Chapter 24 #2
“That would be a pleasure, ladies, but not possible.” They pout, theatrically, but back off without argument.
It’s a polite rebuff, not wanting to offend my host, but there’s no temptation for me in these women.
DK’s already drawing eyes too–young, built, the kind of rough charm that makes women forget territory lines.
A brunette with a tattoo curling over her collarbone drifts toward him, hips swaying.
“You’re new,” she says, voice thick like honey. “I could show you around.”
DK’s expression doesn’t change. “No thanks.” Firm. Disinterested. Not even a flicker of temptation.
Payne’s women are a perk of royal status, but I’m learning that he’s dedicated and loyal. Not just to me, but to the house as a whole.
To the Baroness.
Killian steps out from the back hallway–large and broad-shouldered.
He’s slimmed down since his days as a quarterback but as he proved in the Fury, he’s still fast and strong.
There are times like this, unassuming ones, where I see that he’s got more of his mother's genes than his father’s.
I can see it in the hard line of his jaw and stormy eyes.
He was the first of the next generation to step into the role, and he’s done better at leadership than I expected.
No theatrics, checked ego. Just results.
He spots us, gives a short nod, then gently shoos the women away with a flick of his hand. “Ladies. Find better marks. The King’s here for business.”
They scatter like smoke.
Killian assesses the two of us. “Where’s the other one?”
“Attending to other matters,” I reply. Hunter took Arianette with him to his shift at the radio station–keeping her close and busy in hopes of taking her mind off what she saw at the fountain.
Payne leads us through a side door guarded by a beefy LDZ soldier who steps aside without a word.
The hallway beyond is narrow, lined with more doors, more secrets.
At the end: a billiards room. Pool tables, dartboard on the wall and a bar along one side.
But the focal point is a long conference table in the center, six chairs around it like a war council.
He’s updated the room since Daniel owned the place, where the prior King notoriously used the downstairs quarters to hold his treasures.
It’s no secret that Killian is working to change the way his father managed South Side.
It’s well known that the women at the Hideaway are here by choice and paid handsomely for their effort, an attempt at legitimacy compared to the way things were handled before.
Word is that his Lady’s influence has changed the way the Lords are run.
One of his seconds, Dimitri Rathbone, is lounging on a barstool, dark hair falling over his eyes, hand-rolled cigarette burning between his fingers.
A moment later, Sy barges in, shoulders almost as wide as the doorframe.
He’s passing the bar when Nick comes in behind him, heading straight over, propping his elbows on the countertop.
“Christ,” he mutters, “is there no bartender down here?”
Killian ignores them, going straight for his seat at the head of the table while I pause at the bar and glance at DK. “Have a drink. I’ll handle this alone.”
He nods and strides off to join Nick and Rathbone without argument.
That’s when the door behind the bar swings open.
An older woman steps through–her hair coiffed high like a crown, lined face set in a permanent scowl, eyes sharp enough to cut glass.
Nick swears under his breath.
“Well, ain’t this a sight,” she snorts, “every cocksucker with a crown and every bottom-feeder in South Side crammed in here like roaches.”
“Mrs. Crane,” I say, voice even. “You’re looking well.”
“And you’re looking like a rat turd on the bottom of my shoe.”
Neither man at the bar can fight a laugh at the old crone getting in a jab at the Baron King, and honestly, I smile under the mask, grateful that she can’t see it.
Delores Crane is a legend in Forsyth–keeping more secrets in her head than most people have in their graves.
I approach the bar, slide a hundred-dollar bill across the scarred wood.
“Give the boys a round of drinks. Maybe one for yourself.”
She snatches the cash and shoves it into her ample bosom without ceremony. “Get your own goddamn drinks,” she barks, eyeing the room. “Secret meetings between Royals sounds like a bunch of bullshit to me.”
“Delores, chill,” Rathbone drawls, taking a drag off his cigarette. “Nothing shady’s going on other than whatever the fuck you tried to serve for dinner last night.”
She flips him off without looking.
Approaching the table, I take a seat, and note, “Many things have changed over the years in Forsyth, but the mouth on Delores Crane isn’t one of them.”
“That woman is a crusty bitch, but she’s our crusty bitch.” Killian smiles before his face grows serious. “But she’s not wrong. This meeting is unorthodox. Gathering without every active house present isn’t how we do things.”
“It’s how people get killed,” Sy adds, clearly in agreement.
“You’ll understand my hesitation to include East End in this meeting soon.
It’s for their good as well as ours.” I drop a file before each of the men.
They both eye them uneasily, but Killian's curiosity wins first, flipping it open. Inside are photocopies I’ve made from the police reports Max brought me.
“What is this?” Sy asks, not moving to read the report.
“A little bit of Forsyth history,” I reply, sitting back and letting them absorb the details. “It was your Duchess that got me curious about a connection between the past murders in Forsyth and current ones.”
“Lav is a little obsessed,” Sy says, scratching his neck. “She’s deep in with the Carver stuff but—”
“Holy fuck,” Killian swears, then looks up at me. “Seriously?”
“Confirmed,” I say, and we both wait for Sy to catch up. He flips open the report and reads quickly. His breath catches when he sees it. “Now you understand the reason for discretion.”
“Lex Ashby’s father was the Forsyth Carver?” Killian asks.
“It appears so. The boy found at the scene was placed into the system and adopted by Rufus. The very first of his wayward sons.”
“Although this is surprising, these crimes can’t be connected,” Sy says. “They don’t even fall into copycat range.”
“A series of murders, all college age and connected to Greek life,” Killian says. “How is that not a fucking copycat?”
“Because so far none of the victims have been used for carving practice!” Sy’s fist lands on the table. “Look,” he says, taking several deep breaths. “I know it looks bad, and I know you’re going to think I’m just protecting Verity–”
“Which we always will,” Nick shouts from the bar.
“I don’t think Lex is a killer.” He looks between us, a flicker of uncertainty in his blue eyes. “Do you?”
“You have to admit it’s a little on the nose,” Killian says.
“Too on the nose,” Sy argues. “Serial killer genetics are unproven–there’s no solid evidence of a correlation between a parent’s behavior and a child’s.
Plenty of monsters raise normal kids, and plenty of normal parents raise monsters.
The Carver’s signature was surgical–clean cuts, posed bodies, no bugs, no staging like this.
This feels… theatrical. Like someone’s trying to invoke the legend without copying the playbook. ”
Ritualistic.
I don’t dare say the word out loud.
“What about you?” Killian turns to me. “Do you think he did it?”
I think on it long and hard, the same way I have since Max brought me the report.
I don’t have proof, but my gut leads me to say, “Unlikely. I’m not even sure when he would’ve had the time with his academics and Rufus’ demands.
” I tap my gloved fingers on the tabletop.
“Now that he has a Princess and a child? I can’t see it. ”
“There are plenty of sadistic men in Forsyth that are also fathers,” Sy notes, his harsh tone set in my direction. Our eyes meet, and there’s a moment where he could reveal it all–tell Killian the truth about my identity. That Timothy Maddox wears the Baron King’s mask.
That I’m one of those sadistic fathers.
And I’ll be the one to tell them what we’re doing next.
“Simon, you need to focus on getting your man released from prison. Nicholas is right, there should be enough evidence with the new body. Use the DKS legal team to get him in front of a judge.” I look to Killian.
“You’re going to keep an eye on Ashby just in case.
We absolutely cannot ignore what we know. ”
“And what about you?” Killian asks, his thick arms crossing over his chest. He’s clearly not happy about me giving directions. “What the hell are you going to do?”
“Whoever left that last body was sending a message.” Intentional. “And I’m going to use every resource at my disposal to find out what it meant.”