4. Kyle
4
KYLE
Date? Is Sienna dating Nick Morris?
It feels as if the revelation has wrapped cotton candy around my brain and sealed it inside a polythene bag.
Why didn’t she say anything?
I gave her the opportunity to let me go. I said that I would walk away, and she’d never hear from me again. Was it too much pressure, or did she want me as badly, as desperately, as whole-fucking-heartedly as I want her?
“Kyle?” Sienna’s voice slices through the spun sugar in my head and lodges in my throat. “What’s he talking about?”
“It sounds worse than it is.” Jesus fucking Christ, and I sound like a kid who just smashed the flatscreen TV and is trying to kid his parents that they can still watch The Simpsons. “We didn’t get introduced, and I was curious. I’d do the same with any new acquaintance.”
“How many other background checks did you carry out after the gallery opening?” The eyebrow is still quirked at an awkward angle, and I wonder if he has a resume of poses that he refers to for various occasions.
“The other guests were considerate enough to introduce themselves. But you…”
I sense Sienna flinching beside me. But this guy’s moral compass is all over the place, and I refuse to sit back and let him cozy up to her over a steak meal and fine wine, when I haven’t yet figured out his motive. Had he been rude and dismissive to every other guest at the gallery, I’d be more inclined to let it go, but he singled me out as the threat to his alpha status, and I want to know why.
“…You were trying to control the board without first meeting your opponent.”
Nick’s smile is smug, one corner of his mouth raised, while his eyelids are hooded, hiding what lays behind them. Sienna is listening, open-mouthed. I know that this will require some explanation later, but if I can sow the seeds of mistrust where Mr. Morris is concerned, it will be worth it.
“Opponent in what exactly?” he asks.
“Whatever game you’re playing.”
“Okay.” Sienna stands between us, palms facing outward like she’s the referee at a boxing match. “Will someone please tell me what the fuck is going on here?”
Her eyes have darkened, the flush on her cheeks has vanished, and I have to accept some responsibility for that.
“Sienna, I didn’t get a chance to speak to you at the opening party.”
“So,” Nick steps in, “you thought you’d do some snooping, make sure I file my tax returns on time and check that I wasn’t kicked out of college for inappropriate behavior towards my science professor.”
“Kyle?” Sienna blinks slowly as if she can feel a migraine coming on. “Is this true?”
“I ran some checks. For my own peace of mind.”
Nick squares his shoulders. He’s not about to confess that this is still a power struggle between two men who desire the same woman, but his body language says otherwise. If we were peacocks, he’d be parading his feathers right about now to prove that he’s the cool kid on the block.
“Why don’t you tell her what you found?”
If it wasn’t for Sienna, I’d wrap my fist around his throat and squeeze that smarmy neck until he turned blue in the face, but after what occurred between us earlier tonight, I won’t risk losing her all over again. Especially not for this arrogant asshole.
“Why don’t you explain how you know all this?” Because I’d like to know how a cosmetic surgeon knows who has been keeping tabs on him.
“Seriously?” Both eyebrows are lifted now. Questioning pose number two . “That’s what you’re going with: tit-for-tat?”
“No.”
I ignore Sienna’s pleading eyes and step closer. In this instance, I have to accept that what I’m about to say won’t win me any points with the woman I love, but it will give me a sense of satisfaction.
“I’m going with this.” I keep my voice low and steady. “If I find out that you’ve ever so much as raised your voice to Sienna or touched a hair on her head, you’ll regret it.”
I turn to Sienna, snatching away his opportunity to retaliate. If there’s one thing I learned from my brothers, it’s that you always make sure you have the last word, even if that word is spoken on your dying breath.
“Remember what I said, Sienna. I meant every word.”
Her crushed expression melts my heart but touching her now in front of this asshole will be like claiming a prize, and Sienna isn’t an object to be paraded around by the winner. I have no intention of winning her. She’ll come to me of her own free will or not at all.
And I’ll live with it either way.
I walk away.
My car is waiting for me at the corner of the block. I climb into the back seat and slide my phone out of my pocket as Seamus, my driver, puts the car into gear and pulls into the road. The fuzziness in my head has cleared with my renewed determination to do whatever it takes to protect Sienna.
I can’t think about him touching her. If I allow the images into my head, I’ll stop the car, sprint back to the gallery, and give the guy a reason to prosecute me, and I can’t look out for Sienna from a prison cell.
Instead, I call Terry and ask him to put a guy on their tail. Discreetly. If Sienna realizes that they’re being followed, she’ll know who’s behind it, and I can kiss goodbye to her considering my proposal to leave the city and make a life elsewhere.
Together.
But the guy is like toxic gas that has seeped into my nervous system and gotten me rattled. Terry asked how I’d feel if this wasn’t about Sienna. But it’s irrelevant. This is about Sienna, and Nick Morris sets my back teeth on edge—something about him just doesn’t sit right with me, and I will find out what it is.
It’s late. I haven’t eaten. But I can’t face going back to the Wraith.
I could go to Cash and Bash. But I already know how they’d deal with the situation, and my chances of ever having Sienna in my life will shatter to smithereens when she finds out that her cosmetic surgeon has suddenly vanished.
Peering out the window at the city lights, I realize that we’re almost at the Dragon’s Den, the nightclub and casino owned by Mateo Dragonetti, leader of the oldest Sicilian mafia family in New York. There was a time when the name alone would’ve raised the hair on the back of my neck and inspired me to seek an alternative route. But after his daughter kidnapped Sienna and Victoria’s brother Mason, the mafia leader agreed to the alliance our family had been looking to arrange for years.
I ask Seamus to stop outside the Dragon’s Den.
Renovations were recently completed on the aging building, and it gleams like polished glass when I walk inside. The concierge waves me through to Don Mateo’s private room above the casino, and I find him seated at a table overlooking the main floor below, a glass of Cognac in front of him.
He gestures for the bartender to fix me a drink as I take a seat opposite him. “How was the trip?” he asks.
“Much needed.”
He studies me coolly. “And I should imagine it already feels like a distant memory.”
He sips his drink and sighs as the liquid goes down. He’s still a good-looking guy. Craggier than he would’ve been in his youth, but his white hair is still thick, and his eyes have retained their blue despite the bloodshed he must’ve witnessed in his time. Even so, his daughter’s selfish antics have aged him prematurely, and I wonder how much blame he has shouldered himself for raising her to be so self-absorbed and so utterly devoid of compassion.
The bartender returns with an ice-cold beer for me, condensation dripping down the outside of the glass.
I sip the liquid; the bubbles do nothing to relieve the niggling questions buzzing around inside my head. “Six years ago,” I begin, “I met a girl.”
The old man sets his glass down and sits back in his seat. “I’m listening.”
I tell him about the accident, and the part my brothers played in rescuing me from the situation, and he remains silent.
“The girl I met that night is Sienna Walker, Victoria’s best friend.”
I’ve no idea how much, if anything, he knows about Sienna, but I know that he and Victoria have become close while she helped design the new Dragon’s Den.
“For five years she believed that I left her for dead. I don’t expect her to unpack those emotions and fold them in my favor overnight of course.”
“She’s the reason you went away.” It’s a statement not a question.
“She is. But my feelings haven’t changed.”
He spreads his hands wide. “Did you expect them to?”
I smile. “No, I went away to give myself some breathing space.”
Mateo nods. “And now that you are back?”
“There’s another guy on the scene.”
I don’t know where Nick fits into her life given that I had my cock inside her a couple of hours ago, but this is the simplified version for Mateo’s benefit.
“Is it serious?”
“Not from what I’ve seen so far.”
He drains his glass and waits patiently for me to continue. If his daughter had an ounce of her father’s composure and dignity, things might’ve turned out very differently for our families. Caleb might’ve married her when they were younger and secured the alliance that would’ve set us all on different paths.
What ifs and maybes.
“My gut is telling me not to trust this guy,” I say.
“Your gut or your heart?”
“Both?” I shrug. “He’s clean. There’s not even so much as a parking ticket against his name.”
“Too clean.” The bartender brings Mateo another drink and swaps the new glass for the empty one in one fluid movement. “What were you hoping to find?”
“A motive for dating her now, when he has been her surgeon since the accident.”
The old man rubs a hand across his jawline. “You think this has something to do with you?”
“I’m almost certain of it.”
“My motto is: if you’re looking for dirt, you will find it.”
I raise my glass to toast him. The motto’s meaning isn’t lost on me; if you’re looking for dirt, why not spread some of your own. But going down that route defeats the object and will only prove to Sienna that I am the person she thinks I am, a mafia lawyer who can bend the law to his own advantage.
“No can do. I’m missing something. No one is that impeccable.”
He smiles. “You’re looking in the wrong place.”
“Where should I be looking?”
“If you want to know what the branches are doing, you must first look at the roots.”
“His family?” Because with the analogy comes the realization that there was no mention of Nick Morris’s family in any of the information that I uncovered.
“You’re looking for a motive.” Mateo swallows a mouthful of cognac and studies the glass as if gauging how long it will take him to finish his drink. “I trust your instincts. When it comes to affairs of the heart, there is no greater muscle than your gut. So, to understand how someone works, you must first find out where they came from.”
“Back to his roots,” I mutter to myself.
“We are all shaped by the paths our ancestors trod before us. Sure, we find our own way. We meet our own crossroads and choose our own directions. But your choices will be different to mine. His will be different to yours.” He shrugs. “You get the picture. Find his baby photos and you will almost certainly find his motivation.”
I finish my beer with the don and thank him for his advice.
“I am honored that you came to an old man such as me for advice,” he says, and I can see the sadness in the fine red lines crisscrossing the whites of his eyes.
I head straight to my office when I get back to the Wraith, remove my jacket, and sit at my desk.
I spend a huge proportion of my time sitting at my desk, staring at the same computer screen in front of me now. But there’s a sense of serenity to be found in the evenings when the world outside the window is a myriad of blurred lights fighting for their place against the darkness and the rain. Is it the knowledge that the city is slowing down and preparing for slumber? Or is there comfort to be found in normality and solitude?
Powering up the computer, I resume my search for Nick Morris.
I didn’t go any further back than high school the first time around. Now, I take my time, focus on the information on the screen instead of on him and Sienna gazing at each other above a flickering candle in a strategically lit restaurant.
I check the records of the middle schools that feed into the John F. Kennedy high school that Nick Morris attended. His name is there, Nicholas Morris, date of birth: 27 September 1983. Nothing extraordinary to be found.
But when I check out the kindergartens in the same area of the Bronx, I draw a blank.
Plenty of kids with the name Nicholas, but none with the surname Morris. I cross-reference the other children called Nicholas with the names of kids who attended high school in the Bronx, and they all check out. Which means that Nick Morris either didn’t attend kindergarten or his family relocated to the area in time for him to join middle school.
I fill the coffee machine and switch it on.
Time to go back even further.
The first mouthful of coffee is so hot it burns the roof of my mouth, but it helps me to focus. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long night.
I go back to the relevant high school records. From there, I take Nick Morris’s date of birth and, using a fake police identity, research New York state institutions for a birth certificate. As I suspected, he wasn’t born in New York State.
Systematically working my way through the states of America in alphabetical order, I reach the final one with no success. No record anywhere of Nicholas Morris born on 27 September 1983.
He was adopted. Or his name was legally changed before he started middle school.
I refill my cup with steaming black liquid; the coffee has barely hit my system yet, and I’m operating on adrenaline alone.
If you want to know what the branches are doing, you must first look at the roots .
Mateo Dragonetti may have been closer to the mark than he realized with his philosophical comment.
Accessing adoption records is more cumbersome, for obvious reasons, but if there’s one thing that I’ve learned from the casino’s resident IT programmer, it’s that nothing is impossible. No system is infallible. You simply need to find another way in, by thinking like a cypherpunk, by thinking like someone who understands how to protect information.
I lose track of time. The jug in the coffee machine empties, and I refill it with bottled water. My mouth is dry. My palms are sweaty. The muscles in the back of my neck are burning from sitting in one position for too long, but I’ve come too far to give up now.
When I finally find a way into the system I need, I fist-pump the air.
The sky outside the windows is still black, but swathes of violet and mauve are bleeding upwards from the horizon. My eyes are gritty with tiredness. And I still have a long way to go.
I pace my office to get the blood circulating through my limbs.
Then, rolling up my sleeves, I resume my seat, and start scrolling through every adoption record for the relevant date.
I’m so close. I sense it in the heavy rhythm of my heartbeat.
I told Mateo Dragonetti that I was hoping to find a motive. Evidence that Nick Morris isn’t just a cosmetic surgeon attracted to a patient. Proof that dating Sienna Walker will benefit him in some way aside from the obvious.
Nothing could’ve prepared me for what I eventually discover as the city is waking up and the streets fill with noise.
Nick Morris entered the care system in Chicago when he was eleven months old. He was discovered in a rundown apartment when a neighbor alerted the police department to the baby that had been screaming for hours. According to his records, his mom’s body was found on the bed beside the baby’s crib—she had been beaten to death.
The temperature in my office feels as though it has dropped a couple of degrees, and I rub my hands together to keep them warm.
I open an image of the birth certificate. Nick Morris was given his mother’s maiden name at birth: Scanlan. The line reserved for the father’s name is blank.
My gut clenches. I could leave it here. Nick Morris had the kind of start in life that reads like something from a horror movie, potentially witnessing his mom being brutally murdered while he screamed from inside his crib. His recollection may have been buried beneath the vivid autobiographical memories that children start to form as they grow older, but that bloody scene will have scarred his psyche for life.
The panic trying to beat its way out of my chest goes way deeper than Nick Morris’s trauma though. This hits too close to home. Chicago. His mom bludgeoned to death. The child abandoned.
Ignoring the message from Lauren, the PA that I share with Caleb, letting me know that she’s in the office, I search for the court records regarding the case.
This time, I know what I’m going to find. It doesn’t stop the bile from rising in my throat when I read the name of the prime suspect in the murder investigation.
Caelan O’Reilly.
The police launched a nationwide investigation to find Sally Scanlan’s killer, with no success. They followed leads that had them scurrying like insects from Canada to Mexico. While Caelan O’Reilly, having changed his name to Caelan Murray, was worming his way into the life of a young woman named Moira. A young woman he would almost kill seven years later. An attempted homicide for which he is currently serving a life sentence.
My brothers and I share the same biological father as Nick Morris.
Coincidence?
The voice inside my head is shrieking at me that there’s no such thing as coincidence.
Nick Morris is here for a reason. Now I need to figure out exactly how Sienna fits into the puzzle.