Chapter 9
Colt
“He was a good boy. He had his troubles, but he was a good boy.” A woman, whose name I’ve forgotten, is holding my hand and talking about my brother.
I’ve heard the same tired line repeatedly today, variations of “Wilder fucked up, but he didn’t deserve to die like that,” and it’s grating on my last nerve.
Or maybe it’s the head and neck ache that feels like someone is drilling into my brain.
Hours of this. Of sympathy, mourning, tears, and kind words. I’ve done this so many times you think I’d be used to it by now, but this is Wilder’s funeral. My brother’s fucking funeral.
The ache blooms across my temple, and I try to refocus on the woman.
Is she still talking? Can’t she see I’m fucking sweating here? How can she not pick up on the fact that I’m one kind word away from screaming?
“I’m sorry, I need to check on my mom,” I lie, pulling my hand from hers and walking away. I head around the edge of the church, away from prying eyes, and take a deep, painful breath. My skin is clammy, my eyes stinging as I try to blink through the pain.
The doctor said this would happen. He said to expect the pain, the anxiety, the agitation. I’m a patient man, I’ve had to be, so this … urge to snap isn’t something I’m familiar with. Sweat coats my brow, and I take out the bottle of pills from my pocket, throwing two back.
I took two an hour ago.
Shouldn’t they have started working by now?
Fucking hell, I’ve been shot before. Stabbed. But this pain … it radiates through my head, like a hammer against my skull, a constant fucking knocking—
“You good?”
I blink, glancing over at Alistair. “I’m fine.”
He steps into the shade of the church. “Maybe we should call it a day.”
“I’m fine, Alistair.”
“No one expects you to—”
“Alistair.” I curl my shaking hands into fists and take a breath. “Just drop it. I’m fine. I’m not leaving.”
He gets closer. “Don’t bite my head off, but you woke up from a coma days ago. You’ve said your goodbyes. Go home. This day is hard enough for you; your pain makes it harder.”
“Why are you acting like you know how this feels?”
I regret it the moment the words leave my mouth. I’ve snapped before—it’s rare, but I’m only human—but I’ve never said something so cruel. My common sense wars with the pain, but even though I know I should take it back, I don’t.
Alistair shakes his head and looks away. “Wilder was my brother, too.”
“So we’re brothers now? That’s convenient, given that when I was out of action and needed you, you made Denver’s life hell.”
What the fuck is wrong with me? Why am I being such a dick?
Why aren’t these fucking pills working?
“I told you, I had to be hard on her—”
“You have said that, but you haven’t said why,” I challenge, and he turns to leave. “Don’t walk away when I’m fucking talking to you, Alistair. Remember your place.”
My friend skids to a stop.
My friend.
He’s my friend.
Why am I treating him like an enemy?
He turns, and the throbbing in my head pulses down my neck. I’m tired. I’m so damn tired.
“I was hard on her because no one else is,” he says, an edge in his tone that doesn’t help to calm me. “Everyone lets her run around as if she has any idea what she’s doing. She doesn’t. She’s impulsive, and honestly, Colt? She’s fucking dangerous.”
“How in the hell is she—”
“She killed Vince Capelli. You asked if he was taken care of. He was. Denver gained his trust, he invited her to his house, and she slit his throat.” The throbbing increases, the pressure behind my eyes almost unbearable.
“I thought maybe she was exaggerating, but I got the security footage from Vince’s bedroom. I’ve seen the whole fucking thing.”
“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you have enough on your plate, and surprisingly, her murder spree is low on our list of problems.”
I stare at him, my breathing quick. “She hid it from you.”
“Yes. Like I said, she’s dangerous—”
“She hid it because she couldn’t come to you, Alistair!
” My raised voice does nothing to ease my head.
“She is the woman I love, and you are my best fucking friend. It is your job to protect her. What if it had gone wrong? What if I’d woken up from this fucking coma and she was—” I run my hand down my face, the sun too bright, the shade no longer offering some kind of reprieve.
“How can I trust you to run this family if I can’t even trust you with her? ”
His lips part and he shakes his head, eyes wide. “Are you fucking serious right now? I have stood by your side for twenty years, Colt.”
“And you fucked up when I needed you most.”
I move him aside and leave.
I ignore the stares, the murmured conversation from people who either want my ear or the chance to talk about the brother they didn’t understand. They didn’t know him—not like I did.
I knew his pain.
I knew, and I punished him for it. I expected him to keep moving, to keep a lid on what he was going through. And why? Because sometimes … he was inconvenient.
And I never hid that I thought that. Not once.
Tears burn my eyes.
I can’t fucking do this.
I’m in the car and driving home before I can stop myself.
The house is quiet as I throw my keys down and go to the kitchen, but I’m not alone. Denver is leaning against the kitchen counter, texting. She lifts her head when she sees me and immediately puts her phone down.
“You’re home early. How did—”
“You killed Vince Capelli.”
She goes still. “Yes.”
“Tell me everything you did from start to finish.”
Her shoulders rise and fall with each breath she takes, but she doesn’t wait long before speaking again.
“Dante Capelli called and told me Vince was the one who planted the bombs. He also had reason to believe Vince was going to kill their grandfather. I agreed to kill Vince, if Dante agreed to make sure it wasn’t looked into too closely.
” I watch as she speaks, her voice cold.
“Vince called to express his sympathies over Finn. I let him believe I wanted his friendship, but it was clear he wanted more, so I leaned into that. I learned about his security and his routine, and when he invited me to his home, I accepted. He”—she wets her lips—“he kissed me. I let him. I undressed. He got on his knees. I slit his throat.”
I can feel my heartbeat in my head, a constant, quick drilling, and I don’t know how I feel. Emotions tumble over each other at the image of Vince touching her, but one thing claws to the surface of every other thought.
“You could have died.”
“But I didn’t.”
“That isn’t the point!”
Her jaw tenses. “Do not raise your voice at me, Colt Harland.”
“What if he knew your plan?” I ask, approaching her. “What if he’d killed you? Kept you? Tortured you?”
“And what if it rained fucking Gatorade? I’m not playing this game with you. He hurt you. He killed Finn. I was never going to let that go.”
I cup her face, rage and passion and desperation flooding me. “And what if I’d lost you? Do you have any idea what that would have done to me?”
Denver swallows, eyes wide, and God, I love her. I love her more than it makes sense to love another person, and just the idea that Vince could have hurt her is driving me to despair.
She rests her palm over my hand. “I’m okay, Colt. I wasn’t hurt. Lewis was with me the whole time.”
But I wasn’t. I was lying in a bed, unable to do a damn thing to help. My father died. My brother died. And I lay there—
“What’s wrong?”
She blinks, her cheeks paling. “What?”
“Something is wrong. What is it?”
Wide, gray eyes stare up at me, her light brows pulled together. And she doesn’t have to say his name, because I know. I fucking know.
“What did Ranger do?”
“Nothing, Colt, he—”
“Did he threaten you?”
He did. I know he did. He won’t have taken the divorce conversation lightly. I should never have let her go there alone, should never have let her face him without me at her side.
I see red. Pulses of deep crimson consume my vision, and Denver calls my name as I walk away. I’m driving. I’m trying to breathe. The pressure in my head increases.
My body begs me to stop.
But my mind is racing.
Images of Denver in Vince’s home. Of Ranger threatening her. Keeping her married to him, refusing to ever let go.
My brother. My father. Dead.
The city whips by. My phone is ringing. Five missed calls. Six. Seven.
I pull the car to a stop outside the hotel and leave it in the street, the door hanging open as I stride up the steps.
“Sir, you can’t just—”
I seize the hotel employee by his uniform and drag him with me across the lobby. He yelps and shouts, and I shove him inside the elevator car.
“Penthouse.”
“Sir—”
I take my gun out and hold it to his temple. “Penthouse.”
He whimpers and nods, taking out a keycard and missing the slot three times before he finally slips the key in and presses the PH button. Adrenaline thumps through me, my head aching with every floor we climb, but I know what will help. I know what will ease this agony spilling free.
“The moment you’re back in the lobby, call an ambulance,” I say. The employee trembles beside me, and the doors open. “He’s going to need it.”
I stride into the penthouse. Ranger is by the open balcony doors and turns, his phone against his ear. I don’t stop moving.
“Hello, Ranger.”
I throw my fist into his face.
His head snaps back and he drops his phone, the device clanging on the floor. His back hits the windows, and as blood pours over his lips, I seize his jaw and use my grip to lead him back onto the balcony.
“Not going to welcome me back?” I ask breathlessly.
He gains some kind of control and shoves my hand away, throwing a punch that misses.
My fist lands true again. If his nose wasn’t broken before, it is now.
I hit him again, and he roars, charging at me. His shoulder meets my stomach as he drives us both back, slamming his fist into my ribs. I grit my teeth against the onslaught of pain and bring my elbow into his spine.
He grunts and I grip his shoulders, shoving him back. He stumbles, his back hitting the glass balcony.
I’m on him before he can right his footing, my hand around his throat.
“I should have killed you in that house,” I whisper, Ranger’s back arching as I force him further over the balcony. His eyes widen and he grabs at my hold, but something more than physical strength is driving me.
Loss.
Agony.
Grief.
The need to protect her.
To protect my family, my business, the empire I’ve built.
The click of a gun has me looking over my shoulder.
I know who he is purely because of how much he looks like Ranger.
He’s holding the gun with both hands, a steady grip under the butt, his gaze entirely focused on me.
From the stories Denver told me, Axel is a shy kid.
Twenty-two, a Luxe in name only, and wanting nothing to do with his father’s life. I guess he’s changed.
“Get the fuck off him,” Axel says.
I stare at Ranger’s son, debating my options, and realize I don’t have many. Ranger slumps to the ground as I back away, my hands raised.
“You okay, Dad?”
“I’m fine,” Ranger bites back, not at all grateful for his son’s intervention.
Axel doesn’t lower his gun or go to his dad’s side, but his attention snaps over his shoulder as Denver comes jogging into view. She lets out a cry as she rushes to me, cupping my face.
“Are you all right?”
I cast a glance at Ranger, who glares at the both of us. Threats come to mind, promises of violence if he touches her again, but it feels pointless to say anything, because my promise is passed through a single look.
Next time we meet will be the last.