Kairo (Van Doren)

Chapter 1

MALCOLM CONFRINGO

My room at the Van Doren Estate is nearly as big as the house I once had. I’m exaggerating, but as I stand in the entry foyer of my suite, I muse that I’m not exaggerating by that much.

When I accompanied the Van Dorens back to their home in Arizona after I left the wild game refuge where I’d been for more than four months as a target for sick fucks’ amusement, I’d wavered about going home.

I was sure I didn’t have a home to go back to.

I was sure everyone in my life was convinced I was dead.

My job was gone. My house was likely foreclosed on or handed over to my family to sell.

My car was repossessed. My phone shut off.

All my credit cards were sent to collections.

I’m sure even my bank accounts and retirement accounts had already been drained by my family.

Not that I looked into the details, but by the time we were finished turning the tables on those who purchased hunts and cleaning up the mess the operations left behind, I’d been missing from my life for over seven months.

Missing persons cases don’t last long as active projects.

There’s far too much shit in this country for a grown-ass man being plucked off the streets—who isn’t filthy rich or a politician—to capture attention for too long.

I kind of laughed when the triplets asked if I wanted to move into the big house. Then they showed me the second floor, the one reserved for employees should they choose to live on the property, and I was seduced by the space.

Over the last four months, I’ve done odd projects for the Van Dorens. I’ve hung out with Azlan and his family. I’ve slowly built up a bank account again, and while I can’t say that I’ve replaced everything I once loved, I’m feeling okay about my life.

With no true direction and not feeling a strong pull to reconnect with everyone I left behind, I remain on the Estate with the Van Dorens.

Often, I do just what I’m doing right now: stand in the entryway and look around, wondering how my life went from being treated like a literal wild animal for other humans’ entertainment, to living in a house, in a room of my own, far more grand than the White House.

This is epic. The crown molding mimics old plaster, carved ornately.

The lighting is all glittering and made of crystal or glass.

Maybe diamonds. The windows are tall and rounded at the top, inlaid with iron in stunning designs.

The floors are wide plank polished wood covered with luxurious rugs.

The walls are exactly what you’d expect in the old houses—wood panels framed with raised pillars and the sexiest damn wallpaper on the upper half.

The furniture is just as grand. All heavy pieces of wood, hand-carved and breathtaking.

There’s not one fireplace but three! Three in my room alone; one in the entry parlor room—where I have a sitting area, a desk, and a little closet for my shoes and shit; one in the bedroom, which is the most beautiful of the three; and then one in the fucking bathroom. For ambiance and shit. It’s… stunning.

So many times over the past eleven months, through very different highs and lows in my life, I can’t help but stand here and think, this is my life?

There were times in the woods as I ran, I wondered if I was in some kind of coma, and this was the horror I dreamed while I was unconscious.

Like a soap opera in my head, it kept going and going, revealing different horrors all the time, introducing and killing off new people every week.

I had the same thought again as I stood over a body that Azlan Deth and I tore apart, turning their intended abuse back on them. Watching them die horrible, tragic deaths. This is my life?

Now I’m standing in a room that I simply don’t fit in with my hardened shell, ongoing nightmares, and jagged, dirty edges that never smooth or clean entirely.

I don’t fit into the Van Doren big house at all, and yet, every single person here is welcoming.

Kind. Accepting me as one of their own from the moment I stepped into the house.

The triplets offered me a room upstairs where the family dwells, but I thought that was a little too abrupt for me.

I’m not family. I’m not here because I was brought in as a guest or family.

Not that I’m necessarily an employee either, but…

I don’t know. This felt more right, even if I distinctly feel like I stand out.

One of my favorite things that I’ve taken for granted over the years is that I now get to change my clothes every day again. I get to shower every day. Shave when I want to. Brush my teeth!

It’s the littlest things that we forget are luxuries, and not everyone has access to them every day.

I touch the wallpaper, noting the texture for maybe the hundredth time. I try not to touch it too much. No matter how often we wash our hands, there are still oils, and those oils transfer like dirt. But it’s a mesmerizing texture, and I’m not even sure why.

My phone pings as I take a seat to slip into my boots.

A glance at my watch says that the ping is a reminder.

I’m supposed to head over to the office building to meet with Jalon.

That he has this ridiculously modern, sexy structure in the middle of what might otherwise be an enormous farm never fails to make me snort.

Yet Jalon is fucking magic because that bitch blends in like it’s part of the scenery. Maybe it’s the mirrored windows.

I wave at everyone I pass. Names I’m beginning to remember as belonging to friendly faces. There’s a white truck out the side door that I’ve been using. Something with zero identifying features. As bland as they come. Easily disappearing like ghosts into the trees where the real secrets hide.

Yes, I know the secrets. Maybe not all of them, but after going through the shit I did and then almost a dozen Van Dorens showing up with figuratively bloody knives, ready to tear the place down to get their men back?

Even if they’d tried to tell me it was nothing and I should forget it, there’s no forgetting it.

Then there’s Azlan. Yeah… no forgetting him, either.

Thinking of Azlan makes me smirk. We’ve become unexpected friends, I think.

Something all three of his partners find surprising and amusing.

Our friendship, sparked by the tasks we took on together at the refuge, is maybe rooted in something dark and decayed.

Seeing him kill someone gave me confidence that he was an asset and he could protect my back—something I’d never felt there.

When he saw me kill someone, I think I gained his respect.

He nodded. Not quite in approval, but… approval?

I don’t know what happened, but as the days went on and Azlan and I tag-teamed the tasks together, friendship grew. Since then, we’ve hung out many times. Sometimes here. Sometimes with his family.

It’s nice to have a friend who understands all your dark corners. It’s healing in a way I’m not sure I understand.

One of the things I find really amusing for no reason at all is that everything is accessed via fobs on the Estate.

Everything. I suppose, in a way, that makes the most efficient sense.

Voss can turn off access immediately, and you’re suddenly no longer allowed into an area.

Or, like me, my access can be turned on within seconds of a phone call being made, and I don’t even need to go anywhere to get a key or have a badge reprogrammed or something.

There are keys, from what I understand, but at this point, I feel like they’re nostalgic reminders of an archaic past that the Van Dorens find more amusing than useful.

My fob lets me into the Van Doren office building and to the top floor, where I find Jalon’s office. It doesn’t always allow me access to certain floors. For instance, I don’t have access to floors three through eight. I don’t even know what’s there, but I was curious last week and tried.

Of course, once I left the building, Voss called.

Probably seeing my fob flashing all over his computer screen as I’m trying to access floors I shouldn’t be.

He first asked if I had my fob in my possession.

When I said I did, he asked about my whereabouts.

I saved him from having to go through a list of questions and told him I was just curious to see what happens if I try to access a space I’m not allowed in.

We talked for a while, during which I think he was probing me for answers, though I’m not entirely sure.

I know he has a soft spot for me. Brek made it through the human hunt ordeal as well as he did because I helped him as best I could.

I’m not saying I got him out in one piece.

There were certainly pieces of Brek littered all over the forest, most of which weren’t visible or recoverable.

Pieces that Brek will never get back. Those holes will always be open wounds, no matter how long the past is behind him. I get that. There are pieces I’ll never find again, either.

Almost every single door is open as I walk down the hall of the top floor. Which means the triplets look up when I poke my head in, and I receive identical smiles from all three. Avory is the only one distinguishable at this point. His hair is getting long, and his beard is all filled in.

Voss’ door isn’t open all the way, but I imagine it’s because he has his kid in there. I hear Axl babbling to himself over the sound of Voss’ keyboard. It makes me grin.

Further down the hall, I finally come upon Jalon’s office.

The door is wide open. He’s sitting at his desk in a simple dark suit—charcoal-gray trousers and jacket, stormy-gray shirt, and a black tie.

His hair is short and dark with gray over his ears.

His face is clean except for the dark shadow of growth beginning to darken his jawline.

When I tap on the door with my knuckles, his piercing blue eyes meet mine.

I’m always amazed at the color of his eyes.

They’re unlike his brothers’ or sons’, all of which are various shades of dark brown.

Jalon’s are striking in their blueness. Something about them makes my heart stop in my chest for a second every time he looks at me.

“Come in,” he says, and I push the door shut behind me.

I take a seat in front of his desk, and Jalon sits back. “Are you familiar with Chicago?”

“It’s a city at the base of Lake Michigan, no?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up in amusement. “The sudden surge in crime?”

“If you’re referencing the government-sponsored gestapo, yes. I’m aware.”

Jalon inclines his head. “I have a delivery for my brother, Kairo. I’d like you to escort it.”

“Is this code for something else? I’m still learning your code speak, Mr. Van Doren.”

He chuckles. “No. I want you to escort the delivery. See that it gets where it needs to go without interruption.” Jalon pauses. “Perhaps hang around for a few days to offer Kairo support.”

I haven’t met Kairo yet, but I’ve heard all about him. In response, I lower my head. There’s something else Jalon wants. I just need to wait it out.

“I’m concerned. If I offer help, he becomes more hostile.

If I ask if he needs help, he jumps off the deep end.

The response toward anyone else is the same.

However, he doesn’t know you, so perhaps you can get a different answer as long as you’re not entirely straightforward about why you’re hanging around.

I won’t interfere with what my brother has going on, but I am concerned that this new influx of violence is more than his crew can handle without reinforcements. ”

“Okay. I can do that.”

“I should warn you—Kairo doesn’t take kindly to those he believes are meddling. Especially when he believes that the interference came from me. You will meet anger and hostility, Malcolm.”

I grin. “I survived being hunted like a deer. Kairo will be nothing.”

Jalon’s smile is never wide, but I like his smile all the same.