Charring Bones (The KORT #4)

CHAPTER ONE

AINSLEY

F amily means sacrifice. Maybe anything we want in life comes with a trade-off—something we give up in order to gain. There’s an empowering angle to that philosophy. The belief that our destiny is in our hands. That it all boils down to a willingness to do hard things, let go of the deadweight—no matter how attached we are to it—so we can reach for aspirations others won’t.

And the payoff? Well, surely, it’s the view that few have the good fortune to reap—the glimmer of painted skies and gold-streaked clouds, glimpsed only atop the mountain of sacrifice.

Family. Power. Prestige.

Unless that mountain is turned upside down. And instead of winning the coveted view, you secure your role as the sacrificial lamb.

Gold replaced by crimson.

None of us ever see that coming. The blind, innocent flock.

There’s this Bible story about a guy named Abraham—a super-important ancestor of all the people—who offers his son, Isaac, as a sacrifice because God told him to. Abraham was faithful and grateful. Admirable qualities. So, since he saw Isaac as a gift from God, he felt it was his servant’s duty to comply. It was hard. To be fair, he did sweat it out while maintaining a stoic nature as he guided his unsuspecting son to the mountaintop. But for the sake of God’s kingdom, he was willing. Right up until the moment an angel ordered him to halt the near slaughter on his son, bound to the altar.

There’s a lot more to it, I suppose. It was a sort of test. And Isaac was not harmed in the slightest—aside from the therapy bills that certainly followed him for the next hundred fifty years. Abraham was rewarded greatly for his subservience, which is the crux of the lesson. But I have to say, the first time I heard that story, I wasn’t empowered to obey, even when it was difficult—that’s what the nun was going for. I was fucking horrified.

And enraged.

So irate that I got escorted right out of catechism class—religious education in Catholic school—for my wild and wayward opinions.

That was a rough day in the Morelli household. With a full-blooded Italian father and a full-blooded Irish mother, our family bleeds Catholicism. I think they threatened to send me to the Pope. But my verdict was unwavering.

If I were Isaac, there would be no Father Abraham to sing about. It would be one of those creepy Bloody Mary tunes people croon into a mirror. A thriller with flickering lights. Bloody Abraham’s ghost searching the world over for the son who bested him.

The burnt offering, rising to be the butcher.

So, maybe it’s no surprise that I’m standing over a heap of bloody carnage that is my family. Was my family. And my gun is still smoking.

Prophetic.

I’m a lot of things, but a sacrificial lamb is no longer one of them.

That makes me a survivor. And perhaps dissociated, but I’ll deal with that on a rent-by-the-hour couch sometime in the future.

I’m not completely coldhearted. I’m in shock, which is why I can’t stop cataloging the dead about them. The stunned expressions, frozen in time—nine thirty-two, to be precise. The blood seeping from their head wounds, soaking into the antique red-oak floors. The four formidable men who ruled my existence—gone. Still. Terminated.

I need to run. It’s just taking a minute for my brain to convince my body to move. To turn my back on everything that was … mine.

Or Hell. One and the same maybe.

And that’s what sparks a fire in my bones. I refuse to char with them.

Guards line the perimeter of our house. None of them will venture inside for hours because the meeting that was in progress has been known to carry on until the wee hours of the morning. And thanks to my trusty silencer, they’re unaware of any disturbance. But all will question why I’m leaving by myself at this hour because their loyalty lies with the corpses.

All but one actually. I’ve been sweet-talking Levi for years because I’m a thirty-year-old who needed an escape plan. How pathetic.

And shrewd.

Tonight, I was supposed to be at a friend’s house around the corner—a girls’ night where I would have been expected to giggle and fawn over frivolous gossip. Gag. Feigning a stomachache, I canceled at the last minute and came straight home after my yoga class. Since I often jog to her house with my guard detail, no one here was the wiser, which was initially the key to a rare tranquil evening alone. Now, that tortuous gathering will serve as one hell of a cover.

Shutting the office door, I bolt upstairs to grab the go bag I’ve had stashed for half a decade—adding to its contents little by little—and throw on appropriate fleeing attire. I tie a hoodie around my waist to conceal my gun, affording an ample sighting of cleavage and a thin strip of tan midriff beyond my cropped tank top and jeans. And my crossbody purse loops between my breasts, magnifying their average size. I’m armed with all my necessary assets.

The scent of anise pizzelles—the aroma of my cage—sears my nostrils. Isaac was probably strapped to an altar doused in incense. Mine boasts of shitty Italian cookies.

My breath catches in my raw throat. Scurrying barefoot through the woods would have been an easier feat. But here I am, left to seduction as my getaway vehicle.

This was never the plan.

Levi mans the door near the garage.

As I swing it open, I singsong a greeting to my unwitting ally. “Hey there, handsome. How’s your evening been?”

He startles at the sight of me, and my heart hammers against my sternum. “Scared me, kid. I just started my shift and thought you were at Kera’s tonight.”

That hits more like small talk than suspicion, so I muster some poise to settle my nerves.

As the door clicks behind me, I hoist my duffel onto my shoulder, twirl my keys in an easygoing circle, and proffer my most saccharine smile and a sultry rasp. “I was. That’s where I’m headed. I packed in a rush and forgot some of my girlie accessories, which is an utter travesty for a sleepover.”

“Sure would be.” He nods, ogling me far more than is appropriate, but that’s all part of the survival game.

Poor Levi. I hope he doesn’t get killed for this. Better him than me though.

Batting my lashes, I tilt my head in a way that has my chocolate-brown hair draping around my bare shoulder, drawing his gaze. “Well, listen. Keep it between us, okay? If he knew I came home, he’d never allow me to go back out.”

“Still in his meeting?” he asks, his focus wandering lower before latching on to my eyes.

“Yeah.” I bite my lip through the breathy response, like a woman who isn’t married. Or one who just killed her husband. Same. “They’re all still in there. They said they’d be late tonight. You’ll keep my secret, right?”

“You got it, Ains.”

My stomach flops, jostling the acid. I hate when people call me that. Forbid it generally. Because only one person was permitted to shorten my name that way, and he’s not here anymore. But I never correct Levi. He means well, and I can’t risk any dissension.

Choking back the bile, I pat his cheek tenderly and strut through the carport into the garage. He should be insisting that he escort me all the way to Kera’s house, but Levi is easily distracted. The other guards will question him about me leaving, but he seems to have a way of enticing them to keep their mouths shut.

He follows me to my car, opening my door, and something about his sweetness has me questioning whether or not I should warn him. Maybe he’s better off if I don’t. He can play dumb and let the chips fall where they may. If I alert him and he doesn’t kill me, he’ll die anyway.

Survival of the fittest. Maybe I am coldhearted.

As I lock myself inside, raise the garage door, and turn the ignition, I sense the movement of the other guards. Levi speaks into his radio, confirming my hunch. So, the second there’s enough room for my Aston Martin DBS to slip through, I floor it and hope for the best as they all disappear in my rearview mirror.

Knowing they have some sort of tracking on it, meaning my time is limited, I head for a storage unit that I rented years ago. It’s around the corner from my gym, so hopefully, it’s stayed under the radar. There’s a Honda Accord parked there—not a car anyone would expect me to be driving. I’ve been sneaking in to start it once a month, during the break from my yoga class, so this part should go smoothly.

It only takes about fifteen minutes to get there, park my Aston Martin at the gym, open the storage unit, and take off in the Honda. But my pulse ratchets higher. Seconds after someone opens that office, there will be an entire village of assassins with my face on their most-wanted poster.

As I zip over to the highway, having no idea which direction I should steer, I whip out my burner and call Agent Glines. I’m not a snitch. Not exactly. Coldhearted perhaps. But not a traitor.

Family means sacrifice.

Glines was my ticket to making it out—with every part of me intact.

After the conversation I overheard, that’s an impossibility. I’ll never be whole again. Sobs finally rack my chest as I veer into the middle lane, the droning ring reverberating through the car as I roll my window down and chuck my wedding band and smartwatch onto the blurring asphalt.

Thirty minutes pass, and no answer. I can’t even leave a message. His mailbox is full. I’m at a loss. He always picks up right away. He needs me as much as I need him.

What the hell?

I batter the steering wheel as though it were my next victim, relieving all my aggression with a scream that could frighten Abraham out of his tomb. And my tears race the billowing clouds to stream more vehemently. Chest shuddering. Breaths depleted. Muscles aching.

It was all for nothing.

All this time. Tortured. Sacrificed. Imprisoned. For fucking nothing.

My body finally succumbs to the grief—the mourning I’ve been stifling for eight years—as I let my mind linger on how gullible I was.

The air in this limo is stale. Suffocating. I might as well be riding in the hearse at the front of the processional. I’d prefer it. God, I need a time machine.

Why couldn’t it have been me? It should have been me. I want it to be me. This can’t be happening. I’m going to be sick.

“I can’t go out there,” I grit out between my wails and sniffs. “I can’t watch him be lowered into the ground.” A tremor skitters through my limbs. Even my voice box quavered through that. I’ll never know tranquility again. It belonged to my missing piece.

My mother has a way of saying what others won’t. Calling a spade a spade. Stupid—stupid. Overemotional—nonsense.

She huffs and rolls her crystal-blue eyes. “Stop crying like that. Your makeup is a disaster. Everyone will know.”

Sympathy is not her forte.

“It’s a damn funeral,” I snipe, my fists clenching scraggly tissues. “Crying is expected. They’ll think I’m grieving a man I cared about, which I am. An honorable man who gave everything for his country after I—”

“Ainsley”—she dabs at my cheeks, practically bruising the bones, her lips pursing in irritation—“get ahold of yourself. If your father hears you … Leave the past in the past. You represent this family. Stay glued to Nick and maintain composure. Focus on what you have—a husband, a legacy, a promising future. We all give things up, but there is always more to gain.” Even in my grief, she issues a threat—this is the curse of blood. “Complying is your only shot at getting what you want.”

Right. What I want. You’d think it would be what she wants too. Maybe she does, but they’re holding something over her. A fellow inmate. I’m starting to think it’s all a lie anyway. I’ll never be free of them. Josh was my only chance. God, I was so naive. And now … now I have nothing.

The squeak of the windshield wipers washes the memory away with the squeegeed rain. Thunder cracks, as though even the molecules of the air were angered by my actions. If I don’t track Glines down, I’m as good as dead. I might be either way.

My father always said, “You’re either the hunter or the hunted. The lion or the lamb.” It was his way of motivating me to be fierce and on top. To earn the Morelli name.

And now … I’m the hunted.

No longer innocent, and yet still …

The lamb before slaughter.

Fuck that. I’ve served my time. If they kill me, they’re going to the grave with me.

Blasting the radio, I keep my eyes on the road ahead. Like my mother wisely suggested. But after twenty minutes of driving aimlessly, a nagging notion that they’ll find me coils around me—a boa constrictor. They always track people down. Years of whispers shouted the validity of that. No one ever succeeds at going missing . Some poor schmuck of a foot soldier would see something they didn’t want to, try to defect, and get dragged into the woods to be gunned down like a dog.

That’s my future.

No.

Glines plugged a second number into the burner, in case of an emergency. I’m guessing shooting four men in cold blood qualifies as a reason to reach out to this other contact. I barely trusted Glines, even though he seemed to be helping me. I’m not ready to put my life in someone else’s hands.

What choice do I have? I won’t survive this alone.

I hit the contact, and the ring echoes only once in the car before he answers.

“Yeah?” the voice clips.

“Glines gave me this number. Is this Vargas?” It’s all I’m offering before I feel this guy out.

“Glines?” He hedges for a beat. “When was the last time you spoke to him?”

That is an odd response. I would have expected him to ask who I am or verify that his name is Vargas. But those aren’t the most important elements of this conversation, and suddenly, the highway is quaking around me.

“It’s been about three weeks, maybe.” My voice is small with that answer because I know what he’s going to say before he utters the words.

“Glines is dead.”

“Dead,” I parrot before I muffle the phone and scream like a banshee again.

I should have known. They got to him. I have nowhere to go.

My knuckles ache from my death grip on the steering wheel, and my throat is cracked and raw, but I settle my breathing and raise the burner to my ear again.

There’s a long pause, and when he returns, his tenor is husky. “Where are you, Leigh?”

Leigh. That’s the name Glines and I settled on—the end syllable of both my first and last. So, at a minimum, Glines apprised Vargas of my contact information as well.

Somehow, I steady my tone so I sound far more apathetic than my snotty, disheveled appearance would convey. “I can’t tell you unless I’m guaranteed anonymity and protection.”

“Is that what Glines promised you?”

“Yes.” Lie. “And he would’ve honored it because he’s the reason I’m in this mess. So, you can either help me or carry my death on your shoulders like his.”

“How bad is it?” This guy is smart—I’ll give him that. And he doesn’t beat around the bush.

I clear my throat and hope the panic lacing through me can’t be discerned through the connection. “I’m not doing it like this. Are you offering me protection or not?”

“Of course I am,” he returns with a gentleness, and either he’s a damn good liar or he means it. “Let’s get you somewhere safe.”

Safe? That’s a promise this guy wouldn’t be making if he were familiar with my family. They’re one of the most ruthless Mafias ever—otherwise known as Cosa Nostra or This Thing of Ours. My father always preferred the latter. Some organizations have moderated their violent practices in the last three or four decades. The Morellis still believe in staking their fortune on blood and bones.

“Since Glines is dead, I can’t go to any of your regular safe houses. They’ll know.” Terror floods my cheeks. “They always know.”

“I’m aware,” he says. “We’ll take this one step at a time. I’ll get you safe tonight and keep you off the books. And you’ll give me the intel to take out the Don and his administration.”

“Too late,” I reply. “They’re already dead.”

For the past month, I’ve been a nomad. I spent the first thirty-six hours in a hotel suite with Agent Vargas losing his ever-loving mind. That did wonders for my shaky nerves.

Then he had a transport team ship me off to a widow’s farm, guarded by ranchers, who would have dropped like flies had my location been compromised. Other than that, it was okay. The lady was sweet. And tough. One evening, over a glass of sherry, she confessed that she had killed her husband with a shovel. So, we had common interests. Not that I shared.

Every day with her made me miss my mom, who had died last year. We weren’t close. I can’t say I even felt much love for her, but I grew to understand her. She was a prisoner too. While I often hated her for all the ways she let me down, there was a silent sorrow and respect that had passed between us even if we didn’t voice it. Maybe that’s about as good as my bonds with others can be. Morose condolences.

After three weeks there, I was relocated to a shelter run by that transport team. I’m not sure if moving me around is part of the scheme, but it’s served to skyrocket my anxiety. It will only take one of these Good Samaritans to get wind of who I am and discover the million-dollar bounty that is most definitely attached to my head before I’m handed over for extermination.

That leaves me with two strategies—play nice or put the fear of God in them. I’ve opted for the latter.

Nice guys always finish last.

Or so I’ve heard. And seen. I haven’t known many.

Two.

This place is impressive for a halfway house. There are twelve bedrooms, each with a small en suite and one main living area, consisting of a gathering room and a vast kitchen. All top-of-the-line finishes, farmhouse chic decor, like a Fixer Upper design.

Up until this afternoon, there were two other women here. I was nice to them. Both had been beaten by their asshole husbands, forced to flee for survival after years of physical abuse. They already had enough fear in them.

For the three blissful hours since they left, there hasn’t been a sound. It’s peaceful. There’s an army of beefy guards stationed in a house a bit grander than this on the same property. They look like they could give the Morelli foot soldiers a hell of a fight, so I’ve been basking in the serenity.

Until Celeste struts in.

“And then there was one.” She smiles, her brown eyes dancing with a hint of devious mischief.

She was part of the transport team that moved me to the farm. She’s gorgeous. Kind. Seems genuine. And strategic. The type that’s always planning her next move. I haven’t decided if I like that. If I were in the market for a friend, she’d be a solid pick. But as someone whose life is hanging in the balance, I’m not sure I trust her. She’s old money. Untainted. I can’t relate to anyone who doesn’t respect a crimson-stained Benjamin.

I mirror her smile, but it definitely doesn’t reach my blue eyes—which I’m told are already disarming. Nothing I can do about that. I could choose to speak, but I don’t.

“Still not in the mood to chat, huh?” She flips her espresso hair behind her shoulder and studies me for a beat. “Ty’s bringing us dinner in a few minutes because I’m a lousy cook, and since it’s just you, we might as well share the main-house food.”

I nod my appreciation and mutter a quick, “Thanks,” as I plop onto the plush sofa and pick up a magazine, lazily flipping through it.

Who even owns magazines these days? People who aren’t safe to have internet access, I suppose. Fuck my life.

“Since you’re not into talking,” she chimes from the kitchen, “we need to find a creative way to pass the time. I could kick your ass at cards or chess or any game for that matter. You pick. No need for either of us to speak. In fact, I could do it blindfolded so we even the playing field.”

My jaw clenches with the rude challenge. Goading me? This girl will either be my archnemesis or my hero. I’d guess she knows a thing or two about leveling a bully. Her money might be untainted, but she’s not innocent in her tactics for wielding her strength. I smack my magazine down on the trunk masquerading as a coffee table and prepare to quip a smart-ass retort when Ty strolls in with two casserole dishes and a loaf of fresh bread.

This guy is the worst because he’s gotten to me. There’s something about him. He sees everything I don’t say—the scars so deep that I’ve convinced myself no one could ever uncover them. And his concern is one hundred percent authentic. If I end up having to blow this place up to escape, I hope he survives.

He’s good-looking too. If you’re into that tall, dark, and handsome type. With boyish curls and rugged scruff. Who is also completely smitten with his wife. I haven’t met her, but anytime he mentions her, his whole face glows.

Irritating.

“I brought ravioli. That’s your favorite, right?” He chuckles when my brows scrunch together. “Shannon was fishing, per my request.”

He’s referring to a conversation I had with one of the women who was here. She asked about my food likes and aversions.

I blow out an exasperated breath and saunter to the kitchen island while Ty unpacks the food. “That was nice of you.”

Celeste widens her eyes and throws her arms in the air. “A full sentence. That deserves wine.”

She spins, gathering glasses and a bottle of Cabernet before returning to me with a beaming grin as she pours some for each of us.

Against my better judgment, I relax a smidgen and enjoy the company. The truth is, I’ve been lonely. So lonely that my bones ache. But craving community will only leave me vulnerable. And this group is a little off. When Celeste mentions the main house, it sounds like there are several couples living together, though not in a multigenerational arrangement, like mine was. I’ve decided not to ask for clarification. It will be time for me to move on soon anyway.

I swirl my wine while the pasta is heating up on the stove, relishing the bold flavor when it hits my tongue. “When do I get a new placement, like the other women did?”

Ty slides a plate and utensils in front of me, his gaze meeting mine. “Your case is a bit more complicated.”

My heart leaps to my throat, but I refuse to show how scared I am, so I state my inkling matter-of-factly. “They found me.”

“No.” His index finger taps on my hand, which is now fisting the stem of my wine goblet. “There have been some developments though.”

I set my glass down, no longer capable of ingesting anything. “Developments?”

With what? My whereabouts?

“Hey,” he says, moving back to the stove to stir the ravioli, “you’re okay. I don’t know what’s going on, but if it was anything that endangered you, Wells or Ivy would have told me.”

Wells and Ivy were also part of the transport team. I didn’t form much of an opinion about them because our interactions were brief. Maybe I should have, if my welfare is in their hands.

Picking up my fork, I clank it against my plate, the tinny ding consuming me. All my focus narrows to the simple ping, ping, ping .

Until the door cracks open and a voice from the beyond filters through the space. “Ty!”

I clutch my chest, my lungs emptying out. I must be having a psychotic break because I swear that’s the voice I’ve been hearing in my dreams for well over a decade.

Ty and Celeste both appear alarmed, which leaves me even more confused.

“Be right out, Big Guy,” Ty hollers as he wipes off his hands and glances at Celeste and me. “He won’t come in.”

“He’s on his way. We’ve got indecent ladies in here,” Celeste sings.

That must be a safety precaution for the shelter. Ty is the only man who has been in here. Still, they’re awfully jumpy.

“Hurry the fuck up, Tytan!” the Big Guy yells.

I am absolutely having a breakdown. The tone is deeper, but still …

“Wells is all up my ass about the fire and—”

“Not now,” Ty grits out as he sprints to the door.

“Who is that?” I ask, unable to hold back. That rasp alone could be my undoing. There’s a glimpse of a mammoth, tatted bicep that isn’t at all recognizable, though that bronze skin tone is, and my mind can’t let it go. “That voice … I know that voice.”

And at the sound of mine, that familiar rasp morphs into a furious rumble. “Who the fuck said that?”