CHAPTER SIXTEEN
WELLS
S he punches at my chin. Intercepting her fist, I lower her arm and spin her back to my front, securing my forearm over her throat, but not taking away her air.
She throws an elbow to my ribs seconds before her head jerks into my jaw with astounding force.
I tighten my grip, so she clutches my forearm with both hands, lifts herself enough to slam her heels into my toes with a grunt, hurls another elbow to my ribs, and wriggles loose.
It might not have been sufficient to evade an attacker, but she’s progressing, faster and stronger, so I allow her to untangle from me.
“Good,” I encourage. “Again.”
“Wells, we’ve been at this for hours. I’m exhausted.”
I’m sure she is, and when we’re done, I’ll gladly pamper her and attend to her every need, but I’m growing more anxious by the day, so we’re not stopping.
“This is important,” I insist. “You’re exhausted because you spent four hours in the basement with Liam.”
A simpering smile creases her eyes. She knows how much I hate the two of them down there, mastering cyber skills or not.
“That’s not exhausting. I mean, admittedly, I sometimes drift off to some escape in my mind while he’s talking, but he’s so proud of himself that he rarely notices.
So, actually, it’s a nice break.” She bends over to grab her water bottle, her round ass pointed temptingly at my face.
Goddamn, I’m grateful she’s mine.
How can one person be so fierce, adorable, and sexy?
I chuckle, meeting her sparkling sapphires when she rises with water in hand. “He is always conspicuously proud of himself.” I graze my knuckle over her cheekbone. “And I’m proud of you . Liam is impressed, which is tough to do. But we need to keep at this.”
“Tell me why.” She flips her water bottle end over end, catching it with a huff when I don’t respond. “Tell me what all this is for. It’s been months. In September, you told me you’d explain things soon. It’s November, for God’s sake.”
“I understand your frustration.”
“Empathy isn’t going to cut it this time,” she snaps, and I see her cogs turning, deliberating her approach.
Jesus, she’s fun to watch.
She wants to rage, but her features soften as she reaches for my hand—a calculated move—her thumb sweeping over my skin. “Look, Wells, I love this life with you. I do. With all of you. And I don’t even care that we’re holed up here, but I need answers. I deserve answers.”
I swing her into my chest, fisting her hair and nuzzling my mouth and nose against her neck. Even sweaty, she smells delectable.
“Yes, you do,” I concede.
I planned on sharing some background information with her tonight, although I didn’t intend on explaining how it relates to her.
Which still has to be the plan. I’m not ready.
Not that time seems to be offering me valuable ideas on how to eliminate the threat or keep our marriage from crumbling when she knows the truth.
Last week, in my meeting with the guys, I proposed we embark on a cross-country trip, killing every hit man we could find as a preventative measure.
Gage was all for it, but Liam and Ty voted me down, claiming it was too extreme at this juncture.
It seems Liam is keeping to his word of not letting me lose touch.
He insists I’m becoming unhinged—prepared to dismember and burn every goddamn motherfucker who has ever looked at my girl cross-eyed. He’s right.
But that doesn’t help me now with Ivy.
She pounds her tiny fists against my chest, the water bottle adding an extra thump. “Wells, God, you can’t distract me with sex all the time.”
“No?” I nip her skin, my breath inducing a trail of goose bumps, leading to her fabulous erect nipples poking through her cropped workout T-shirt. “Your body would say otherwise, Little Storm.”
“Yeah,” she pants, sagging against me in defeat. “That’s true; my body betrays me every time you touch me, but I’m asking you to please talk to me.”
Loosening my fisted grip, I thread my fingers into her hair, holding her face, her sweet plea my undoing.
“Okay.” A kiss on the forehead. “Two weeks.” Another on her button nose.
“I promise to tell you everything the day after Thanksgiving.” A final one on her pouty lips, slipping my tongue inside and drawing out the purr I’m so addicted to.
She pulls back, heady, eyelids hooded, breathless. “Why not now?”
“Ivanna,” I growl in warning.
“Fine.” She sighs. “Two weeks, but fighting practice is over.”
Stretching up for another kiss, she bites my bottom lip instead, forceful enough to draw a drop of blood before she scurries away. I lap up the coppery taste with a smile.
Christ, I love how she bites back.
I’ll give her five minutes to revel in her victory. Then, I’ll tame the brat in the shower.
Campfires are Ivy’s favorite. She relaxes and laughs and lets go, basking in the scents of smoking wood, crisp air, and musty earth.
The soothing crackle of burning logs. It’s why I share about our dealings out here, in small doses.
She soaks it in but doesn’t allow it to shake her.
We’ve alluded to even the ugliest sides of our business at this point.
She knows who we are, who I am. And she hasn’t run—not that I’d let her leave me, but her not wanting to is the best-case scenario.
Tonight is special. It’s a warm evening for the second week of November at sixty degrees. We’ve had s’mores, drinks, and plenty of comic relief. It’s the ideal atmosphere to casually present her with who she is, without blatantly saying it.
So, I begin. “About twenty-five years ago, the FBI was investigating crime families and intent on prosecuting as many as they could. There were several across the country. Not all of the families in power were bad though. There were some who had been attempting to legitimize their dealings. No longer thugs in suits, collecting payments and killing for drugs and prostitution deals gone wrong, these families were reworking businesses, building empires built on above-board needs. Like the Noire brothers.”
I sip my scotch and watch as she processes, always trying to catch the grains of sand she’s afraid will slip away.
Setting my glass down, I clear my throat.
“There was a convention of sorts to discuss how they might shake the FBI. The heads of families from all over the country attended, as well as a couple of leaders of secret societies. Five ended up playing poker in a back room. And as they sat around that table, an idea was born.”
Her eyes glimmer with excitement. Ty and Liam chuckle, and even Gage is nodding, enjoying that our girl has a fire ablaze inside her. She snags my bag of Skittles, a bad habit I’ve passed on to her, picking out the reds and yellows while I continue.
“In attendance was the O’Reilly family, an Irish Mafia out of Chicago.
The Cabrini family, an Italian Mafia out of New York.
The Order, an Upper Midwest secret society, composed of ordinary citizens, who hid their power in plain sight as doctors, lawyers, CEOs, and administrators.
The Balzano family, a Las Vegas Italian Mafia.
And Pax Logan, who was in attendance because he owned the financial institution of choice for shady dealings—according to the FBI, of course. ”
“Wow,” she says, holding up a red Skittle for inspection in the dim firelight. “That’s quite the group. Leverage throughout the whole country.”
“Exactly,” Ty confirms, stoking the burning logs with his marshmallow stick. “And they all had different specialties.”
“What specialties?” she asks.
I steal the candy back and chomp on a mouthful while the flurry of embers settles and Gage answers, “O’Reilly already had deep influence in politics.
Cabrini was making strides in power and data mining.
The Order had several connections in transportation, construction, and Big Pharma.
The Balzano family reigned over hospitality, and obviously, Pax Logan ruled banks and credit unions. ”
“The idea,” I add, “was that they come together and unite their influence to essentially become so powerful that no one in the world could touch them, not even the FBI. They would rule in a primarily legitimate capacity.”
Her brows furrow in doubt. “So, their dealings were legal?”
My smart girl.
“Ish.” Liam swigs his beer with a twinkle.
She tilts her head, amusement coasting across her face. “What?”
“Legal-ish.” He chuckles, dragging a hit from his cigarette. “More of those gray areas, High Society. Simply put, they aren’t people you cross or even mildly disappoint.”
I let her noodle on that while I shade the outline I’ve already offered.
“They each leaned into their areas of expertise, which became their ultimate domain. But any decisions regarding dominating the nation or issues that might cross family boundaries or affect an untouchable from another family or organization must be voted on by the five seats.”
“So, they’re in power now? It worked?”
“Very well,” I assure her. “They took inspiration from Knights of the Round Table, labeling themselves KORT. Every decision they make must be for the good of the kingdom as a whole.”
She scoffs. “And this isn’t alarming to the FBI?”
Ty pokes at the hot ashes again. “They own half the government and happily trade information with the FBI when it serves them.”
I nod. “Those five seats are the most powerful people in the country, among the most influential in the world.”
She swallows what appears to be a cocktail of fear and awe. “More powerful than the president and our government leaders?”