Chapter 5
CHAPTER
FIVE
Killian
T he little owl figurine is clutched tight in Emmie’s chubby fingers when I get in the doors of Black Briar.
I don’t like being away from her, so I normally keep business trips to a minimum. But this one was important. Enough that it took me back to the mainland for two days. I fucking hate the mainland. A place where my family, my sister?—
I stop.
Business is business, and while Xavier has his own charm, he isn’t me, isn’t silver tongued or able to hide his true feelings.
Women want him, sure. Just like they want me. But with business? Cutting deals? It’s me, baby, all the way.
Xavier’s skills don’t lie in that direction.
Besides, when it comes to sculpting our business beyond the Black Briar, I’m your man.
I know the best direction our future—Emmie’s future—lies in.
The contraband these days is mostly booze—an area I want to stay in. But it’s an area where I want to up our game. Wring every fucking cent from the rich dicks who simper in the cages of the Upper Side.
I stop. Take a breath. The Black Briar is now a staple of the underclasses and the regular people who live here in the Lower Side. But now, we’re expanding.
As of now, we do booze and some illicit drugs, mostly birth control, since it’s illegal on the island under the Monarch’s rule. Those are the kind of things Freya, our bar and baby manager, shifts. But I want more.
Baby manager… My gaze shifts to the baby in question, and, as I set my satchel on the bar, I swear she’s fucking grown since I last saw her.
At four, Emmie’s no longer a baby, and it both fills me with love and hurts. Time shouldn’t be allowed to speed forward like that.
Emmie sits on the black velvet banquet with an array of different owl figures spread on the table before her. One owl, Delores, stuffed, fur worn away and an eye missing, lies propped against the menu.
Delores has seen better days. Also, who the fuck puts fur on an owl?
Emmie’s face lights up as she looks up, and she grabs Delores by a wing and flies across the newly cleaned floor to me. I scoop her up and hug her tight. “Daddy!”
“Hey, bug,” I kiss her cheek, and she squeals.
“No! That tickles. You need shave!” I laugh and squeeze her tighter.
Eyes landing on the newest owl among her collection, I ask, “Where did you get that one?”
She gazes down at the white crystalline owl, then skips over to clutch it to her. “Papa.” Her eyes come up to mine and narrow like a storm coming in. “Mine.”
“Yours.” I lock eyes with Freya a moment, but she just shrugs and goes back to refilling the napkin dispensers.
Fucking Xavier. I know where he got the thing. It has privilege and money all over its garish surface.
For a moment, Emmie anxiously looks up at me and clings to my leg. But I smile and she smiles back, warming every black and cold part of me. As she runs back to her owl game, Delores hits her heel and drags on the floor along the way.
Something restless moves within me.
Last night, stuck in the Vega seaport, just outside of Emporia, I wanted to make sure my new supplier was worth my while.
Changing, or even adding a supplier, takes patience and a delicately weaved web of words.
Especially when the items are contraband and you’re raising the stakes by entering the world of the privileged.
We’re going to sell right under the Councilwoman’s nose, so it could be dangerous with the wrong supplier.
For Emmie, it’s a risk I’ll fucking take.
She already has an inheritance, but both Xav and I want to make sure she’s so fucking wealthy she can do whatever the fuck she wants when she’s of age. No Monarch rules, no arranged marriages, no bullshit. Even as an Omega.
It’s why I spent more time than I wanted in the seaport.
“Things go well?” Freya asks, picking up a bottle from the shelf behind the bar. She eyes it before jotting down how much of it remains. “Did you make it to Emporia?”
“Emporia’s shit covered in glitter,” I say. “But yeah, I hope it went well. The shipment and these consequent runs should be enough to keep us raking in that sweet, sweet elite Sabine money this Season.”
“And the next?”
“I intend to make them come back for more.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
For a few minutes I watch Emmie, just losing myself in the innocence and perfection of her. But then I get to work.
I open my satchel, pull out the paperwork, and slap it down. Then I remove three bottles from the bottom. “Freya?”
“Yes, boss?” She turns from her inventory and sashays over.
Again, I’m hit with the mild regret of not shitting where I eat because Freya is a gorgeous thing.
But she’s worth more as a friend and worker, and I’m never risking it for a blowjob and a fuck.
Or maybe I’m not that interested, if it comes down to it.
Complications aren’t my style.
“Let me know your thoughts.” I push the first bottle to her. She opens it, pours a small finger into a shot glass, and takes a sip. “And how was Emmie?”
“Wow…” She shakes her head. Then answers my second question. “She was good. Got away from me at the fire in the sky or whatever bullshit they called it. It was just a barbeque. But Xavier said the ball went well, and the owners of the mansion have privately expressed interest in getting more?—”
I wave that off. “You think we can move this new booze?”
“Here? Are you turning this into a high-class joint, boss?”
Leaning over the bar, I grab two glasses, open the next bottle, and top hers up before pouring a little of the prime liquor into each glass.
“Nope,” I say. “But these are just the start of the exclusive, small batch liquors I’m thinking of selling to each ball thrower.”
“Including the Monarch?”
I grin, then lean on the bar. “ Especially her.”
I push the other glass to the end of the bar as the door from downstairs opens and Xavier fills the space.
He scribbles something on his leather notepad and tosses it down.
What’s this?
“The other bossman here figures you can move these at the various events this Season.” Freya says after reading the message.
He could use his phone or sign, but Freya only knows the basics and Xavier is Xavier. Mulish and old-fashioned, as much as he’s big. So, he uses good ol’ pen and paper.
It’s good, but why not stick to the wine and bubbles?
She shrugs, rolls her eyes. “I’m going to head down to check the barrels. Want me to take Emmie? We can go to the p-a-r-k after?”
I like having Emmie in here, having her close. But Freya probably should take her out to be a normal child.
“Bring her back by lunch.”
She salutes and gathers Emmie, who darts away to hug Xavier’s leg. “Papa.” Then she reaches out a chubby arm. Delores hangs from her fist as she hugs me, too. “Daddy.”
Then she nods and dutifully follows her owl army that’s in Freya’s arms.
When they’re gone, I fold my arms. “You stole an owl?”
He raises a brow. So? he signs.
“So? So that thing’s a Marvin. Worth a fortune.”
Now he frowns at me. His fingers move through the air, and it’s a fine ‘fuck you’ in the exaggerated movements as he signs.
Since when did you care about that kind of bullshit?
We rip those people off. We sell them all the shit they can’t get on Sabine.
And we do it under threat of great fucking punishment.
If Sophine brought back the death penalty, we’d be hanging by a rope.
I wince at his choice of words. “More like firing squad.”
Not that there’s a death penalty. But there is prison. Or exile.
We’re still doing that? Aren’t we? he continues.
“Of course. The occasional drugs, the foods the uppity bitch in the Council building bans… If we stop that, then there just might be riots. However, I want to move more into high-end booze. Small batch, rare, to go with the wines and sparkling shit we already sell.”
Xavier stalks up to me, and I don’t move. He’s all muscle. He can be as scary and deadly as he wants. Just like he can be gentle and sweet. But I’ve known him for a long time.
He’s like a brother to me. We’ve had our share of complicated history and heartache. Of struggle and revenge. We’ve even shared women.
Like Emmie’s mother.
But the only good that got us was our little girl. The rest of it was just shit.
We’re still going to swing if we’re caught.
The shit that Freya moves, the wine we do.
It breaks the strict laws of this fucked up place.
So, I ask are we dropping everything else?
Because the way you’re talking, Kil, it sure fucking sounds like you want to shift us just to ritzy booze, the stuff the working class can’t afford.
The stuff that’ll carry a higher sentence, all to make the rich happy.
I put a hand to his chest to move him back. “I’m thinking of Emmie’s future. And there’s money in this.”
Maybe more danger . His lips press together. Exclusively serving the people we hat e.
“We serve them anyway, Xav,” I say, moving to the other side of the bar and pouring the next bottle for him to try. “Why not get more from them?”
And our people?
Our people…
“Who are they, exactly? The Nightshades? I want to streamline. The fucking Councilwoman has so many sanctions on places not only on the mainland but across the world. We can make more money this way and stay under the radar.”
He slams a fist on the bar, and I push the glass against it.
“I also never said I’m dropping everything else.
That would be stupid. But…” I take a swallow of my glass.
Smoky and sweet, a brandy that’s at once the taste of a late summer bonfire and dried orchard fruits with hints of spice.
“But the world’s full of opportunities and this stuff’s all hard to get outside their places of origin.
Tiny places like the vineyards we’re shipping from. But this is a bigger set up.”
He snatches up the drink and downs it, then pauses, looking at the glass. His expression’s just like the one I felt when I first tried it. Impressed.