Chapter Three Tyler
Chapter Three
TYLER
“I FUCKED UP,” I admit to Preston and Tobias collectively as they stare back at me through their individual screens.
Preston is already dressing due to his daily four a.m. wake-up call.
Tobias is much less alert, looking jet-lagged and sleep-rumpled as he steps out of the back door of his and Cecelia’s Virginia house.
A pit stop they decided to make before their upcoming trip to Brazil later today.
Their mission is to gather a few capable birds and take down another on Dom’s list.
For the last hour and change, I’ve been combing the streets for the woman who somehow fucking managed to escape my building—her exit just as much of a mystery as her gaining access to my floor. I damn near broke my shoulder ramming into the elevator once I realized my fuck-up.
“That’s a rare and intriguing admission coming from you, brother,” Tobias muses, “and almost worth the wake-up call.” He curses in French—no doubt due to Beau’s whining—before he lifts his chin, beckoning for me to continue.
“You know that file I’ve been spending more of my free time on?” I ask them both.
“Which?” Preston prompts before sipping his morning espresso from his new machine—a recent Christmas gift from Tobias that our president is now addicted to.
“The one with three separate names on the tab,” I relay.
Though we’re safely on a secure line, all three of us agreed to keep bird business off the wire unless we absolutely can’t avoid it.
None of us believes that type of privacy exists—even and especially for the leader of the free world—so we keep our talk in code and brevity as much as possible until we’re face-to-face.
Luckily, we’re all within miles of each other today.
“I know the one,” Preston says. “What of it?”
“Let’s just say I had a meet-cute with name number three at my front door a few hours ago, and one of her hobbies is bird-watching.”
Both pause on the line as I continue. “T, can you get to the house?”
“On my way.” He clicks his tongue in summons for Beau before glancing back at me on-screen. “That serious?”
“Yeah, that fucking serious.”
* * *
Tobias’s laughter echoes throughout the tiny room we built within the West Wing, where we have most of our private meetings. Forever opting out of the Oval Office and using the historical landmark as more of a promotional space for Preston’s PR opportunities.
“Fuck you,” I bark at Tobias as he grants me a full belly laugh. “Get it all out, because you’re not going to find any of the rest of this funny.”
“You thought I hired a call girl for you?” he muses.
“It was the only way I saw her getting access to my fucking front door,” I grumble, “as well as knowing about the tattoo and my level of involvement.”
“As if I would give that information so freely while hiring someone to service your cock,” he scoffs. “Exactly how much did you drink?”
“I wasn’t keeping count, but a guesstimate would be about twelve fingers. It was a special occasion. Zach got inked, remember?” I run a hand down my jaw in irritation. “I was in no state to critically think.”
“Right, well, congratulations,” he chuckles, “and I guess my condolences to your cock.”
“Har, har, prick,” I turn my phone screen so he can scope the fucking temptation for himself. A temptation that’s punished my mind and tortured my dick since she graced my door.
“Forgive me, Molly,” Preston jests in apology to his absent First Lady, “but damn.”
“She’s a rare beauty,” Tobias says, grabbing the phone and taking in the clear image of Larissa wearing nothing but lingerie, a still frame captured in the elevator before she flipped off my security camera.
“I truly can’t blame you, brother … in the least,” Tobias continues.
His own reaction is rare, considering that, at this point, Cecelia has blinded him to the point where he can no longer notice or appreciate any other woman.
It’s impossible not to acknowledge what a smoke show Larissa is. Close up, she’s feminine divinity.
“Exactly,” I snap as an involuntary, ingrained image of her submissive and under my touch shutters in—head thrown back, glossy black locks cascading over her shoulders, plump lips parted, insanely tight, warm, wet pussy clamping around my finger.
I shake it off, pissed that she had me so fucking hard and willing and, just after, irritated enough to lose my faculties to the point I missed what was so obvious, including the words she hand-fed me.
Embarrassment turned to fury in a nanosecond once I realized my error in judgment, but the question that plagues me most is how in the fuck she got in and out of my building. The answer is always the most obvious—she had to be working with someone on the inside.
“She got in under the guise of an invitation from my tenant in 16C, who often orders a wide variety of company to my high-rise. How she managed to get to my fucking door is a mystery, but she got out, and that’s our more pressing issue.
” I sigh. “At the moment, we have every drone and every bird in the area, as well as red, white, and blue, on the hunt, so I’m confident we’ll have her within the hour.
” I turn to Preston. “I grounded everything fifteen minutes after I lost her.”
Preston gawks. “You grounded every fucking domestic and private flight leaving DC to find this woman?”
“Yes, as well as all surrounding airports, and I’m about to tell you why.”
Prying open my laptop—now loaded with Dom’s files—I click on the one marked with the names of two military officials we recently took down.
The two pieces of garbage I personally ended with severe prejudice—along with the third name.
All three names Dom suspected were deeply connected to Roman’s old partner—and our very first target—Anthony Spencer.
While investigating Spencer, we discovered he was running a ring that rerouted gun shipments meant for our soldiers back to the US.
Guns stolen with the intent of being sold on the black market to anyone with enough cash before being used in street crimes or worse.
The war sparked when Dom was killed, along with Delphine’s limited time, interrupted any further investigation on my part.
After, the trail went ice. That was until we opened Dom’s files.
With two names on the file eliminated, there’s only one name left to go.
The very name Larissa chanted to me in taunt from where she stood in the elevator.
“DiCicco,” Tobias utters warily as the gravity of it sinks in. “Brother, you’re telling me the fucking mafia knocked on your front door last night?”
“Yeah, by sending the lone daughter of Ciro DiCicco, one of the oldest and most connected families in the US,” I relay. “Ties to the Vanderbilts, the McConnells, and several others.”
“The Vanderbilts don’t even make the Fortune Twenty list anymore,” Preston interjects. “I should know, their contributions stopped with my father’s campaigns.”
“The Vanderbilts’ generational wealth has been squandered by the preceding heirs over the years,” I counter, “but that’s just money, Pres.
Their history and ties run deep. They’re rooted in the foundation of every corner of the States, including North Carolina—Asheville specifically—less than an hour from Triple Falls, which is where Ciro DiCicco lives. ”
“I’m familiar with the area,” Preston says. “The Biltmore House, resurrected by the Vanderbilts, is a historic landmark now. And you’re right, that’s forefathers’ fucking history that these families go back.”
“They’re embedded with ties centuries old,” I add for Tobias as Preston runs his thumb down the list of names of the associated families.
“My dad had dealings with damn near every family on this list back when,” Preston offers.
“I was kind of hoping that was the case,” I tell him.
Preston’s father—a former congressman—had died just short of forty-five by way of a heart attack.
His mother lost her battle with breast cancer not long after, leaving him orphaned young.
His father’s preceding reputation and government standing had left a legacy, which Preston has since upheld in spades.
“This is awfully close to home, brother,” Tobias interjects, all amusement void in his tone as he tilts his head toward me. “So, she knew you were a bird?” he asks, the implication of what this might mean hitting him hard.
“No coincidences,” I tell him. “I fucking hate that a lot of the conversation before I started sobering up is still fuzzy, but she kicked off the convo by asking me not to be unkind.” The implied meaning—a group of ravens.
“She looks familiar,” Tobias says, scrutinizing the picture. “But I can’t place it.”
“She came with a warning. She said we were bragging way too much on air and that they were looking for us. That they haven’t pinpointed us yet, but when they do, it’s game over.”
“You didn’t—” Tobias starts.
“Of course fucking not. I gave her exactly shit, T, and confirmed nothing. But she relayed that she knows about us and suspects we’re responsible for what’s going on in the headlines, and that’s enough.”
“That’s to be expected,” Preston says. “We’re supposed to be rattling cages.”
“There’s a big fucking difference between letting our enemies know we’re coming and having them know exactly who is coming for them.
” I swallow. “If they’ve been watching—and she shares this—it endangers every fucking bird whom she’s aware has ink.
If Ciro knows—and odds are he does—he might have already disclosed this to those who think they’re in our lineup of future targets.
Targets who want nothing more than to keep us from making them our next house call. ”
“Jesus Christ.” Preston pales. “I … Fuck. I haven’t thought that far ahead yet.”
The three of us share long, knowing looks, realizing how detrimental this could be for all of us. The safety of our birds, our future plans, and our very purpose are at stake.