The Sins that Ruin (Obsidian Knights Secret Society #3)

4. Scarlett

FOUR

“What happened?” I demand the moment I storm into the living room at the family townhouse in Sugar Hill.

My heart’s still beating too fast from the run-in with this JM—Malone—so when I get the call from Amelia, I’m about ready to hit the ER from the stress overload.

Dad glowers at Uncle Grant who holds his hands up. And Amelia bites her lip as she slides a look at me.

“I called her, Uncle Dale,” she says.

“Honey—” Dad sags back on the leather recliner. There’s a bandage on his head and it’s stained red from where the blood’s seeped through. I’ve got the horrible urge to laugh hysterically at the almost cartoonish way it looks.

“Honey,” he says again to Amelia. “I’m not mad at you, I just…” Now he shifts his eyes to me. “It was an accident. I hope you didn’t cut your evening short.”

“I just met a friend for some dinner and drinks.” There’s a line of tension between the two brothers, and I know whatever happened definitely wasn’t an accident. “Did you go to the doctor, Dad?”

He waves me away and picks up his wine. “I don’t need a doctor. I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

Grant mutters something I don’t catch, but Dad sends him a hard look and my uncle swipes up his rum and stomps out. And next to me, skinny, pretty Amelia wraps her arms around herself for comfort.

“I’m fine,” Dad repeats, almost as if he’s trying to convince himself of it. “Head injuries always look worse than they are.”

But the wineglass shakes a little as he takes a sip.

“I bandaged it.” Amelia gives me a lost look. “Daddy said there was a mugger on the way home from their meeting.”

I spin to my father. “A mugging? Did you call the police?”

“No. Nothing was taken.” Then he struggles out of the recliner and walks over to the window, looking down at the treelined street before he pulls the shades shut. He turns back to us. “You should be home in bed, Amelia. Both of you need to go to bed.”

Opening my mouth to make a smart comment, I bite it back because the air’s heavy, and while I don’t think he’s injured badly, he’s shaken.

Amelia, if she had gum, would snap it right about now, or since she doesn’t, raise the ceiling with an eye roll. But all she manages is a tiny attitude-infused look at me. She’s still wearing her private school uniform—the dress because she says it shows off her legs—and she taps her polished shoe on the hardwood floor.

“Scarlett?” she whispers. “What’s going on?”

“Go up to your room,” I say.

She sighs loudly and twirls around to grab her backpack that’s open and crammed with the books she’d probably been reading when Dad and Uncle Grant returned from their meeting. “So I guess Dad and I are staying here instead of going home tonight.”

Dad and Grant grew up here, as did I, so there are plenty of rooms in the four-story townhouse for when Grant, Amelia, and I stay over since Dad is the only one who still lives here. The bottom floor is for business and entertaining.

“Dad.” I don’t even frame it as a question.

He sighs. “You should move back in.”

“I’m not moving anywhere. I have a job and an apartment. I already do part-time admin for you. I’m not?—”

“Christ, you take after your mother,” he says. “Both of you, so strong-willed.”

“Dad, I know something’s going on?—”

“Which is why I want you back here, Scarlett,” he says, conveniently forgetting he’s trying to pretend things are fine and he wasn’t attacked.

I bite back the frustration because getting into the wrong argument won’t help. We both know him asking me to move back in, even temporarily, is a sign that he’s worried.

“Besides,” he adds, “this is closer to your job than Brooklyn is.”

“Considering I work in SoHo…” I stop. The Wellness Gardens isn’t what I want to talk about. “Dad, you can tell me if you and Uncle Grant did something.”

He swirls his wine around the glass and puts his other hand in his pocket. I’m sure he’s doing both to hide the shaking. “We don’t need to do something illegal to make money. We make money legitimately. And Hanlon Shipping’s a way to give back to the community, to create jobs. What’s being transported isn’t our business. It never has been. We provide the service, that’s all.”

“That sounds like you know it’s not on the up-and-up.”

“Shipping, Scarlett. I don’t ask or look and…” He sighs. “There have been threats, you know that. You’re a smart girl. Which is why, until we know who’s behind it all, we should pull our wagons in close.”

“We’re in the Wild West now?”

“Go check on your cousin. We’ll handle this, but I don’t want her traumatized. As I said, head injuries bleed. And Scarlett?”

“Yes?” I pause at the door, wanting to get this damn red dress off, wanting to wash Malone’s touch from my body.

“Send Grant in? We have a big shipment tomorrow to discuss…”

“Uncle Grant?” I stop at the door to the small living room he has attached to his old bedroom.

His head snaps up from the back of the couch. His feet are on the coffee table in front of him and his laptop and phone are on the cushion next to him.

He looks at me, a startled expression on his face.

“I went to see JM.”

Grant frowns. “How…?”

“What kind of trouble are you and Dad in?”

“What did he say?” He rubs a hand over his short salt-and-pepper beard.

I take in his expression. It’s interesting. He’s not shocked or horrified that I went to find this guy. But he looks damn curious. “Uncle Grant?”

“I tried to reach out to him myself, but I didn’t get a response.” He blows out a breath, then picks up his rum. “What did he say?”

“He said he might help.”

“Then tell him we’ll do anything.” He glances past me into the hallway. “Some of our clients, they— There’s a reason your father won’t pry, a reason we keep things discreet and the client list secret. Small businesses like ours attract all types, you understand, and sometimes…” He sighs. “I don’t think this is a threat from a client. But we don’t have anything to go on and it needs to be handled.”

There’s something else there, I can feel it. I don’t know if it’s because he’s lying or because I’m so wound up after meeting Malone and that moment outside the bar, but I grasp on to it like there’s something in his words I need to unwrap that’ll get us out of this without involving that dangerous man.

Whatever this is.

“How do you not know where the threat is coming from?”

“We’re rich, multimillionaires. This is New York. There’s always someone looking for the fast track. I don’t know. Maybe your father did something he doesn’t remember. Shit, Scarlett, maybe I did. But if so, it was a long time ago. Everything’s vague. Except the danger. Which is why?—”

He stops and scrubs a hand down the front of his face.

“Why did you want this JM guy?”

“He’s not affiliated, and he’s new to New York. All the people I’ve asked said the same thing; he can protect us and find the threat. And if there’s protection, we’d be left alone. The right protection.”

It doesn’t make sense. This is a part of the world I know nothing about. A part I don’t understand. Who goes around making vague threats rooted in nothing?

“Have they asked for money? Warned you and Dad off from anything? Any shipments?”

“No, and that makes it worse. Like someone’s biding their time.”

Watch your step. Your daughter’s life depends on it.

I remember that one.

Play by the rules or I’ll make you.

That one, too.

There were more and they were all so vague that… I stop my mind from spinning. There are more. I know it. And Dad and Uncle Grant aren’t telling me about them. They have to know what these threats are all about or at least suspect the reason for them. Because, otherwise, they’d take everything to the cops.

“Then it’ll blow over,” I say, feeling absolutely zero confidence in my words because I know they’re total bullshit.

So does Uncle Grant. He slams the glass down and rises from the couch. “Did you see your father, Scarlett? I’m not about to let you and my daughter be put in jeopardy, too. The police can’t do a damn thing with any of this. All I need is a meeting with Malone. I know I can convince him to help.”

Horror creeps up my back to the nape of my neck, an icy tingle stabbing at my skin.

Because his pointed look clearly says he expects me to deal with Malone for them.

“Dad wants to discuss work with you. If I hear back from Malone, I’ll let you know.”

And with that, I turn on my heel and walk out of the room.

I don’t stay the night on principle, even though it’s late when I get home to my Park Slope apartment.

Inside the wide, old one-bedroom apartment near the park, I stand for a long moment in the silence. Nothing seems out of place and yet… I can’t shake the feeling someone’s been in here, going through my things.

It’s an unsettling feeling I can’t shake, like sticky fingers on my skin. I check every window and then triple-check the locks on the door.

Sleep is a hard thing to find. When I wake up the next morning, I feel like I pulled an all-nighter. Nightmares I don’t quite remember leave a veil of soot over me, and with a sense of unease that I can’t squelch, I get ready and head to work.

It doesn’t help that my phone’s silent.

No missed calls. No texts.

There’s no word from Malone.

It doesn’t matter I never gave him my number. He strikes me as the sort of man who can find out anything, and I’m so jumpy that Felice, the director at The Wellness Gardens, sends me home early.

I need a distraction from all of the horrible scenarios looping through my mind. I’m itching to experiment with a new cupcake recipe I’ve been working on because baking’s my happy place and cupcakes doubly so. But instead, I take the train uptown. If Dad and Uncle Grant have a busy day, then I’m sure there’s admin work to be done at the townhouse.

Plus, maybe I’ll see if Grant has any more ways to reach Malone.

If I decide to help.

If I go that route.

The raised voices assault my ears when I let myself in. Dad and Uncle Grant. It’s coming from the second floor, so I quietly tiptoe up the stairs.

“…another threat against Amelia,” says Grant. “I won’t have it. Bishop isn’t someone to be ignored.”

“We don’t know if it’s him. And even if it was, that was thirty years ago. Forgotten.”

“I remember,” my uncle says.

Dad sighs. “Yet he’s tried to use us for shipping.”

“We turned him down, Dale.”

“It’s probably a competitor wanting to muscle their way in. Someone who wants to get into organized money, make a name,” Dad says. “Which isn’t how you do it. And Bishop was told the truth. We were booked up with clients. We gave him other names he could use. We’ve had threats before, and we’ve dealt with them. Hired extra security.”

“This is different. You know it, Dale.”

“I don’t?—”

“And if this escalates?” Grant’s voice thunders. “Someone pulled a fucking gun on Amelia yesterday, and today another threat came in against her. Just because she brushed it off doesn’t mean shit. She’s fifteen, thinks she’s thirty and invincible?—”

I turn and hurry back down the stairs and out the front door. My face is lava hot and my chest tight. So tight it’s hard to breathe. I press a hand against my heart, the ache quaking my shoulders, terror commanding every cell of my body.

My vision blurs when I pull out my phone. I blink rapidly and my thumb hovers over Amelia’s number.

“What the fuck are you going to do?” I mutter to myself. “Just call her and ask what happened?”

She didn’t mention it last night so… I know her. And this is exactly what my little cousin would do. Act like nothing matters and get furious and clam up if I probe.

It’s not like I’m not going to do that.

But I need to give her a day.

Besides, she’s involved in so many after-school clubs and programs, she won’t even be able to take the call.

I hope Uncle Grant gets her out of here and puts her somewhere safe. I?—

I stop the thought before finishing it, then get an Uber headed to Alphabet City.

I don’t even try to call the number I took from the office.

The man said he doesn’t need or want money, but there has to be something that will entice him to help us. I’ll offer him whatever it takes. Someone to run his dirty, filthy errands, even. Right now, if he can help find who pulled a gun on a fifteen-year-old, then I’ll be his gofer. I’ll pay him to work for his corrupt ass.

When the Uber finally arrives at Orchid Lane, I realize my mistake.

It’s four o’clock in the afternoon.

I grit my teeth and get out of the car. Staring at the building, I figure what the hell? I’m already here, so I grab the door handle. Shockingly, it opens.

I walk inside.

“We’re closed,” says a man who’s polishing the bar.

I look around, trying to work out where the office would be. “Good. I’m here to see Malone.”

“You and about half the women in Manhattan. Come back when we’re open.”

“Tell him,” I say, in my best effort at a take-no-prisoners voice, “that Scarlett Hanlon is here.”

“Look, kid,” the guy says. “I don’t care if you’re queen of the fuckin’ world?—”

He stops, nods, and mutters something.

When he looks at me, I see he’s wearing an earpiece. “I guess it’s your lucky day. This way.”

I follow the man through what must be a secret door, a panel of the wall that hides a dark hall. We climb a set of stairs to a big wooden door. He knocks once and opens it, then leaves.

With a shaky breath, I turn the handle and step into a huge tacky office that has a lot of black velvet sofas and a large lacquered desk in the center of it.

Malone leans against it, dressed in cream and black. His longish blond hair shines and his tall, muscular form makes my insides squeeze hard. He shouldn’t look this good. He’s a criminal.

But he does.

“I take it you still want my fucking help.”

“Yes.” I take half a step closer. “W-what’s the price?”

He smiles.

“That’s easy… You.”