5. Micah
Isit on the back patio of my family’s estate, and observe the afternoon sun coming down in the west, the dregs of a summer day glittering off the pool I rarely, if ever, use.
It’s not my thing, really. To strip off. To dive beneath the surface, and provide an easy target for anyone nearby looking to harm me.
Underwater, I can’t see what’s happening poolside. I can’t hear. A pool, in my mind, is an exercise in sensory deprivation—and I’m not about chopping my instincts off like unwanted appendages.
I prefer to sit at the iron table, and keep watch over my family.
Felix and Christabelle recline on sun loungers by the water, with Bastard, the dog, on the ground at their side. With their skin exposed to the afternoon rays, and sunglasses covering their faces, I’m not sure they’ve truly returned from the Caribbean vacation we all took so recently.
Physically, they’re here in New York. But mentally, they sip mai tais on the beach.
“Cordoza called,” Felix announces, lazily stroking Christabelle’s lean thigh. Though I sure as shit don’t look at her legs. And neither do Stovic or Michaels, who stand guard by the door. “This new guy, Wilkes, is making waves. But he’s quiet-ish. He’s in the boroughs, trying to work that turf without being noticed.”
“Wilkes?” I sit back on the aged iron chair and spin a single grape between my fingers. A platter overflowing with fresh fruit sits inches from my elbow; an afternoon snack Mary prepared for us, to combat the oppressive heat. But I’m not interested in eating. And Felix is interested in nothing except money and Christabelle. “What’s his story?”
“Joseph Wilkes was born in Nottingham, England,” Christabelle explains, “forty-three years ago. His parents are Edward and Cleo Wilkes. They were one of the more affluent families in the Nottingham area, which is known for low-income families.”
“See how smart she is?” Twisting on his chair, Felix meets my eyes. “Christabelle Cannon knows more than Google.”
“Literally not true,” she drawls. “In fact, most of that, I got from the internet. Joseph Wilkes has quite the reputation back home: violence, aggression, and making first contact.”
I continue to roll the grape in my hand and frown. “First contact. As in…?”
“He’s not one to join someone else’s war. He’d prefer to start his own, if there’s a prize waiting at the finish line. Rumblings on the street right now are that, with Mancino dead, Pastore gone, Timothy Malone the Second in the ground, and Agosti’s fortune dwindling, Felix and Cordoza are the big targets for a takeover. Wilkes has come searching for a little ground to occupy.”
“Can’t declare war if you don’t have an army,” Lix rumbles. “He wants to dance, but he’s homeless and friendless.”
“Also untrue.” Christabelle pushes her sunglasses up. “Wilkes has been in the city, officially, for just a few months. Perhaps longer, but he kept it quiet until then. Mancino dropped last year, your father crapped out earlier this year, and Pastore was taken out last month; that’s a lot of movement for one city in the space of twelve months.”
“Movement is dangerous.” I split the grape’s skin with my finger and tear the fruit open. “Another word for ‘movement’ is instability. If Wilkes makes enough friends?—”
“Wilkes is a small-time nobody,” Felix inserts. “He’s not gonna make enough noise to screw with us.”
“Sir?”
I turn at a familiar voice, and lift my chin when a soldier I sent out with a very specific job today pauses on the threshold of the house. “Did you speak to her?”
“Yes, sir.” He wanders onto the pool deck, nodding in greeting as Felix and Christabelle contort to look over their shoulders.
Theodore Harrison is a soldier through and through, but he’s not as large as Stovic. Not as scarred as Michaels. Harrison can handle himself—and has, a thousand times over—in heated situations. But he cleans up well, too.
And can pass as a thirty-something rich boy with too much money on his hands.
“I spoke with Ms. Hale, sir.” He comes to stand by the table, blocking the glare of the sun, but not my view of my brother. “She was very professional and kind.”
“Wait…” Felix flips on his lounger and glowers at me. “You sent him to spy on her? Micah!”
“She’s too smooth. Too practiced in her damsel act.” I look to Harrison. “What did you find?”
“She was working when I arrived to study the desk, sir. Sitting at her computer and fielding phone calls as they came in. Pretty standard stuff. Ms. Hale served me, but she didn’t get stuffy about my presence. Her friend visited?—”
“Roscoe?” I interject.
“Jazmine. The loud one. They, uh…” He side-eyes Felix. “They were discussing you guys.”
“She was?”
“See!” I shove up from my chair and point a threatening finger toward Felix. “I told you! You’re over here talking about how this dude Wilkes wants to slide into the city and fuck some shit up. Meanwhile, a pretty little filly just so happens to place herself in my path? Nah.” I turn away, pacing the concrete tiles of our patio. “I wasn’t born yesterday. And she’s not as good an actress as she thinks she is.”
“Well, actually…” Harrison clears his throat. “Sir. I’ve observed her over three days, and nothing has given me reason for pause. She works with the antiques like she’s meant to be there. She knows her art history. She handled the phones and answered questions. We spoke of the Queen’s desk today, and her knowledge was spot-on. She even knew of the seal hidden in the lateral compartment. If she was a stooge for Wilkes, she wouldn’t be likely to know that.”
“Wilkes is from England,” I snap. “The desk is from England. Not an enormous leap there.”
“Sure,” he counters, though he does so gently. Our father’s memory, complete with merciless punishment and trigger-happy behavior, lingers within our ranks. “But I went to Colby’s myself, sir. I sought that desk out. She didn’t attempt to sell it to me without my interest.”
“Fine. You said they were discussing Lix.”
“The, uh…” He glances over to Felix. “The red-haired woman came barreling into Colby’s with today’s paper.”
“The Cannon Daily?”
“No. The Telegraph, which is reporting on your upcoming nuptials. The redhead is, in Ms. Hale’s words, ‘obsessed’ with the family.”
“So the redhead is working for Wilkes?”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Felix snarls. “Not everyone is out to screw with us, Micah! The redhead thinks we’re sexy, Tiia Hale thinks we’re sexy. It happens!”
“As a matter of fact…” Harrison coughs, nerves beating from his pores. “They did mention Micah’s aesthetic appeal.”
Instantly, my brow shoots high on my forehead. “My aesthetic appeal?”
“Yes, sir. Both women commented on that, but Ms. Hale made it clear she was not interested the way the other woman was.”
“Ms. Hale thinks you’re sexy!” Felix laughs, flopping to his back and fixing his sunglasses. “But not so sexy that she’d fuck you.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head side to side. “Must suck to be you, bro. She’s so pretty, and she’s got you all mixed up and convinced she’s a Bond villain. But when asked during private conversation, she dismisses you—even if, aesthetically,” he sniggers, “she thinks you’re pleasing.”
“Your smart mouth is gonna be the reason you die, Felix.” I set my grape portions into my mouth and turn, my shoes scraping against the ground, alerting the sleepy dog and bringing his head up. “You take nothing seriously. You’d rather fuck around poolside and let Wilkes take your city and Tiia Hale lull you into a sense of ‘well, she’s pretty, so she can’t possibly be bad.’”
“First of all,” he folds his neck and looks back at me, “Christabelle wanted to kill me, too. So clearly, the pretty ones can be bad.”
“Wanted?” she murmurs. “Past tense?”
He drops his hand over her thighs and tugs her closer until she’s almost on his lap. Bastard, the dog, peers across to monitor, his attention, concentrating firmly on Lix’s bruising palm.
“Second of all,” Felix continues, “you’re allowed to find a woman attractive, ya know? You saw her in the street. She got your protective instincts stirring. You dragged her inside CeCe’s and got her to safety, and now you can’t stop thinking about her. It’s been weeks, and you’re still obsessing. So why don’t you stop being a little bitch, and instead, go find her and ask if she’d like to fuck? There doesn’t have to be a motive on the side.”
“Ask?” Christabelle questions, picking her man’s hand up off her leg. But instead of throwing it away, she twines their fingers together and earns a smile from Lix. “At least we’re asking these days, instead of dictating.”
“I’m an evolved man, babe.” He leans in and presses a kiss to her lips. “Men who are getting married tend to grow and mature.”
“Funny,” I sneer. “I see no difference, except now, you have Christabelle stepping in your way before you make stupid decisions.” I look at her. “That load used to be mine to carry alone. I appreciate the help.”
Felix chuckles. “You need to stop whining so fucking much. How much did you spend on a new desk today, anyway?”
In question, I look to Harrison.
“Two-seventy-five. More than the asking price, but as I understand it, Ms. Hale works for commission—and she did do a good job of selling the desk. Proved it’s a genuine antique with all the documentation required for certification. I sincerely believe whatever you paid today will come back to you in double, or triple, long before you retire. That desk was an investment in your future.”
“And now Ms. Hale will spend her evening eating caviar and toasting a bitchin’ bonus,” Felix snickers. “It’s your money, bro; you get to spend it however you wish. Though, I hope you did it because you truly wanted the desk, and not just in a misguided attempt to catch out a pretty lady for being Wilkes’ spy.”
“I’m not done with this.” I circle back and stalk around to stand in front of my brother. “Three of the four ruling dons in this city have died in the last twelve months. Three of four!”
“Mancino wasn’t me,” he lifts his hands in faux surrender, “but now we’re allied with the person who did it. Pastore was my hit to make, with Cordoza’s blessing. And our fuckwit father died from cancer and rotted away inside this very house. New York’s shift in control isn’t some out-of-control war, spreading like fungus in the grass; it’s us gaining power. There’s a difference.”
“There’s a fungus in the fuckin’ grass, Lix. His name is Wilkes, and he’s ready to set this city on fire. Cordoza’s getting old, and you’re still new at the job. New York is the most vulnerable it’s been since the seventies, and you want me to believe that Tiia Hale’s ‘oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to run into you’ ploy was real?”
I point toward Christabelle and earn a set of bared teeth, not just from the dog, but from Felix too. “I love her, Lix—” I meet her eyes. “I do. I think you’re good for him. But you intended to take his life first.” Then I look back to my brother. “Women do start wars. Women are known, all throughout history, to be the smoking barrel that was a man’s undoing. They’re smart enough and effective enough to take down an entire family. So don’t sit there and pretend like Tiia Hale couldn’t possibly be a gun pointed straight between our brows.”
I stalk away and come around to stand in front of Harrison. “What else did you get on her?”
“That Ms. Hale likes French pastries and Italian coffee. And that she’s accompanying Jazmine to Biano’s Italian Restaurant at eight tonight.”
I tap his chest with my knuckles and spin away. “Biano’s at eight. Got it.”
Entering the house through the back door, I cross over from putrid heat into chilly air-conditioning.
“She said you’re aesthetically pleasing!” Lix calls at my back. “That’s code for thinking you’re fuckable. So stop being a bitch, and try being charming. Not every woman wants to slit your throat—and even those who do…”
“I’m done with this conversation.” I’m not sure if he hears me, but I’m not sticking around to repeat myself. Instead, I stride quickly toward the stairs, then head up.
I need to change and get outside for a jog to expel some of the nervous energy rushing through my veins. After that, I need a shower and a ride into the city.
Because I’m heading to Biano’s for dinner at eight.
I haven’t seen Tiia in weeks. Not in person, anyway. It’s time I get eyes on her again, and investigate the weird niggling suspicions that refuse to leave my mind.