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

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CELESTE

My father’s lawyers will be meeting us at the FBI field office, and Doug is driving like a man possessed. To my knowledge, my father has never been arrested or questioned. And my mother? What the hell has she done, other than make a better life for herself after a terribly difficult and depressing childhood?

But the question that is stirring in my gut, the one that has Rex rubbing my back as I dry-heave in this godforsaken limo is, What do they want from me?

I used Rex’s phone to call everyone. Liam, Ivy, Wells, Ty, Gage. No one is answering. I don’t have any idea how to approach this, but I won’t abandon my parents there. If it were only my father, I’d consider waiting it out until I could track Liam down. But my mom? She cannot be in jail. She may have grown up in a rough environment, but that was decades ago. She’d be eaten alive in there.

“Cee, you do not say a word until the lawyers get there and instruct you,” Rex advises. “Do you hear me?”

“Where the hell could they be?” I ask, blatantly blowing past his warning. “Do you think something happened? Something bad? Is that why Liam didn’t tell me anything?”

“I don’t know.” His voice betrays more irritation than Rex typically exhibits. He’s a pro at holding his tongue and masking his disapproval—a trait my father requires in his men. “The only information I got was a text informing me that they were leaving and I was to stay with you.”

The tears, the panic, the overwhelm—the untethered breakdown—swarm me. “I can’t breathe, Rex. I can’t fucking breathe.”

How much can one person take?

He pulls me closer, trying to soothe me as my shivering, soaking-wet body practically convulses in his arms. He wanted to get me some dry clothes, but I refused to stop at home first. I have to show up for my parents.

That thought has me wishing for the sunrise like never before.

“I’ll always show up, Ace. No matter how dark it gets, I’ll always fucking show up. That’s our fairy tale.”

The dark, blustery world whirls around the car as Doug jolts to a stop. Even the streetlights have withered in the whiteout, barely discernable. Something about that imagery is comforting. Us, parked here—still and small—as Mother Nature throws an absolute tantrum. The sun retreating, whether out of fear or routine or pure wisdom. The trees and wind and clouds all willingly becoming her pawns. It looks like a checkmate move. Like the end. But no matter how much havoc she wreaks, the sun will reign again.

So, whether or not my golden god illuminates this nightmare tonight, I can weather this storm.

I cough and sputter through several cleansing inhale-exhale cycles before I glance at Rex. “I’m good. I’ve got this.”

He nods at me and knocks on the window separating us from Doug. When the door opens, I rush inside with Rex hot on my heels.

It isn’t like a police station, which is what I pictured. It’s an office building. Men and women in business attire scurry about, chatting on phones and banging on keyboards, oblivious to the treacherous scene unfolding beyond the windows. It’s nearly seven o’clock, and not one of them seems to be prepared to end their day.

The guy who gave me the card swaggers out, all smug and cocky. He’s lost his overcoat and suit jacket, but his white button-up is still dotted with the drippings of our previous encounter.

“Miss Carver”—he offers his hand, so I take it, inwardly reeling—“thank you for arriving so quickly. Cooperation is best for everyone. I’m Agent Matthew Colehorn. Follow me.”

He may have shaken my hand and greeted me cordially, but the pleasantries are nowhere to be found. The snowstorm was warmer. But I can do icy.

Play their game.

He guides me to an empty office room, but a cursory look around reveals it’s anything but ordinary. There are cameras in the upper corners and nothing but a simple table and a handful of seats. Pulling out a chair, he gestures to it with a wordless request for me to sit, so I do, folding my frigid, gloved hands in my lap. The more compliant he thinks I am, the better.

Never let them see.

His scrutiny switches to Rex with irritation. “There’s a waiting room around the corner. Coffee, water. Don’t touch the food. It’s probably been out all fucking day.”

“I’m good where I’m at,” is all Rex returns, arms stiff in front of him, one hand clasping his wrist on the other. Bodyguard mode in overdrive. His gray eyes look downright lethal.

Colehorn pins me with a formidable glare. “Time to call your guard dog off. This case is classified. He can’t be in here.”

Rex clears his throat, issuing a subtle threat with the noise. “I’ll leave when Miss Carver’s lawyers arrive.”

It occurs to me that I might get further if I have a few minutes alone with Agent Asshole. “I’m good, Rex. I’ll let you know if I need you. Go wait for the attorneys.”

“Cee—”

“Please.” I cast him a stern, entreating stare. “Let me handle this.”

I respect his hesitation. It’s what Liam would expect, but I need to get my parents released quickly. If the FBI wants something from me, I’m not going to waste another minute before figuring out what that is.

A silent nod is Rex’s only response before he slips out of the room. That power my father mentioned might be valid. Rex would’ve argued with me in the past—or at the very least spewed a slew of instructions. I need to harness that authority. Maybe I don’t have much to stand on inside this room, but if I widen my lens, I’m the one in control here. I just need to find my angle.

Colehorn plops into a chair, flashing me his best bad-cop glower. It’s mildly impressive. He certainly nails the grumpy, threatening, my-mission-is-to-ruin-your-life scowl. If I wasn’t intimately connected to the country’s wickedest puppeteers or aware that those I love bury people who cross them, I’d probably cower at the sight. But since those are my closest and most cherished relationships, I simply wait quietly, unfazed and void of any expression.

His face softens, like he’s come to a decision—a new tactic. “You know what? I’m going to jump right in, Celeste. No need for any hard-ass bullshit. As I said, you have everything we need to make a deal on behalf of your parents. This can be nice and easy. Cooperate, and you’ll all be home before this storm traps us all here.”

“Well, I do appreciate the accommodations.” My mouth curls into a sardonic grin. “We aren’t quite on a first-name basis though, are we, Matthew?”

“You give me what I’m looking for, you can call me whatever the fuck you want, darling.” He opens a drawer on his side of the table and tosses a file down in front of me. “Let’s start there.”

I school my features, ingest a cleansing breath, and flip open the folder. The picture on top is of Liam, but I show no notion of recognition. Impatient, Colehorn spreads the pictures out. One after another, he flops them down with a smack. He is failing miserably at adopting the not-so-bad-cop demeanor he attempted a minute ago.

The photos transform the tabletop into a collage of my family. More of Liam. Wells. Ty. Gage. Various places. Sometimes alone. Sometimes together. No Ivy. That’s a positive.

Still, my insides coil around my spine, causing acid to jump for my throat, but I gulp it all down. My eyes meet his with the best poker face I’ve ever fashioned. “And?”

“Nothing?” he scoffs, nettled and morose. “How about this one?” He yanks the drawer open again and slaps another picture before me.

It’s me, walking into Whispering Pines Stables with Liam. Due to the grainy quality, I’d say it was extracted from the security cameras at the stables. But there’s no mistaking that it’s me. That was the day of our first kiss. My heart kicks my sternum in protest, my eyes stinging with resentment. I hate that this douchebag has any part of my beginning with Liam, but I don’t allow my demeanor to reveal that.

When I don’t respond, he flings another—Ty and Liam flanking me in a restaurant parking lot for our Valentine’s Day dinner. He hurls several others at me after that. In most of them, I’m barely recognizable. After the two that are clear, that probably doesn’t matter though. But there aren’t any from my date with Scott Filmore. That’s mildly reassuring.

“Look, Miss Carver. This guy right here”—he pecks at Liam’s face with his middle finger—“has quite a few identities. Not sure which one he uses with you. Let’s take a gander at the list. Pick one.” He lobs a piece of paper with a half-dozen names on it. Apparently, they’re all Liam.

Marshall Graham

Owen Bates

Liam Graves

Randy Patton

Richard Long (aka Dick)

Samson Cane

My hand smacks over my mouth as I smother a giggle. “Is this for real? Am I being punked? Richard Long—aka Dick?”

That is so Liam. Screwing with people and always a smart-ass. I’d love to know what he did with that identity.

Colehorn grunts, but there is the briefest hint of amusement there. I wonder if investigators ever get attached to the people they’re chasing, marveling at how smart they are. Liam is impressive. No one could deny that.

Colehorn tilts his head. “This guy has balls. I’ll give him that much. But he’s a con artist, as are the others you’ve been staying with.” One of his brows jumps for the drop-down ceiling. “Yeah. We know about that. These aren’t casual associations of yours, which means you’ve got insider information. If you can’t bear to turn on Dick—pun intended—squeal on his associates. That’s what it’s going to take. Your father has done some evil shit. And your mother knew about it. I can put them away for life without even working to build a case. But these guys are as despicable as it gets—that’s who we want.”

At the moment, silence is to my utmost advantage, so I say nothing.

Irritated by my wide-eyed gape, he leaps to his feet, the chair screeching out a complaint against the worn tiled floor. But I remain stoic while internally sickened.

He paces, a murderous rage emanating from him. “We know your father has only been following orders trickling down from a much larger organization. He’s probably got no choice at this point. I could be persuaded to be sympathetic, keep the sentence light. These guys are at the top of that pyramid. We take them down, and the whole goddamn group folds like a house of fucking cards.” He leans on the table, his fingers blanching, jaw pulsing, neck vein throbbing. “I’m not in the habit of making deals for murderers, so this is a brief gift I’m offering.”

He claims he knows I’m staying with them, but there isn’t a single picture of the house. He doesn’t seem to have any idea what name Liam is currently using or know his original name, Jason Petrovsky—that’s stuck in my head from when Ivy did her research last year. And he also hasn’t mentioned the specific organizations. Not The Order or KORT or either of the Mafia families. He’s fishing. It makes me wonder what he even has on my father.

I call bullshit. He’s bluffing.

“What kind of deal are we talking?” I ask.

That immediately calms him, like a sedative shot into an IV. He settles back into the chair across from me. “We can discuss details after I know how much you have to offer.”

Is this guy fucking serious? I am drenched. Freezing. Trapped in this drab room—which has an insane asylum vibe—with the world’s worst bluffer while my parents are threatened with who knows what—the death penalty? Didn’t sleep a wink last night because the love of my life is MIA. And now, I discover he’s wanted by the FBI, as are the rest of the men I call family. Not to mention that they’re possibly in possession of a book that could serve as evidence for the allegations they’re slinging at my father.

I start laughing, howling actually, maniacally. This is an end-of-my-rope breakdown. Nope. Worse. The rope is fully unraveled. I’m sure I look utterly crazy, which fits this day, this room, this current situation perfectly. Eventually, I resort to clamping my lips together until I can control myself. The absurdity of this interrogation, on top of the absurdity that is my life, is too much.

“I don’t know about you, Agent Colehorn, but I don’t usually ante up a buy-in before I’m assured of what the prize is.”

Planting an astonished gape on me, he chews his lip. I’m guessing that’s his tell. He’s worried. Fretting over his next move. “That’s right. You were a chess champion as a teen. I saw that in your file.” He bobs his head, like he’s grabbed my attention. “Yep. We’ve got a file on you too. And if you aren’t careful, you might get all tangled up in these charges.”

What a ridiculous card to throw in a bluff. Anyone with internet access would know that I was a chess champion at fifteen. How is that supposed to rattle me?

“Is that what you’re resorting to?” I crinkle my brow line as though I’m embarrassed for him. “An empty threat? Really? We both know you have nothing on me.”

I’m certainly not innocent, but if he knew about Scott Filmore or had anything at all to use against me, he’d have already mentioned it. That would be the smackdown to get me to comply—not that it would work. I’m not worried about myself. It’s clear my indiscretions are amateur hour in their endeavors.

He bends forward, his body shadowing my family collage. “What I have is you associating with criminals far worse than your father, which is saying something. Make no mistake, I will take them down. And when I do, you’re going down with them, darling. But maybe you’ll feel right at home. It will be a family reunion.”

On the word reunion, my father’s attorney flings the door open, immediately holding a halting palm up to me, instructing me to be quiet. He glares at Colehorn. “Have you or do you intend to charge Miss Carver with something?”

“Not yet,” Colehorn says with a loaded smirk.

“Come, Celeste.” The attorney cups his fingers to me. “My partner is trying to get you visitation with your parents before they’re booked.”

I stand to join him, my mind snagging on the end of his sentence. Booked. I wish I had that black book. I could surely find something to give them. That’s the royal flush.

Or I could work with what I have. Liam’s childhood social worker wasn’t entirely wrong. It is important to learn to play the hand we’re dealt. No matter the cards, it’s the execution that counts. When the stakes are high, most people are inclined to fold if they sense the slightest hint of an opponent having the winning hand. As Colehorn would say, like a house of fucking cards.

It’s not about having the ace. It’s about people believing you do.

He obviously doesn’t have one, which is why I’m here. Somehow, he got wind of my connection and thought I’d be the canary to sing. Amateur.

Maybe that’s why I go against my attorney’s directive to stay quiet. As I approach the door, I casually call out over my shoulder, “Agent Vargas tried this shit too. Didn’t work then. Won’t work now.”

When we were flipping through the black book on the plane, Gage and Liam mentioned him. The name rang a bell because the day the guys rescued Ivy and me from the Skulls, Liam called Vargas and informed me that he was their FBI contact. I have no clue what Vargas’s transgressions were in the book. I can’t remember if Liam or Gage mentioned specifics or not, and I didn’t read them for myself. But I do know, if Colehorn rattles off those six names, when he gets to Liam Graves—or whichever one Liam uses with him—Vargas will likely do whatever is necessary to smooth this all over since he can be implicated in Liam’s crimes. When he realizes that I knew enough to use him, he might even exonerate my parents.

That’s what I’m betting on.

My attorney grumbles, dragging me out of the room. “Do not say anything else.”

“Vargas talked to you?” Colehorn’s voice chimes from behind me.

When I glance back, he’s chewing on his lip. Nervous. That familiar rush I get when trapping an opponent in chess or cards or pool—any game really—floods me. So, I throw a little more into the pot. “Yeah. A couple of weeks ago when I was in Louisiana with those guys.”

That’s all he’s getting, but that’s enough for him to make the call. Fingers crossed Vargas isn’t an idiot. Between the names and the mention of Louisiana, hopefully, the massacre with the Skulls comes to mind. A slaughtering that Vargas is complicit in.

Colehorn spouts a few more questions about what the interrogation was regarding and so forth. Ignoring his inquiries, I keep my gaze straight ahead and saunter off to find my parents.

Always keep them guessing.

Rex is at the end of the hallway. Before we reach him, the attorney instructs me to stay put and silent while he sees what’s going on with my parents, so I hurry over to lean against Rex.

“Tell me you kept your mouth fucking shut,” is all he says.

“It was shut … about eighty percent of the time.”

“Fuck, Cee.”

“I’ve got this,” I assure him, patting his arm. “Any word?”

“No. Not even from Dante.” His disgruntled frown tells me he’s livid about having to answer that way, but suddenly, I’m not. If they aren’t responding and we’re getting radio silence from Dante, too, they might be in as much trouble as we are.

“Do me a favor, Rex,” I whisper while he guides me to one of the waiting room chairs. “Text Rena or Axel or Ryker, whichever Noire you can get in touch with. Tell them to let the Chief know that the ace, king, and queen have been seized here, but there’s no danger of folding. They should carry on as needed and shelter the storm.”

If there is some other reason they’re gone, I don’t want them stumbling upon this disaster. And I certainly don’t want Ivy anywhere near it since it’s clear she’s the one the FBI has no knowledge of. If anyone intercepts that text, it will probably look like code. It’s not that difficult to discern. Although texting about cards to a casino isn’t so far-fetched. But storm. No one will understand that I’m telling Wells to get Ivy to safety, except them.

Rex hands me his stale coffee and begins swiping the message on his phone while my gaze scampers around the office. A sip of the sludge turns my stomach. It’s more bitter than I am. The wind is howling outside, the chill seeping in, and the fluorescent lighting is mind-numbing. If I’m not mistaken or losing my mind, the bulbs are buzzing a monotone tune.

We don’t chat during the few hours we spend waiting to see or hear something about my parents. Not a word, other than murmurs when one of us refills our disgusting coffees. He seems as consumed and exhausted as I am.

This is going to be a nightmare to deal with, but my confidence has grown with every ticking second. I’m stressed, of course. Scared. Tied in knots. Angry that my parents are probably feeling defeated and ambushed. But mostly, I’m anxious to see them and assure them that one way or another, I’ll secure their freedom.

I’m convinced that even if I can’t, Ivy and the guys will fix this. I know I’ve doubted Liam and the rest of them before, but I don’t anymore. I can feel him with me—as palpable as I could feel him the other night in the movie room before I ever set eyes on him. Maybe the separation strengthened my belief in us. Or maybe the lessons he’s driven into me are finally taking root. Whatever the reason, my resolve is unwavering.

Ivy and those four men have all survived so much. This is a tiny blip, not a major ordeal. Whatever these FBI assholes have on my father can be erased. Somehow, Liam will show up for me, which means he’ll show up for my parents. I have to hold on to that.

Perhaps that’s why my brain revs a million miles a minute when I catch a conversation down the hall.

“Cole,” some young guy croons. He’s disheveled in a wrinkled, half-tucked blue dress shirt. If I had to venture a guess, I’d tag him as a rookie.

“Yeah?” Agent Colehorn snaps, like he wants to pummel the guy for daring to say his name—or half of it.

“Your, uh … girl has been blowing up Agent Mason’s phone. He’s tied up, so he wanted me to tell you.”

Colehorn pulls his phone from his pocket, glaring at it. “Fuck,” he hisses, squeezing the button on the side. It must have died. “Wait,” he orders the rookie, who is putting forth a gallant effort at vanishing. “Which one?”

“What?” the rookie returns with a gulp, tacking on, “Sir,” as he stumbles backward.

“Which fucking girl was blowing up Mason’s goddamn phone?” Colehorn wails.

“Oh, um, Maryann.” The young guy scurries away, and as he does, the planets align.

Holy shit. That conversation Gage and Liam had on the plane shortly before I discovered the information about my father smacks me in the face.

“This is like fucking gold,” Gage says, ticking off a handful of names. “Armstrong, Glines, Mason, Stewart, and motherfucking Cole. That asshole. Racketeering, extortion, and he fucking framed his mistress’s husband. Christ.” A high-pitched whoop warbles out of him, and he swipes some tears away from his face—evidently finding a whole lot of joy inside this book. Blackmail must be the way to his heart. “Forget jail time.” He snickers. “Doubtful Maryann knows about this shit. She’d fucking murder him.”

That’s my winning strategy. I set down my garbage coffee and strut toward Colehorn without hesitation. He catches sight of me, his eyes narrowing in question. To that, I smile and wink. I might not know much, but I know when I’m about to clinch a final play.

Rex is following behind me, his shoes squeaking on the floor in a chorus with my clacking heels. He’s barking hushed warnings at me, but I’m in too deep. I raise my hand to him in a silent reprimand to stand down, which he complies with. I’m not usually so demanding.

But when you have the hand, you go all in.

“Hey, Cole,” I say in greeting. My tone is friendly, but his spine snaps rigidly at the use of his nickname.

“What can I do for you, Celeste?”

I chuckle. “I knew you seemed familiar.” That’s a bluff. His nickname is familiar, but that’s it.

He must buy it because he takes his turn to utilize silence, which is a wise move at this juncture. I won’t be deterred though.

“Anyway, I was just thinking about what could make this whole mess with my parents go away. You were right. I do have something.”

“Great,” he stammers, glancing behind me and past Rex, who is stationed a few yards back. Colehorn is probably gauging whether my representation will be joining us. No need. “Should we go take a seat?”

I shake my head. The hallway is a far better place for this discussion—no cameras. “This won’t take long. Hypothetically, if I knew of a high-ranking official, like a federal agent, who had incidents of racketeering and extortion, would that be enough to cut a deal on behalf of my parents?”

His teeth grab at his lower lip, folding it in. “You know who we’re after. That’s the only deal I’m interested in.”

“Ahh. Protecting your own. I get that.” It’s exactly what I’m doing. I shift my weight as though I’m prepared to retreat, but twist back on my heel at the last second. “What if I knew that a federal agent committed those crimes and also cheated on his wife and framed his mistress’s husband? Hypothetically, of course.”

He glowers at me, half steaming, half prepared to pass out. Yeah. That’s my answer.

“It seems to me,” I continue, with all the confidence of someone prepared to bring down the house, “that information like that might secure the freedom of my parents and Richard Long and his associates. Don’t you think?”

“You’re threatening a federal officer,” he snarls. “I could put you away for that.”

“Was I?” I shrug, blinking my best Bambi eyes. “Prove it.”

I may be Liam’s Ace. But that was fucking checkmate.