Chapter 2
KAIRO VAN DOREN
Chicago has had its troubles for quite some time now. I think it comes from such a high population in a relatively small area and not enough legal law enforcement to deal with it. The population increases faster than the resources to combat the crime and needs in the area.
I’d just gotten a solid plan underway, and it was being executed beautifully to answer the holes in justice, when this country lost its fucking mind and elected a tyrant.
Now the country is running rampant with lawless thugs parading around in masks with military-grade rifles and claiming they’re the good guys.
Admittedly, I kept my focus on what was affecting me and my city until recently.
Which, for the most part, wasn’t anything having to do with the current regime.
Not until the fucking gestapo showed up in my city and began abducting my citizens outside their apartment buildings and killing others in the middle of the street. That’s where I draw that line.
Now it’s personal. All 2.7 million of these Chicagoans are mine, and I will not tolerate masked thugs killing them. Fuck that. Fuck. That.
However, plans take time to organize and perfect. They take time to execute. Meanwhile, I’m feeling more and more frustrated that my city is suffering while I frustratingly have to cross all the t’s and dot the motherfucking i’s.
“Boss?”
Hitting the spacebar on my computer to stop the video I’m watching, I look up to find my assistant Carlotta standing in my doorway. I can tell by the way she smiles sympathetically that I’m scowling.
“I have the new inventory list,” she says and walks into my office.
Frowning, I tab over to my email. There’s no list. She sets a pad of paper on my desk, and I look down, eyebrows knitting together.
“What is this?”
She laughs. “Kairo, you’re older than I am. I know you recognize a pad of paper.”
I toss a paperclip at her, making her laugh even more. I keep a bowl of paperclips for this reason alone. Innocent projectiles.
Sliding the list toward me, I read the first few lines.
16 Tallies
23 Betty Boop Busters
9 Big, BIG eggplants
My eyes scan down the long list that carries on for three pages, then I look up at Carlotta, who’s watching me with bemusement. “What the fuck is this?” I repeat.
She snorts. “Right? Your brother has lost his mind.” Carlotta turns toward the door, and I watch her go.
My attention drops to the list again. Umbrellas. Hail Makers. Hell Bringers. Ball Singers? Seriously, what the actual fuck kind of inventory list is this?
Frustrated, I pick up my phone to dial my brother. He’s lost his damn mind. That’s what this is. But before I can dial, I continue to study the list and set my phone down. again This isn’t from Jalon. Jalon doesn’t have a sense of humor. Besides, this isn’t his handwriting. It’s too… scratchy.
Getting to my feet with the pad of paper in my hand, I leave my office to find my assistant. She’s sitting at her desk, eyes lifting to mine as I approach, though her fingers don’t stop moving over the keys. I bet she doesn’t even have a typo when she looks back at her screen.
“Who gave this to you?” I ask.
“Some big, hot man,” she answers, smirking. “Wait till you see him, Kairo.” Carlotta whistles. “He’s so polite, too. Called me ma’am, but not in a kitschy way. In a way that made me sweat.” She fans herself dramatically.
I sigh, dropping the list back on her desk. “Tell this hot man that I need a list that makes sense. He’s wasting valuable time. People are dying on my streets, and I don’t have days to waste deciphering his bullshit.”
Carlotta grins. “Already did. He said he’d explain it to you personally as soon as he’s found some lunch. Escorting big munitions is exhausting. Kairo, the way he said ‘big munitions.’” Once more, she fans herself.
“Your husband is going to be fucking happy tonight, isn’t he?”
She smirks. “I’ll give you a report tomorrow.”
I toss another paperclip at her. There are always paperclips in my pocket, as well. Her laughter follows me back to my office, though I pause in the doorway when Bradford comes around the corner at the other end of the hall, his arms stacked with… books?
He can’t see me around his stack and runs into the wall. I wince and then jog down the hall to take half the stack from him. “What are you doing?” I ask, trying not to laugh at the haphazard way his glasses sit askew on his face now.
“Research. Like you asked me to,” he answers.
I follow him to his office, examining the book on top. Unmistakably a library book. The whole stack is.
“You realize that most of these books are probably digital now, right?”
He struggles to set the stack on the table and then takes mine from me. “They’re not,” he argues. “I looked before I checked them out.”
“Didn’t I ask you for research on secret police?” I catch a handful of titles and realize that’s exactly what he’s got in his hands.
“Yes. The most recent, well-known are the Nazi police, right?” Bradford answers and holds up one of the books.
“But there are references all over the world from different periods in history. Some frighteningly more recent than I’d like to admit, because we’re in the twenty-first century.
How is the world still so ugly? How are people still this concerned with what other people are doing with their bodies or what they believe? ”
I grip his arm for a minute, and he meets my eye. “Take frequent breaks from the ugly, Brad. Okay?”
He sighs. “Yes, boss. I will.”
I’m not sure that someone claiming they’re an empath is a thing. In my humble opinion, if you are sensitive enough to feel someone else’s pain or sympathize with their emotions, that makes you a good fucking person. Not an empath thing. A good person.
Those who lack that ability are fucking sociopaths, and I should know. My family runs rampant with antisocial disorders.
However, after working with Bradford for the last couple years, I believe that some people feel others’ emotions a little more deeply than the average person.
I’m sad for the kid bouncing from home to home because their parents are drug addicts and can’t find it in themselves to put their kid first. It’s sad.
I admit that. I feel that to some extent.
Bradford feels it. I’ve seen him nearly break down when he’s listened to a story about someone from this exact life recounting their experiences. He feels it, as if the emotions are his own. And that was a stranger’s story. Not even someone he knows.
When I need a hug, I often visit Bradford because this man almost always needs a hug. He feels far too deeply.
In fact… I tug him to me, and he easily comes into my arms. For a long minute, we embrace, and I close my eyes.
He’s probably the only one who I allow this close.
Not because there’s anything romantic between us.
There’s not. Not even a little. But it’s easy enough to say I’m taking care of my employee, showing him support and sympathy when he needs it.
I never have to admit that maybe I need a hug.
“Make sure you’re taking care of yourself,” I reinforce as I leave his office, which is far more like a study than anything else.
Covered in bookshelves and two large tables opposed to desks.
I even bought him an electric fireplace.
It’s comfortable. Homey. Somewhere that he enjoys being and can lose hours doing what he does best—reading.
“I will,” Bradford promises.
Leaving him, I head back to my office and stop short when I step through my door. There’s a man I don’t know sitting in my chair. He grins when I meet his eyes. My hackles rise immediately.
“Kairo?” he asks.
“Who the fuck are you?”
His smile grows. “Malcolm Confringo.”
“My brother’s new Doberman,” I deadpan.
His laughter makes my shoulders tense. It’s loud. Genuine. The kind you feel in the soles of your feet.
“I prefer bull mastiff, but sure. We can do that.”
Immediately, I want to hate everything about him. I hate that he’s here. I hate that he thinks he has a right to my chair. I hate that he has the kind of laugh that tugs at the corners of my lips, demanding that I at least smile. I hate that his snarky emphasis on stiff makes me want to snicker.
I’m going to fire Carlotta for allowing him back here.
However, I recognize his name. The man who kept Voss’ boyfriend alive when the world was stacked against him.
That means there’s the teeniest soft spot for him in my chest. We’re talking minuscule, and he’s quickly erasing it the longer he looks at me with a carefree smile as he lounges in my chair behind my desk in my fucking office.
Looking, for all intents and purposes, like he belongs there!
I didn’t meet him when I joined my family to take down the human hunting grounds. He tended to be in the field while I focused on the electronics with Voss. I’m not just a pretty face. I may not be technologically genius material like my nephew, but I’m not in the least bit ignorant.
As I enter my office feeling like I’m going to explode like a steamboat whistle, Malcolm stands from my chair and pulls it out for me.
My feet falter as I look at him, but I sit in my chair that he vacated.
This bitch pushes me closer to my desk as I sit, like he’s pushing my chair in at the dining room table.
“You have a nice chair,” he says. I watch him with narrowed eyes as he rounds the desk and takes a seat across from me. “Just wanted to see how it felt against my ass cheeks.”
How did my brother employ this man? He’s crude. Not at all the kind of guy fancy-ass Jalon would hold close to him.
It has to be the Brek thing.
I shove the notepad toward him. Somehow, it ended up back on my desk. “Explain this gibberish. I don’t have time for your fucking games. There are masked, armed thugs in my streets, and you’re wasting my time.”
Malcolm hums. “I was warned you have no personality,” he muses.
Again, my hackles rise. Fire flares in my chest as I clench my fists. “Fucking Jalon,” I mutter. “I’m going to kick his ass.”
Once more, Malcolm’s booming laughter fills the office. My eyes narrow once more.
“You don’t know your brother very well if you think he’d say such a thing,” Malcolm says.
I press my lips together. Motherfucker is right. That’s not something Jalon would say. Probably not any of my brothers, now that I think about it. Does that mean… my nephews?
The thought that one of my nephews said as much unexpectedly stings.
Malcolm’s expression softens, and I get the distinct impression that he sees how the thought that one of my nephews said I have no personality hurts.
“The staff don’t think very highly of you,” Malcolm says.
“Your family loves you. Something I think, even though you try your damndest to make them hate you, you know. Shame on you for thinking otherwise.”
His words feel like a punch to my gut. Anger flares through me. “Don’t talk to me about my family.” I hit the notepad again. “Decipher this shit and then get out.”
He’s entirely unaffected by my irritation. His smile doesn’t fade. I can already tell that he’s going to be exhausting to be around. One afternoon. That’s all I need to put up with him.