20. Ranger
Chapter 20
Ranger
A s Denver’s breathing evens out, I relax my hold on her. I’m not going to sleep, not in this bed. And neither is she.
I stand and scoop her into my arms. She groans but doesn’t open her eyes, and I step over the discarded gun as I leave her room. I take slow steps down the hall, and Axel’s door opens, but I don’t stop.
“Is she okay?” Axel asks quietly, his eyes tracking us as we pass.
“She’s fine. Go to bed.”
Axel doesn’t argue, nor does he question why I’m moving Denver, but it won’t be long until his silence ends.
My son has always been on the quieter side. Even when he was arrested for fighting or drinking years ago, Axel maintained a moodier attitude that reflected my own. His antics didn’t warrant my attention, so I never gave it. It was petty crime, things that weren’t worth worrying about. It didn’t impress me then and wouldn’t now.
But Axel is growing up. Soon, he’ll bite back and challenge my decisions.
I’ll welcome it. The day my son finds a backbone is the day I’ll welcome him into my world.
For now? He’ll remain in the background, like a snake without venom.
Am I proud of how I am with Axel? No. I could do more as a father, but short of turning back the clock, I doubt I can mold Axel into anything more than a barely functional foot soldier.
Once I’m in my room and Wesson has followed, I kick the door closed and place Denver in my bed. She stirs when I’m unlacing her sneakers.
She sighs softly. “Why are we in here?”
“Because this is where we sleep.” I tug off one shoe, then the other. “You’ve been smoking.”
“And you’ve been murdering.”
I give her a pointed look as I unbutton her jeans. “Lift.”
She lifts her hips, and I pull her jeans down, tossing them aside. I pull the covers over her shoulder, and she presses her face into the pillow and sighs.
Being with her like this is far easier than the disaster in the bedroom. I can’t stand how we sometimes rage at each other, even if it lights my blood on fire. One of us always ends up hurt, and it’s fucking pointless.
I kiss her temple. “Don’t smoke, Denver. It’s bad for you.”
“You’re bad for me.”
I hold in my pained exhale and the world of emotion that crashes into me from four words. “And you’re everything to me.” She opens her eyes again, our faces close, and I kiss her a final time. Wesson nestles beside her, his nose close to her face. “Goodnight, little bird.”
Her gray eyes shine. “Goodnight.” As I go to the door, she calls out quietly, “Aren’t you coming to bed, too?”
From hating me to needing me. The change is striking. Painful.
“Soon.”
When Denver doesn’t object, I head downstairs and into my office. I pour myself two fingers of whiskey, sit in my chair, and close my eyes.
I finish my first and only drink of the evening quicker than I like. I only ever allow myself one, refusing to fall victim to a beverage like my father had. After staring at the empty glass, I pull back my shirt cuff, unfasten the clasp of my Rolex, and place it on the desk.
Hidden beneath the watch is a thin, braided bracelet. It’s made up of black, white, and gray thread and is the result of one of Denver’s many hobbies. In the process of deciding what she wants to do in life, she tries everything. In the past, she’s taken up bookbinding, crochet, archery, baking, and even a class on how to make coffee art. She’d liked that class the most, and every coffee she made for me months after had featured a skull and crossbones that gradually became more recognizable over time. But one of her first hobbies was bracelets, and she’d given one to every person she met, including me.
“Men like me don’t wear bracelets, Denver,” I’d pointed out dryly as she’d sat on this very desk and tied it to my wrist.
“Hush up, Grim Reaper. Look how nice it is on you.”
I’ve never taken it off. I’ve killed men wearing this bracelet. I’ve made backroom deals with governors and state attorneys with this small, handmade piece of jewelry on my wrist. I run the tip of my finger over the faded colors and wonder if she’ll make me another one for our wedding day. Because we are getting married, whether she likes it or not.
My phone rings.
The name on the screen has impatience bubbling in my chest. It’s one thing for the police to hound me, and they’ve been all over me after the incident with Rose on the plane, but this guy is something else.
I answer. “This is a sure-fire way to die, Wilder.”
Wilder Harland laughs. “Hey, you fucking answered, though. We’re making progress.”
“The only progress we’ll make is when I’m washing your blood from my hands,” I say, leaning back in my chair. I twist my wrist, still admiring the bracelet.
“Aw,” Wilder croons. “Why so moody, big guy?”
“Not moody,” I say simply. “Just thinking about everything the McEwans told me.” Wilder falls silent, and I bask in quiet amusement. “You failed to mention they’re running you out of New York.”
“Because they’re fucking not.”
Ah, there’s the nerve I’ve been searching for.
For two months, Wilder Harland has harassed me with calls and attempted visits. He wants to partner up and promises me more money than I could ever dream of. I already have more than I could spend in twenty lifetimes, even with Denver’s shopping habit. But Wilder’s gun running is lucrative on the East Coast because his routes are solid. Reliable. Untouchable.
It made no sense to me that Wilder Harland and his brother would suddenly be so interested in California. Until I called one of the Irish families in New York, a family I have tenuous ties to that even I’d rather not acknowledge.
“You turned down the McEwans’ request to use your routes,” I say. “All because you have this… aversion to drugs. What is it you think we’d be partnering up in? Flour delivery?”
“You do what you have to do, and my guns can run alongside it.”
“Then stick with the fucking McEwans’.”
“I’m not working with them,” Wilder bites
78out.
I sigh. “I won’t pretend to understand where your moral line is, Wilder. The point is, I don’t give a shit. I’m not bailing you out.”
Wilder huffs a laugh. “Scared of the McEwans?”
“You clearly are,” I say. “Even if the McEwans weren’t involved, you’re a loose cannon. You created this mess by burning the McEwans’ routes in the first place.” Silence. I’m almost gleeful. “Didn’t know I knew that, did you?” More silence, and I know I’ve hit the nail on the head. McEwans’ shipments have been intercepted by police numerous times, and it was through old contacts and favors that I discovered that little nugget of information. “Back off, Wilder, or I’ll let everyone know just how much of a fuck-up you are.”
“Do that, and I’ll cut out her fucking heart.”
My blood becomes a roar of thunder in my ears. I lean forward, palm resting on the desk. Threaten me. Threaten my business. Threaten my power and my place. But not her. Never her.
“Everyone knows she’s your weakness,” Wilder continues down this path that will lead nowhere for him. Nowhere good, anyway. “If I delivered her head in a fucking box, you’d crumble.”
My voice becomes that of a devil’s promise, a deal Wilder has now signed in blood. “You just bought yourself a slow and painful death, Wilder Harland. Congratulations.”
I hang up.
It’s been a long time since I’ve gone to war. And this will be closer to an extermination than a battle, but I don’t take threats lightly. Doing so would make anyone look weak, and I’m far from that.
So, to threaten Denver?
I don’t care if I have to take on the world.