CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
AINSLEY
F rankincense and myrrh. I can almost see a phantom priest swinging the censer, fragrant smoke wafting from the burning incense, offering a connection between here and the divine.
My eyes burn as though the vapor were staining them red, my lungs aching to cough it out. A visceral response to the remnants of my childhood-attempted atonement.
Too late. I already chose the other side.
The streetlights flicker, like the candles we were encouraged to light—prayers and reverence for lost souls.
We’re not even inside, and yet I can smell the legacy of my parents. Their eerie warnings and judgment.
The disappointment. And holy water.
Counterfeit rosary beads.
Perplexing when you think about it.
Sacred Heart—the parish and the school—was funded primarily by the Morelli Mafia. I often wondered how the Pope and cardinals and bishops—those in the upper hierarchy of the institution—felt about those matters. Their tainted endowments. A necessary evil in order to thrive? A matter to turn a blind eye to? Everyone is a sinner, but absolution can be bought?
Regardless, if the men in my family had any conscience left at all, that contribution was likely how they slept at night. The peace they achieved, knowing an entire church of candles burned for the lives they stole. Maybe the women weren’t so different.
To any formal event, Morelli wives were expected to don black. A sign of mourning. Of respect. There was always someone to mourn. Uncles, cousins, spouses, sons, neighbors. But beneath those black gowns, they wore red. That was a reminder of the blood that was indisputably entwined with theirs.
While it was never put into words, I suspect that ownership over the bloodshed—the anguish, helplessness, and regret that poured from veins no longer—afforded a sense of power. A choice in a world for women without autonomy.
It’s no secret that ordinary citizens outside our tinted-glass fishbowl viewed the wives as guilty by association. Some may have recognized their captivity, but the verdict still stood.
There’s a sickness to it, no matter the slant you take. And yet even the church shouts a similar mantra: Having a piece of the slaughtered lamb and calling it the Eucharist is superior to being the sacrifice. I suppose that’s my own coloring on the Catholic belief system. That’s not how the Pope would word it, but that’s the watered-down gist I glean from the crucifixion story.
I’m not sure where I fell in that guilt assignment, whether I aligned with the men or the wives. I wasn’t a Morelli wife. I was royalty and yet no less expendable. I was a Vittori wife, though I didn’t erase the Morelli name to assume that role. I merely tacked Vittori on the end, shouting to the world that I would never completely become them. Most people in town rarely even used Vittori when referring to me, so mission accomplished.
That was the one stipulation my father agreed to for me. He saw it as pride for our family when, really, it was my way of holding on to a morsel of loyalty for the man who was fighting for us on his own battlefield. Most Italian men would have viewed a wife hyphenating her name as blasphemous, but Nick was willing, provided he secured a top administration position with my father. And his family—his brothers and their whole clan—saw me and the Morelli holdings as trophies. So, while they were disgruntled about the hyphenated name, they let it go.
It still enhanced the resentment between Nick and me, but everything did.
And with that resentment, he asserted his conjugal privilege nightly, whether I was willing or not. Resisting made everything worse. So, I learned to lie there, limp like a doll, with my numb mind conjuring up high-point Scrabble words and my parents on the other side of the house. He liked that best. The Morelli he conquered. All he wanted was a smiling puppet and a wet hole. Someone he could lord his power over. And I took it, stupidly believing that it would eventually lead me to my son.
The shame that cloaked me all those years douses me like cold water, reminding me what a fool I was. For letting them hurt me. For not knowing my son was gone. I fought, and I was strong in so many ways. But I was also weak, like my father declared in his office the night I killed him.
Anyway, having been in the position of both the burnt offering and the butcher, I was guilty by association and of my own accord.
But none of that tells me what to be today. Who I am with these people. Or what this organization will do with me.
It’s quiet in the limo, as if they’re allotting me a minute to process. The big gulp of air taken before the dreaded confrontation. Except my lungs are spurning proper function because that mythical incense is invading them.
We’re all dressed to the nines—professional attire more than ballroom fancy. Thanks to a personal shopper that Gage and his crew were able to call my measurements into, I’m wearing a sharp black jumpsuit with a V-neck, revealing a trace of skin. There’s a belt at the waist and barely there, thin metallic-ish stripes. And of course, because old habits die hard, my lacy red bra peeks through.
Gage threads our fingers together, becoming my anchor, like he was all those years ago. The reason to fight. Yet also the reason I couldn’t because my pushback could’ve been his demise. I suppose that’s changed. But even from the grave, he bolstered me.
Prior to the plane ride, very few details were bestowed upon me. Although this entire evening has had all the markings of the preparations made for a covert cotillion. Like a coming-out Mob party.
Or a last supper before a public execution. There’s always that.
My eyes flick to the cathedral before us. That was a tidbit they left out. Both the geographical location of our meeting and the precise type of building. The former wasn’t hard to deduce once we landed and began driving through the outskirts of Chicago, and the latter probably didn’t seem important to share. But it’s an uncanny full-circle event for me. Raised in the church to become a beneficial link in the Morelli legacy and returning to one to break the chains.
“Two minutes,” Wells announces, and Gage’s thumb sweeps across my skin.
“Power and all satellite connection are on standby to be cut,” Liam adds.
This is how they transport me, under the cover of night while blacking out any possibilities of me being picked up on surveillance. It’s a lot. And a constant reminder of my death-row station in life.
I’m choosing to trust. Gage mostly. But all of them to some degree. No one appears to be overly stressed. More like business as usual. So, I decide not to be.
Maybe I’m simply numb to life-or-death stakes at this point.
Or for once, I don’t want to lose this moment for the next. Because I’ve been deliriously happy. Eighty-four hours as Gage Porter’s obsession has done my soul good.
The cognizance of all the ways he is both the same and different—still Josh, the love of my life, and yet Gage, a whole new man I’m falling for—has kept me captivated every second we’ve spent together.
My mind chanting, He’s real. He’s here. He’s mine , like a lullaby to ease my fears.
Fears that this forgiveness and acceptance and, dare I even say, love— or love adjacent — he’s offering me is conditional. Everything is always conditional. What if I don’t know the terms?
Other than the whole-house meals, we locked ourselves away, basking in our little bubble these past few days. No conditions there, aside from the blanket of bliss. Puzzles and working out, catching up and movies. And so much more.
He made me come so many times that I got stupid. Who knew that after a certain number of orgasms, your brain doesn’t fire on all cylinders anymore? And yet who the hell cares? I’ve never been so sated. I briefly reconsidered the leashed-fucktoy proposition as my life goal. But alas, some secret cabal requested my presence. So, here we are.
More of the price-on-my-head reality I can’t seem to escape.
The flight accentuated that truth. There was so much to digest on the plane.
My thoughts drift back to three hours ago.
Rena passes me my third glass of champagne after a half an hour in the air. I take it gleefully, though I’m not sure what we’re celebrating. I’d venture to say there are a plethora of pros and cons to being tipsy when we reach our destination, so I indulge in a few more sips.
As always, it’s entertaining to watch them all—their energy, their togetherness. Rena’s family playlist croons in the background, and I silently applaud myself for being able to call out whose pick each song is. But even so, it’s a stark representation of being along for the ride. Literally. Buckled into their private plane. Practically clueless.
The champagne is quickly going to my head. That’s why I prefer beer or wine or straight liquor. I have no idea how much alcohol I’m consuming with froufrou drinks. And bubbles always make me heady.
Gage skims his knuckles down my cheek, his breath fanning over my skin in a delicious enticement. My nipples perk right up, and goose bumps erupt along my neck and arms. Apparently, my body is rooting for the fucktoy outcome.
“Finish that,” he rasps, his deep tenor utterly lethal as he wedges his free hand between my smooshed thighs, “and I’ll spread you out right here, show the whole goddamn plane whose you are when you’re naked and writhing and screaming my name.”
Good Lord. I don’t think I’ll ever acclimate to that filthy-hot mouth.
My goose-bumped flesh heats, and my panties are drenched. They were a lost cause by the words whose you are .
I bite my lip, uncross my legs, and gawk at him over the rim of my champagne flute. “You don’t have to wait for me to chug. Go ahead and get started.”
A peal of laughter tears from him as he steals my drink, passing it off to Liam. “Yeah, she’s had too much.”
Liam shrugs, finishing off my bubbly. “Sounds like she’s had just enough, Big Guy. Maybe the rest of us need to have more.”
Liam is funny, but I don’t think he likes me. There’s a vibe. Even in that quippy response, there was a sharpness to the scrutiny he cast my direction. I’m not offended. People often don’t like me. Even the ones I’ve lived with, so whatever.
I brush off that loss as Gage leans in closer.
“You nervous, Ains?”
I could tease him about not being the one nervous for a public railing, but I opt to shoot straight. “Should I be?”
“I’ve got you,” he reassures me, and I heed the strength bleeding from him, like it did during our reunion sex. “Follow my lead,” he instructs. “You’ll answer their questions, and we’ll find a solution to move forward.”
Simple enough. Perhaps.
“Does moving forward amount to some sort of freedom for me?” I press. “New identity? The ability to go to a restaurant? Live?”
“One step at a time.” He pats my arm.
That gesture reads as patronizing. I’m missing something. So, I switch my attention to Wells as he strolls to the seat across from us. His answers aren’t always pretty, but he doesn’t tiptoe around things.
“What’s the point of this cabal? They call themselves Court. Why?”
He whips out his candy, sifting through for his reds and yellows. “It’s an acronym for Knights of the Round Table. Many of the values stem from that.”
“Oh”—and the light bulb clicks on—“K-O-R-T. Interesting. I thought it was Court, spelled like court of law. Anyway, Ivy said they’re powerful.”
“Yes. We are,” he corrects, popping a few Skittles into his mouth. “There are five seats of power. Ivy and I each hold one.”
How the hell did I miss the detail that they were in fact the leaders? Daunting.
“And the other seats?” I push, on the edge of my own.
He studies me for a beat, his eyes flitting to Gage and back to me. “You understand that the organization essentially owns you after today? No one is privy to this information without being connected and liable.”
I shrug, resisting the chill his words send skittering up my spine. “Anyone who knows my name at this point owns me. My days are numbered one way or another.”
“Not with us,” he vows, handing me a palmful of orange in what seems to be another candy-fueled peace offering between us. “I’m not certain what will transpire at this meeting, but you are under our protection. The other knights know that.”
Protection never comes without a cost.
“So,” I prod, aware I’m about to poke a couple of beasts—one who cares enough to lure me with sugar and another who is seething beside me—but unable to resist with my hackles rising, “even if I don’t cooperate—”
“No,” Wells answers swiftly, his emerald eyes both firm and serene, as though he empathizes, but won’t budge. “It doesn’t work like that. You will cooperate. And we will protect you.”
The haunting veracity of all that response denotes rips through me. Aside from the day I shot my way to deliverance, my whole life has belonged to someone else. Maybe it would’ve been better to go out on that momentous victory. Loving someone in this world will always amount to shackles.
My brow arches in challenge. “And if I decide I would prefer not to be under your protection?”
“Ains, enough,” Gage orders.
Exactly.
“Not enough,” I protest, my heart thrashing against my sternum. “I have the right to understand what I’m facing. To ask questions even if they defy you.”
“Yes,” Ivy chimes, gorgeous in a royal-blue pantsuit and perched in a corner seat, where it appeared she was in her own little world until now, “she does.”
God, I love this girl. Who could’ve seen that coming? But she’s surprising. Fierce, loyal, and free.
When Gage and I were hiding out, locked away for puzzles and orgasms, he informed me that she was the one who had insisted Rena and Celeste be in the meeting when I had to answer for the photos. Apparently, Ivy had been adamant that I had my full support system there to feel like I wasn’t alone. No woman has ever fought for me like that.
Other than George and the man beside me, no one has ever considered themselves my support system.
But there’s still a twinge of jealousy where she’s concerned. One glare from her is like a shot of truth serum for my man .
“We’re putting a tracker in your neck,” he spills.
That’s not shocking. Trackers are commonplace in This Thing of Ours. They aren’t generally put inside bodies, but that’s probably only a matter of time. They’re utilized either way. One more vehicle to steal liberties from women.
I doubt that’s the whole story with this crew, especially since Ivy seems to run both the cabal and these men. Still …
“Well, since you asked so nicely”—I cross my arms over my red brassiere—“no.”
Celeste swings her head into the small conference area we’re sitting in. She’s not permitted to be at the KORT meeting, but she’ll be staying nearby with the guards, Rena, and Felicity. They’re all out in the open seating space.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she says, laughing. “I was looking for Liam, but don’t knock the grand gesture of asking.”
Liam cruises up behind her, his arm hooking around her waist as he pecks her hair. “We agreed to drop that, Ace.”
She pins him with her brown eyes, muttering something that only he can hear. In return, he threatens to whip the sass out of her as she drags him away. That does nothing to distract this crew though.
“We weren’t asking,” Gage roars like a caveman—one step away from beating his chest.
Since I’m tipsy and a fan of Ivy’s now, I take this opportunity to bond with her. “Tarzan,” I quip, side-eying Gage.
She giggles and pounds on her chest. “They all are. That’s so good.”
“We’ll address that later, Little Storm.” Wells winks at her with a suave grin. “Or maybe I’ll call you Jane.”
Gage huffs and rolls his amber gems—both are directed at me. “This is for your protection.”
You’re either the hunter or the hunted. The lion or the lamb.
Neither applies here exactly.
Tied. Anchored. Hitched.
The same terms are loosely associated with marriage. That makes me laugh. And hiccup. God, I really wish I could hold my alcohol. Mortifying.
I straighten my shoulders. “Under your protection sounds a lot like being a prisoner, so you’ll forgive me if I’m not grateful.”
“We all have one,” Ty adds, plopping into the seat beside Wells, and the compassion in his eyes nearly mows me over. “It’s not about being a prisoner. It’s about being part of something we don’t want to lose.”
My father issued similar words to me countless times, but those were never delivered with the benevolent spirit of togetherness that Ty just extended. As much as that swells my heart, it hurts. Panic swarms me. Losing has always been inevitable in my endeavors. I’d be a fool to think it wasn’t a probable possibility with everything stacked against me. And the more I know these people, the more I know that losing them will kill me.
“Ains, look at me,” Gage demands. When I do, he holds my gaze for a beat. “Breathe, baby.”
How does he always know?
He used to claim that I was readable, but the truth is, unless I was losing my temper, I was only readable to him. The one who hears the silent whispers of my soul.
“This is how we keep each other safe,” he explains. “How we take care of our family in this fucked-up society. That’s you now.”
The rest of them wait, but their features echo what he’s saying.
Family means sacrifice.
“Okay,” I concede, ignoring the distress that having them embrace me causes and tapping into the solace. “I’m good with equal footing. That’s important to me. What else?”
“You’ll learn more once we’re in there,” Wells asserts. “But they’ll be assessing your reactions to everything said. So, we can’t share anything else. They’ll think we prepped you.”
“That’s true,” Ivy agrees, with a soft smile. “All you need to know is that you aren’t alone in that cathedral.”
So, now I sit in the back of a limo, with my quasi-family—who happen to run a cabal—my resurrected lover, and a tracker behind my ear. All while hoping that one of the men I killed—the only ones who could know the nine thirty-two time of death—didn’t also rise from the grave. Not that it really matters. People want me dead. The FBI’s goal is for me to rot in prison. A powerful cabal believes I have answers. And a media conglomerate is threatening the safety of the man I’ve been reunited with. Blah. Blah. Blah.
Nothing to fucking see here.
“T-minus ten seconds,” Liam says, getting out of the car.
“Remember”—Ty nudges my leg—“keep an even pace beside Ivy and your head angled down because you have a recognizable face. We’ll surround you.”
He’s gone over that a few times, but Ty is the worrier of the group.
All three guys exit the vehicle and are on the sidewalk in a flash, outside the car door—leaving Gage with Ivy and me—until the streetlamps and the lights from any nearby buildings and the church are cut, cloaking everything in a blanket of darkness.
Wells swings the door open, and Gage steps out first. He’s scrumptious in his all-black suit. And deadly. It clings to his thick thighs and ripped arms. When he turns to offer me his hand, he buttons his jacket first, fitted perfectly over his bulging chest and tapered at his waist. Only the ink on his neck spreads beyond his collar, concealing so much while also showcasing his trademark intimidation.
Once we’re all out, the four men form a barricade for Ivy and me to hide behind, and Liam shines a light on the ground to direct our path.
The air is warm and humid—less oppressive than New Orleans, but thicker with tension nonetheless. Like the atoms are abuzz with threats on the menacing breeze. There’s still a hint of the exoneration fragrance I imagined when we rolled up, but the aromas of fish and sulfur and the subtle scent of chocolate permeate the Windy City.
Ivy clasps my hand as we traipse toward the dingy white cathedral. “The first time in that sanctuary is the most daunting. Just remember, you own this. Out here, you’re wanted. In there, you’re needed .”
“Make them chase the phoenix,” I volley in understanding to the woman who knew how to wield her flames and earn the respect of these men.
“Exactly.” She dips her chin to me, and I have an uncanny desire to draw her into a hug.
But within another step, we’re standing before the peaked wooden door. The creak as Ty pulls it open splits the still night, resounding like a gong sundering time.
Then and now.
Past and prospects.
Lamb and …
The men push us forward, guiding us inside as the lights return, our heels clacking on the floor. A rhythmic beat that trumps any quietude this house of prayer once offered. There’s a whir in my ear, like the kind that howls when listening to a seashell. I’m sure it’s blood flow, nerves, or too much silence morphing into white noise.
But there is the tiniest voice in my mind, wondering if spirits are trapped here. Chanting their pleas. Maybe a foundation built upon corrupt benefactors comes at the price of purgatory.
Eerie. A chill rushes through my limbs as I file the thought away in my if-I-ever-meet-the-Pope mental folder.
With my next ragged breath, hands are on me—pats and squeezes and palms to my head. Encouragement. But as we strut into the sanctuary, there’s an immediate divide. Ivy and Wells veer toward a round oak table to take their places with Ty and Liam in tow. Three men are already seated, each with a person or guard behind them.
Gage leads me to the two leather chairs facing the table, and we take our seats. Behind us are pews and altars. Before us, the people who will determine my fate.
The stained-glass crucifixion story, depicted on the windows, glints in my peripheral vision. I’ve always been fascinated by it, the way the message seems to transform, depending on when you seek it. Today is no exception.
Here, I see the guilty verdict without a fair trial.
The hunting. The sacrifice. The crown of thorns.
Orange skies eclipsed.
My heart plummets to my stomach, jostling with the bile.
Gage grips my hand, threading our fingers together before he repeats the order he’s issued several times today, his voice husky. “Follow my lead. We’ll get through this.”
I nod, remaining silent and patient. Waiting for the knights to interrogate me. As unsettled as my gut is, I’m oddly grateful. This is among my most harrowing experiences, but if this is where Gage is, I wouldn’t choose to be anywhere else. I tug our clasped hands onto my lap, my thumb tracing circles over his skin, his fidget ring pinching mine. My other hand curls over his forearm so he feels it. The depth of our connection.
“Good evening, Ainsley,” a salt-and-pepper-haired gentleman begins. “Thank you for being here. I’m Jared Austen. We’ve got a lot to discuss. You’ve had an interesting couple of months. We’re hoping to pick your brain because we believe you have some untapped power. We’ve been assured you’ll be cooperative, so there’s nothing to worry about.”
That was cordial, rife with coded threats, but I’m not sweating too much yet. I’m still warmed by Ivy’s promise of me not being alone. But before I can reply, a younger guy at the table jumps in. He’s handsome in a commanding way. Dashing. Ash-brown hair, blue eyes, a chiseled jaw. But looks can be deceiving.
“Unless she’s not compliant, right?” he says. “I know I’m new, but do we lay out what happens if she isn’t cooperative? That’s handled here. Correct?”
“Well,” the last guy at the table starts, “that is taken on a case by—”
“The fuck, Axel? Payne?” Gage’s death grip chokes the life out of my delicate hand bones. “There will be no handling anything. She’s claimed. So, you’ll be going through me first.” He glares at Wells. “You said you called it in.”
I’m not one hundred percent certain what’s going on, but my upbringing has afforded me enough insight to latch on to a few keywords I’m not thrilled to hear. Something in the delivery is amiss for me though, so I let things play out before deciding how to react.
That turns out to be a wise move because the table erupts in laughter. Weird. Confusing. Nothing like the Morelli Cosa Nostra.
“I’m Axel Noire,” the handsome guy announces, which showers me with the awareness that he must be Rena’s oldest brother. He flourishes a charming smile that resembles hers, both charismatic. “And that was a joke, Ainsley. I’ve known this guy for a long time. I had to see the fire you put in his eyes firsthand, or I wouldn’t have believed it. And I got the go-ahead.” He jerks his chin toward Wells, who winks at me and chuckles along with the other chairs.
“Fuckers,” Gage grumbles through a stilted laugh.
Maybe this was their way of lightening the mood, but I’m still hung up on the overarching message I picked up on. I don’t feel lighter. I feel chained.
“It’s nice to meet all of you. I can absolutely appreciate you pulling one over on Gage.” I smile and nudge his knee with mine because I can feign a blithe posture in this weighty room as well as they can, especially if it will get me answers. “And thank you for kicking things off on a lighthearted note. I do have a few questions though. Would you mind if we start there?”
Gage stiffens beside me, probably unhappy with me not following his lead , but I’ll deal with that later.
“Of course. I’m Payne Logan.” The last guy at the table gestures to me. “You’re a good sport, Ainsley. Please, the floor is yours.”
I straighten my posture, thankful for the years of interacting with my father’s associates and the confidence it instilled in me for this strange meeting. “I’m not one for small talk, so I won’t waste time there. First, I’d like to know what you expect from me. And then I have another issue I’d like to address.”
Jared Austen takes that one. “In short, we need something that the Morellis and/or Vittoris possess, and we think you’re the answer.”
“Because you believe I have information that will lead you to what you want?” I ask, seeking clarity.
“Possibly.” Jared tilts his head, patently choosing his wording, lips pursed in thought. “If not, we believe you’re the one to motivate them.”
Gage hisses a slew of expletives under his breath, muttering to me, “I told you to follow my goddamn lead.”
He’s not wrong to be upset by what they’re suggesting. I’m certainly in favor of extinction of the Morellis and Vittoris, but it’s evident from Jared’s carefully phrased admission that KORT is hoping I’ll offer myself as bait for them to trap the men intent on ending me.
Always the damn lamb.
Unless …
Shoving that aside, I steer toward something else first. “And the part about me being claimed—I think I know the meaning, but it might be best if you clarify.”
“KORT operates by a set of values,” Wells explains. “We do not permit casual relationships because it’s too much of a risk to our work, to our other members. Secrets shared during pillow talk and inevitably slung as accusations when a breakup occurs later are dangerous for everyone. We value the sanctity of marriage. The union, the trust within it, the lifelong commitment. We do not tolerate adultery, divorce, or any spousal abuse. It’s all part of our bylaws. So, when a high-level member chooses to be with someone, they claim that person. Once approved, the spouse is then protected as well and bound by the organization’s rules.”
I bob my head, hoping they’ll afford me a second to absorb that and grasp the courage that was out of reach for so many years.
When we entered this clandestine cathedral, the fracturing of time rippled through me. My bones felt the ache of it, the vibration of the autonomy up for grabs.
Then and now.
Past and prospects.
Lamb and … lion.
Make them chase the phoenix.
Inhaling a cleansing breath, I swipe my thumb across Gage’s beautiful bronze skin again, praying my next move isn’t a deal-breaking condition for him because the alternative has to be for me.
“That all makes a lot of sense. The integrity of your bylaws and the values your organization holds are refreshing. I’d like to do my part.” The heat of my favorite amber eyes burns my cheek, perhaps because we both sense the lick of the imminent whooshing flames, but still, I sprinkle the gasoline. “I will agree to give you whatever information I can or even be the bait you need to lure both families to you. But I will do it as a respected employee, ally, or member of KORT. Not as a claimed woman. And I have terms.”