CHAPTER ELEVEN
GAGE
S corch. Stack. Salt.
Smoke the motherfuckers out.
No one left breathing. No remnants to reproduce. No return.
No whisper of their existence.
Her hair—that wild, wavy chocolate mane—is spread across her pillow. And all I can think is that it should be fanned over my chest. Her breaths are finally even. They pick up sometimes, growing erratic, right along with muffled whimpers and snarls, as though she’s preparing for a fight. That’s why I’m here, crouched on the floor at the threshold of her closet, watching Ainsley sleep. Like a creepy stalker. Because when I finally listened to something other than the mantra of vengeance toward her that I’ve been trilling for the past eight years, I heard the pain.
And now I can’t look away.
Only a glimpse of her high cheekbone and her pouty lips peek out from beneath her silky strands. The glacial-blue eyes that have always enamored me are resting behind her peaceful lids. Her sultry curves are concealed by my T-shirt—the attire that I’d like to be her damn uniform. With her dressed that way, it’s clear to everyone that she’s mine. And as much as I long to show the world how perfect she is, I’d also revel in being the only one who sees what’s beneath that shirt. Outside exhibitionism aside.
Her toned, shimmery tan legs? Those are on full display. She sleeps like a runner, like she’s ready to take off at any moment. One knee hiked up, one sprawled behind her. And I’m left ruminating on whether that is a new development—a product of her abuse—or one that was always there. Because I didn’t get any of this before.
It’s what I lamented more than anything else after I lost her. That, in so many ways, she’d never been mine. Not in the ways that matter at the end of a life—those little idiosyncrasies that make a person yours more than anyone else’s. Because you know them inside out. Their quirks and hang-ups and struggles.
I knew her heart, her humor, her hobbies. The sound of her laugh and her quick wit and temper. Some of her challenges and fears. And at the age of twenty, that seemed like everything. But three and a half years later, when it all went to shit, the questions ate away at me.
What was her morning routine or shower ritual or approach to finances? Did she toss her keys the first place she saw or always hang them right on the hook? I suspected the latter, but couldn’t be sure. Was her hair always tied back when she was relaxing, or did that give her headaches? Did she need a thousand blankets at night or heat up like a furnace? Since she’s currently atop the covers, I’m betting on the furnace.
And craving the heat.
Would she prefer being awakened with a cup of coffee and my face between her legs or covet the extra sleep and make me wait for an evening snack?
Did she choose someone else because I didn’t know the answers? Because he could care for her and lay claim to her publicly while also understanding her privately? Those last two aren’t valid now that I have a clearer picture of her experience, but they were the most hurtful, and they were always there.
Some of the more mundane musings slammed into me the last couple of years as I learned Ivy. It felt like such an honor to be welcomed into some little parts of her. To have her husband, my mentor, want me there to share in their lives. To see how swept up in one another they were. But at the same time, it was a daily reminder of what I’d missed with Ainsley even though I did my damnedest to snuff out that heartache.
So, creepy or not, I’m soaking in the most beautiful morning view and downing my coffee.
Every inch of her is sparkling in the orange daybreak glow. Orange. I knew what she meant—that her day had been a glimmer of something she’d like to hold on to, which was why she wasn’t willing to ruin it with whatever she had—and still has—to unveil. No matter what else she said, that rang out like hope. There’s something here she wants to keep. It might not be me, but my family is damn hard to throw away.
Last night was fucking progress.
She’s built a dam between us, barricading herself from anything I offer.
That’s fair. Wise even. Who wouldn’t be on the defensive?
I’ve attacked, berated, and threatened her since our first sighting of one another. I may not have clarity on everything she’s been through, but I know enough, and it’s obvious her face brightening when she saw me in the shelter that first day wasn’t stupidity. Or audacity. It was excitement. Relief. She thought I was her safe place, her savior, and I fucking annihilated that.
Leaving her more alone and broken than she’d been when she arrived.
It’s going to take time to remedy that, and I’m bracing myself because I’m certain she’s got a few more bullets in reserve to take me down. I was honest, telling her I couldn’t stop hating her yet because she’s got something else that’s clearly going to sting.
But there’s the matter of that fine line between drastically opposing feelings, and I’m starting to tip the other way. She’s always been irresistible. A drug my body, soul, and mind are addicted to. Even in the darkest times, she was branded on my every breath.
Which is why I avoided kissing her. Not because I don’t want her or because I’m uncertain about choosing a future with her. But there’s still another hurdle for us to jump over. She’s still fight or flight with me. Far from stay. And when I finally feel her plush lips again, I need us both to sense the future in that kiss. For her to know I’m all in, that the past will stay in the past. I couldn’t give her that last night, not when she’s still hiding something.
So, I’m moving on to another tactic, one that is far more in my wheelhouse than fucking feelings. Wicked likes puzzles, and when she sees me fill in part of this one for her, I’m hoping she’ll be open to more.
In the meantime, I’m going to fucking enjoy myself.
Reluctantly pulling myself away as Ainsley begins to stir, I head downstairs and blast outside to join the guys for our crack-of-dawn workout. Wells’s scowl is more oppressive than the glaring eight a.m. sun.
“You’re late,” he grits out. “So late, you missed the whole goddamn session.”
Ignoring his ire because there’s no time for him to be all Chief right now, I blaze ahead. “We need to strike. All in. Romans in Carthage.”
“Jesus Christ,” he hisses, foreseeing the hellfire I’m intent on dragging him through.
“Damn,” Liam jeers, pouring a bottle of water over his chest and relishing the unexpected break. “It’s been a hot minute since we’ve heard this rant.”
“Years,” Ty chimes with an ear-to-ear, shit-eating grin.
Wells chuckles, amused by their sidebar, and ushers us to the firepit circle, where they left their towels, extra waters, and phones. “Not since our early erasing days.”
“It’s your little Wicked.” Liam twists into a stretch while wiping himself down. “She’s just savage enough to rival the beast. I think I like that girl.”
“Maybe he should walk us through it again,” Ty croons. “Smoke ’em out—”
“That’s a production of scorching,” Liam mocks, like a smart-ass, “which is followed by demolishing—”
“And stacking the bodies,” Wells adds with a smirk as he taps something out on his phone.
Fucking dipshits.
“It always makes me think of that Drowning Pool song,” Ty says, and he and Liam grace us with a rendition of “Bodies”—or more accurately, screaming the one line about bodies hitting the floor.
Wells cackles, like he did when it was just the four of us against the world and we were fucking off. “And that brings us to salting the earth. Curse the land. Your speech has stood the test of time, Big Guy.”
“Are you all fucking done?” I bark, arms crossed, annoyed as hell before confirming they remember correctly. “We’re smoking those motherfuckers out. Finally taking them down. And I don’t mean next month. Now.”
Wells sighs, humor replaced by a blend of empathy and authoritative exasperation. “We can’t strike. We already agreed to go about this pragmatically and discuss it with KORT. You know, the kind of forward thinking that may have prevented a whole fucktastrophe from happening if you two had taken a second before blitzing the Balzano foot soldiers.”
That’s a deserved gibe. Partly.
It was most definitely a fucktastrophe, which is what I tagged it as, but …
“I don’t know,” Ty challenges, plunking into a seat. “Without our fuckup, the bastard would still be in power. And breathing.”
I point at him while my gaze remains transfixed on the Chief. “That’s right, Tytan. Pro-fucking-active. Exactly what we need to be now. And I’ve even got a plan.”
Liam howls and rubs his hands together. “Lay it on us, Big Guy.”
Wells grunts, conflicted, but I’ll convince him. I’ve got years of ammunition up my sleeve. He waves me on with his vexed worry divot in full force between his skeptical eyes. But a wave is a wave. Go sign.
“Based on the stupidity of the assholes harassing Ainsley with this nine thirty-two bullshit, we know it’s either the Morellis or the Vittoris associated with the media conglomerate. Those are the only people who would have reason to bait her with it. Even if the Feds knew the exact time of death somehow, they wouldn’t broadcast that shit. This is pulse-point manipulation. They want her for something, and they assume that if they get her freaked out enough, she’ll make a mistake. So, the way I see it, we’ve got a two-birds, one-big-ass-stone scenario before us.”
Pulse-points are the areas of a person’s life that are likely to unsettle them and throw them off their game, the things that make someone’s heart thump faster. Every mouse in hiding has that piece of cheese they can’t resist. That can be family, money, information, or a multitude of other things. For Ainsley, it’s the fear of what will happen to her if she’s found.
Wells rubs his fingers over his mouth, studying me as we all finally sit with Ty. “So?”
“So, we hit them. Big,” I stress. “A method that reveals it’s her. Or an accomplice of hers.”
Other than some cardinals tittering in the distance and the thick, humid breeze rustling the leaves and blades of grass, you could hear a damn pin drop. Because these guys know me, and they know what I’m about to suggest isn’t piddly shit. It’s utter decimation.
“Fucking hell,” Wells murmurs, glancing away as he decides whether or not the right move here is to shut me down before we begin.
His eyes leap to Ivy, joining us as she plops into the chair across from me. That must have been his text. He slides her closer to him, fills her in quickly, and returns to me. “This is a colossally bad idea already, and I don’t even know the details.”
“Humor me, Chief.”
“I think we should hear him out,” Ivy says, which gets a proud wink from me. Love that girl.
Wells grumbles under his breath, briefly scans Ty and Liam, and clips out a curt, “Go.”
Not wasting a second, I dive right in. “We cut them off at the knees, both legit and black-market operations. Fast and in a way that initially appears haphazard, so they never know what hit them. But we do it at the times they cited in their taunt. They might not catch on immediately, but they will.”
He cocks an eyebrow, intrigued. “What does this solve?”
Here’s the thing about Wells: he hates the Morellis nearly as much as I do, both for what they did to me and for their scheme to steal what was his before taking him out. Add in this shit with Ainsley—someone he’s growing to respect, who means something to me, and who his Little Storm is becoming attached to—and I know he’s salivating to obliterate them. But he’s got that whole bullshit responsible-leader role that holds him back.
It’s waning though. He can taste the revenge, just like I can.
So, I feed it to him. “We put the fucking bullies in their place. ’Bout goddamn time. They’ll know coming after Ainsley means war. And she’ll know we’re on her side, not for information. But because she’s ours.”
“She does need to see us stand up for her,” Ivy chirps, biting her lip in consideration. “And you’re all in … with her. No matter what?”
I’m not sure if that’s regarding what Liam mentioned the other day—that Ivy bonded with Ainsley over something personal—or if she simply wants to verify that I’m not going to cast Ainsley out later.
“I can’t promise rainbows and unicorns. Neither of us has the temperament for that shit.” I laugh, and so do the rest of them, no doubt a slew of Animal Planet wisecracks on Liam’s tongue. “But, yeah, no matter what. I’ll figure it out.”
“It will get them riled up enough to strike back.” Wells pulls us back to my thirty-thousand-foot scheme, objecting because he has to. “Possibly with information about you. We still don’t know if Glines knew your identity, and if he did, they might.”
“True,” I concede because I already thought of that. “But they won’t know who’s fucking with them for sure. KORT, another Mafia family, someone Ainsley hired. Even if they think I’m alive, they don’t have anything else. They’ll only grasp that there’s an organization they need to take seriously. They’ll strike back, sure, but just enough to feel us out first, which will give us the lead we need. To figure out what they know and see what they want.”
“Motherfucker,” Wells spits—probably because he wants to deny me, but is feeling swayed.
“It’s a sound theory,” Ty says, backing me up.
That could simply be payback. He owes me for the way I showed up for him in Vegas with his crazy-ass revenge plan. But I’ll take it.
When Liam nods though, it’s clear the retaliation cookie is crumbling in my favor. “Agreed. And if we do it right, they’ll be too incapacitated to hit hard in return anyway.”
“Exactly,” I sing, bending forward to place my elbows on my knees. “This is a no-brainer. After years of the dumbass schemes you’ve all roped me into, I’m due mine.”
Ty must sense my growing confidence because a goading scoff flies from him. “This is a far cry from throwing three dead guys from the truck into a fire.”
“Yeah,” I volley. “It’s more like taking out the entire gang before it.”
“And what about KORT?” Ivy asks while Wells stews, deep in thought, beside her.
“The other KORT chairs will love this,” I argue with all the nonchalance I can muster as I pluck a water bottle from the extras. “Axel isn’t an issue. And as far as Jared and Payne go, it’s their style. It’s how they took out Balzano’s underhanded dealings. Dismantled them. Anonymously. Sending a message, but also confusing the fuck out of him.”
“And this is how you want to spend your days before we present her to KORT?” Wells finally speaks up. It’s his fatherly concern that’s eating at him now. We might have a slightly different dynamic than he does with the other guys, but he can’t help but look out for me. “Before we tell her about them and what it means for her to be with you, with us? What about fixing the animosity between you two?”
Valid concerns. None of that is easy. And it certainly won’t be smooth. Part of me would gladly have all of us run with her and start fresh, leave KORT and the god-awful loyalty test and countless bylaws all behind. It’s a tempting vision. But until the Morellis and Vittoris are six feet under, she’ll never be safe. Never be able to sleep peacefully. KORT has power they can’t match. I’m finally in a position to give her everything. I’m not giving that up.
When my eyes flick to his, I know he sees the plea in them. Just like I know they’ll all stand beside me through this, do whatever is necessary to spin it with KORT, and fold Ainsley into our circle so tightly that she finally understands what family should be.
“That’s what this is,” I explain, swallowing the lump swelling in my throat. “She needs to see that she isn’t a damn bargaining chip. That she’s the gold. We’ve got a long way to go, but it starts with her knowing she comes first.”
He nods. “Your plans?”
My back snaps straight because I’m eager to share everything I’ve uncovered. “They gave us four times. So, we take out their top four moneymakers, without harm to innocents—their illicit cargo ship, their contraband warehouse, their headquarters, and their dry-aging beef facility. All in twenty-four hours.”
“With what army?” Wells balks. “You can’t go to that town.”
“A lot can be done through simple cyberattacks. As for the hits that can’t, I spent last night rereading our contract and found the darndest thing.” My eyebrows arch as they all lean in, always happy to find little ways we can outsmart our constraints. “Airspace is never mentioned.”
“Loophole.” Liam smirks.
“Yep.” I set my gaze on Wells. “Much like the loophole of contacting the grandfather who didn’t know you and didn’t share that Folsom last name.”
That’s how we found ourselves able to juggle our government agreements and KORT in the first place. The CIA never knew that Wells was born from Cabrini blood. They did their thorough background checks, but there was no reason to weed through his mother’s lineage to discover she’d re-created herself. She wasn’t even alive. Of course, Wells proving who he was to his grandfather revealed to KORT that we’d been erased. A risk. Not that we divulged any of the details. Still, they connected the dots. But the payoff—money, power, and most importantly, the path to our girls—was well worth it.
This will be too.
I twist the cap off my water, finally taking a swig and peering at the four of them as the mid-morning sun beats down on us. “I’m going for a helicopter ride. Who’s coming with me?”