? Or me fucking that sassy mouth? Or maybe you’ve been dreaming about me tasting how sweet you are again.” I sweep her hair off her neck and bite at the skin below her ear, relishing her whole body shivering. “I’m not too proud to tell you that I can’t stop thinking about you. You’re in me now, Ace.”

She swallows, cups my face, and plants a quick, seductive nibble on my lips. But when she releases me, her mask has solidified once again. “Please don’t make this harder than it is. I have goals to pursue, and you have a life that I don’t belong in.”

What the hell does that mean? Doesn’t belong?

I clutch her hips to cement her in place, desperate for her to hear me. “It’s only hard because you want exactly what I do. Your goals belong to other people. Whether you or your family admit it or not, you were born into this life.”

You belong with me.

Mine.

She glances away, her lips pursed, before parking on me with renewed resolve. Bold and icy.

Fuck.This feels like moving ten steps backward.

“This life fits Ivy,” she states firmly. “The five of you have something wonderful here, and, yes, my father is connected. But make no mistake, Liam; this is not the life for me.”

“Fuck that,” I snarl, pressing into her, my half-mast dick nudging her stomach. “I won’t make this easy on you, Celeste. Everyone else in your life is fighting for you to put them first. This is one time I’m not the bad guy. All I want is for you to put your own desires first.”

She brushes the hair off my forehead with a wry smile, a glimpse of her warmth. It thaws everything in an instant. “And you’re my desire, huh? That’s your argument?”

“You moaned my name for hours on end, insisting I was a god and begging for more, baby girl.” I smirk as my brows dart for the sky. “I’m inclined to believe you.”

“You’re so full of yourself.” She giggles but bites it back.

I drag my thumb across her lower lip. “We can fix that, Ace. I’d much rather you be full of me.”

She blows out a ragged breath with a huff. “This is … didn’t you get all swept up with Ivy last year? This too shall pass.”

Maybe I should have expected her to throw that in my face, but it wasn’t even a blip on my radar. I didn’t think it was on hers. The ironic part of that whole mess with Ivy is that it stemmed from the loyalty test I was pressured into executing for her safety, and the feelings I had for her were regarding just that—loyalty. Other than the guys, Ivy was the first person to ever stick by me. I knew it long before the day I took that bullet, and she proved it tenfold after that ridiculous kiss.

But that was never this. Nowhere near the same vicinity as what’s happening here.

“Don’t go there,” I order with very little patience for this runaround Celeste is giving me. “This is far different, and you know it.”

She raises an eyebrow, but there’s an expression of hope shading her features. “Is it?”

“Yeah, Lettie.” I snap her childhood nickname to drive my point home. “She’s family, which happens to be something that’s been hard to come by for me, so, yes, she struck a chord. But I love Ivy like you love Ivy. I’m guessing you feel differently about me than you do about your dearest friend.”

She exhales slowly in what appears to be relief, but doesn’t settle in it. “The Noires will be here soon. I need to freshen up and help with Felicity.”

I graze my knuckles over her battering pulse point. That’s gotta mean something. “Tell me I’m not what you want. Forget your family or any other bullshit reason you’ve convinced yourself to become someone you aren’t or to believe we don’t make sense. Tell me you don’t want me.”

Her eyes caper all over my face, swarming with an unwavering resolution but also regret. I’m not fabricating the regret. It’s there as much as her face is blanching at my provocation.

“That’s the thing, Liam; I can’t, but it still doesn’t matter.”

She ducks away from me, twisting the doorknob to leave, and I let her. This is far from over, but now isn’t the time. She’s tenacious—I’ll give her that. I just wish it were for us.

The Noires arrive with a commotion. It feels good to show off Felicity though. They’re all instantly smitten with her. It’s one thing to see Rena fawn over her with Ivy, Celeste, and Natasha, but there’s nothing like seeing nine soulless men, who cut off extremities for sport, wrapped around the itty-bitty finger of our precious doll.

It makes our move to New Orleans that much better. She’ll have an army of protectors. But that reminds me of the threats on the Carvers, so after twenty minutes of visiting, I flick my eyes to Wells. He knows exactly where my head is and ushers everyone toward the food and drinks while we skulk away with Ryker and Axel. Not before I shoot Gage a warning to keep the three prowling Noires away from Celeste though. He chuckles with a shake of his head but kicks his chin up in agreement. At least I won’t have to worry about that.

We pile into a lounge we have set aside for these types of conversations—business with those we trust. Only our immediate circle enters our personal offices, but this is an inviting space. Decorated like an old-fashioned cigar and brandy room—stamped tin ceiling, mahogany liquor-and-wine racks, brick on two walls, and shelves lining the other two. Black-and-white prohibition photos pull it all together.

For today, we forgo the cigars because of Felicity. She’s too little for us to have her breathing that stench in, and Wells is already a nervous wreck. Axel and Ryker don’t mind, but their unease is notable, so we liquor them up with the James Bond 60th anniversary Macallan. It was Wells’s wedding gift from Axel, and he saved it for just such an occasion. The Chief is always tactical.

Small talk isn’t our strong suit though, so eventually, Wells plunges right in. “Don’t make us pull teeth, Axel. Tell us what Pruitt has on you.”

The phrasing of his demand is direct on purpose. At this point, we know Pruitt’s got them by the balls one way or another. If we simply led with relation inquiries, they’d dance for us. We’re not in the mood for any more vagueness in this tangled quest.

Axel sips the amber liquid, sapphire eyes scanning Wells, face impassive. But Ryker’s jaw clenches. He conceals nothing.

Finally, Axel sets his crystal tumbler down, index finger tapping the side. “It’s regarding our parents. My father was unfaithful, flaunting his women in front of my mother without remorse.” He sighs. “She endured it for years, raising us with a stoic nature that never revealed how painful it was. Until she snapped and found a sidepiece of her own.”

Wells and I share a half-second glance. I’m guessing we both see where this is headed, but we wait. Ryker is betraying enough with the death grip on his glass.

Axel doles out another sizable pour to himself and Ryker, urging his younger brother to relax before he continues. “It lasted several years, maybe five from what we can deduce. She was in love. Although the situation wasn’t much better. He was also married but refused to leave his wife. During that time, my mother birthed two children.”

“Jax and Rena,” I venture.

“Yes,” he confirms. “They don’t know. Nor should they.”

“Understood,” Wells says, and I nod my compliance.

“My mother wasn’t even certain. Not until Jax got sick when he was eight. In passing, the doctor mentioned that his blood type was extremely rare—AB negative. My mother’s blood type was A. My father’s was O, so AB wasn’t possible. I think he could’ve accepted the affair, but not the offspring. So, he tested all of us.”

“Long story short,” Ryker growls after slamming back the rest of his drink, “the asshole wanted to get rid of them. Our mother pleaded with both him and the dipshit she fooled around with. Neither wanted her or the babies.”

“Your parents died in a fire, right?” Wells asks.

“Yes. We were away.”

The curtness of Axel’s response suggests there’s more to that, but not something we’re getting today. I’m not sure it even matters, so I try something else.

“So, the guy is related to Pruitt somehow? His dad, Mark Lancaster?” Distant relation. Pruitt’s father would make Jax and Rena his half-siblings, so that’s not it. I keep taking shots in the dark. “Or a cousin or uncle?”

“No.” Ryker helps himself to another glass. “Turns out Pruitt’s grandmother had the information. He claims there’s documentation.”

Wells swirls his scotch, the ice clinking together. “What did he want for it?”

Axel barks a humorless laugh, tension finally seeping into his body. “He’ll let us know.”

“How’d his grandmother stumble across this information?” I ask, wondering if she was one of Axel’s father’s scorned lovers. Knowing the family connection to Oliver Jensen, that could be a gold mine to hand Ivy. So, I immediately follow up my question with what I really want to know. “Who did your mom have the affair with?”

“His grandma is the guy’s older stepsister,” Ryker answers.

And as the truth is illuminated, everyone in the room spits out the name, “Johnny Balzano.”

So many questions swirl from there, but I need time to digest them. As a knighted chair of KORT, having an affair is a huge no-no, let alone turning away the illegitimate kids. That documentation is a double-edged sword for us. It slaughters Balzano, a man we despise, but could unveil a devastating secret the Noires clearly don’t want out.

And I have no idea how the hell that possibly connects with the Carvers. But Pruitt needed leverage for something, and I have no doubt it concerns his brother, Easton. With Balzano involved, maybe it all simply comes back to an attack on KORT, and Frank is only one target. Although no other threats have been reported by the other KORT chairs.

We spend a couple more hours with the Noires, enjoying more carefree socializing with the rest of the group. Once they leave, Wells and I both charge for his office. He’s drawn many of the same conclusions I have, so we decide to check in with Frank.

After he answers and we bumble through ten seconds of greeting, Wells jumps in without announcing my presence. He’s instructed me to keep my mouth shut, so I slouch on the couch with my Zippo flickering and give him the floor.

“Was your son, Ben, ever mixed up with KORT business or deals gone wrong with The Order?”

Frank’s heavy exhale rattles the line. “You think this has something to do with Ben? It’s been almost eight years.”

When Wells hears the pain in Frank’s voice, his face falls. “We’re just exhausting all avenues, Frank.”

“You’ve got nothing else relevant?”

That’s fucking accusatory and rude, considering Wells and I are essentially doing this as a favor. Although I’m invested as much as him at this point. And we did start the conversation off with the mention of his dead son, so maybe his attitude isn’t such a big deal. Still pisses me off.

Wells shuffles his candy bag, mining for his reds and yellows. “We’ve got a bunch of loose leads right now. Par for the course in these matters. We’ll get them to fuse into a clear picture. We always do.”

“Fine,” Frank grits out. “I’m glad you called. I’d like to know who’s saying shit to my daughter.”

Wells’s head snaps up, surly green eyes narrowed at me as I push to my feet. He lifts his hand in warning to me. “Could you be more specific? We enjoy having Celeste here. She’s doing well.”

“Too well,” he snipes, and my heart whomps my sternum and rib cage. “She’s got my wife all upset.”

Why the hell would Celeste’s mom, Ava, be upset?

Frank groans, distress and anger roaring through the speaker loud and clear. “Since you brought it up, we had no reason to believe that Ben’s accident was anything other than just that,except that blaming someone when you lose a child makes the whole senseless nightmare a bit more palatable. It assigns a place to direct the inconceivable torment.”

Wells drags his hand down his haggard face. I can only imagine how overwhelming that thought is, having just brought Felicity home. I didn’t create her, and I can’t even fathom her hurting, let alone … nope.

“My wife always thought it was one of my enemies,” Frank says, tone laced with guilt now, his tenor strained in the next sentence. “That Ben died because of me. Ava is a mess now, thinking Celeste is getting mixed up with you guys. And I’m the one who fucking allowed her to come there.”

Oh hell. Celeste comes by her power of yielding words like a knife honestly. That fucking stings. Her family means everything to her, so her parents viewing us as dangerous is lethal.

“We’ve doubled down on her security, Frank.” Wells’s eyebrows are scrunched together in confusion. He glances at me in question, and when I shrug, he probes Frank more. “I must be missing something. I assure you, she’s safe, and she’s thriving.”

“I told you to fucking encourage her to go on those dates,” he snipes.

Wells bristles at Frank’s animosity. You don’t disrespect the Chief. His green eyes squint with a chill. “And we have.”

“Then, why is she begging my wife to talk to me about getting involved with my business? A matter we had resolved. And that’s just the half of it.” He huffs. “She’s asking if we’d be angry if she chose a different path. Someone who isn’t in politics.”

Oh, baby girl. I knew you wanted me, Ace.

Wells glares at me, jaw rigid. “Maybe it’s simply nerves. She went on her date with Dustin Barclay, but she told Ivy they didn’t click.”

Frank howls a cynical laugh. “My father said his message was over the top, which makes me think she blew it on purpose. At least he recognized she was out of his league. Pussy.”

Sounds like Frank doesn’t think much of these political douchebags either, so what’s the problem?

“Your daughter is an amazing young woman,” Wells says, far more relaxed now that we can all agree Barclay was a pussy. “She probably intimidated the guy.”

“Scott Filmore won’t be intimidated. She’s going out with him next week. My father insists he’s the real deal, cream of the crop. It’s his dream to see Celeste in the White House. Ava’s too. Apparently, Filmore’s the guy to take her there, so ensure she goes enthusiastically.”

Motherfucker.

My fists clench. Molars grind. We’ll both be in attendance. Enthusiastically.

“Will do.” Wells shakes his head at me. He’s going to ream my ass after this, but his delivery is as level as ever. “You should know, Frank, I extended an indefinite invitation to Celeste. We’d like her to stay until she finds her way, but again, her safety is our priority.”

I didn’t know that. She was only supposed to stay for January. Fuck, I love that man.

“That fucking aligns,” Frank scoffs, derisive and rude. Again. “I’m only going to ask you this once, Wells. Is one of your men fucking my daughter?”

And Wells is out of his chair, stalking toward me with a venomous leer. “Not to my knowledge. Why?”

He pinches the back of my neck without mercy for five excruciating beats because I just made him lie. Sorta. It’s not to his knowledge. Fuck.

“Mothers always know. Ava suspects she’s got her eye on someone. Look, I mean no disrespect to you. God knows you’re putting yourself on the goddamn line, digging into this shit. But let’s not pussyfoot around the life you lead. Your men are the absolute last future we’d choose for her,” Frank spits, and the room starts to spin, my pulse hammering everywhere.

“The danger is far worse than what my dealings offer, and I don’t even want her near that,” he continues. “All the shit that level of KORT business brings, Ava will lose it. She views it as a death sentence, and I can’t even argue. You say you all care about my daughter, and I know Ivanna loves her.”

Wells’s face softens—for me, but also for Frank. “We do. Very much.”

I know what’s coming, and I can’t stomach it, so I turn to leave but hear Frank’s potent demand before the door closes behind me.

“Then, do the right thing, goddammit. Get Celeste the hell out of your house and into the arms of someone who won’t put her life in danger. Someone who’s actually worthy of her.”