Chapter 8 Kingston #2
“Guys, nice fucking entrance,” he says with a chuckle.
He claps me on the shoulder and gives Livvie an appraising glance.
Letting out a low whistle, he looks between us.
“Seems like there’s a lotta heat over here in this corner.
Maybe the staff needs to be ready with some fire extinguishers or some shit. ”
Livvie just glares at him and then me.
Finally. The princess is fucking speechless. Never thought I’d see the day.
“Where is everyone?” I say in a tight voice.
“Dad and Reign are at the table with Mom. I spotted you two lovebirds while I was getting a drink so I figured I’d show you the way.
” He pauses to take a long gulp of the amber-colored liquid in his glass.
I grab it from him and down the rest of the bourbon.
Then I hand him back the empty glass. “Let’s go. ”
I release Livvie and her expression tightens for a brief second before her face relaxes into a smile. Fake as Splenda but who the hell cares? She’s even more stunning when she pretends to be happy.
Except the sentiment doesn’t reach her eyes. Neither does the smile. It’s reserved and controlled and says she’s doing it because she has to, not because she wants to.
At least, that’s what it says to me.
But to everyone else, she’s captivating. And every man who gawks at her as we pass goes on a mental kill list in my head.
“I know what you’re doing,” Bronx says with a snicker.
“I’m taking stock of our enemies and allies,” I grunt under my breath, leading Livvie to our family’s table.
“Yeah, sure you are,” Bronx says, sarcasm dripping from his words as we approach them. “I know how sadistic you really are—”
His words are swallowed by the crack of a bullet. The sound punctures the air, followed by high-pitched screams. Panic erupts in the ballroom. A flurry of gunfire explodes, glass shattering. Tables and chairs overturn as people dive to the floor.
I don’t think or breathe. I just grab Livvie tight and tackle her to the floor. She shudders underneath me. Bronx and Reign grab their guns after getting Mom and Dad underneath the table for cover.
I clutch Livvie and grapple with my own gun, my eyes catching sight of Roman slithering across the floor like a goddamn snake in pursuit of prey.
“Don’t come any farther,” I bite out. “She’s my wife, fucker. If you don’t wanna end up with a hole in your fucking head, I’d suggest you piss off.”
Livvie squeezes her arms around my waist and I keep one arm around her. She doesn’t bother to look at Roman. She doesn’t move from my grasp.
His face twists but he steers clear of Livvie.
The gunfire stops.
“Easy, bro,” Bronx mutters.
“Don’t tell me ‘easy.’ I don’t appreciate being challenged to a dick measuring contest by a fucking peon like Roman, and if he gets in my face again, I’ll follow through on my threat.”
I peel away from Livvie and lift my head after the shooting stops. Men dressed in black suits run from the ballroom, weapons drawn.
“What was that all about?” Livvie asks, a quiver in her normally tough as nails voice.
“I don’t know. Bronx, Reign, are Mom and Dad okay?” I call out.
“Yeah, all good,” Reign replies, his voice gruff.
People slowly rise to their feet, the room looking a lot like war-torn chaos with bullet holes lodged into the walls, broken chandeliers hanging haphazardly from the ceiling, shattered vases.
I hold out a hand to Livvie and she takes it. I pull her to her feet and wrap an arm around her, keeping her locked against me.
“Something was off about that attack,” she murmurs. “It felt too planned, too staged.”
I furrow my brow. “What do you mean?”
She shakes her head, then runs her fingers through her hair. “I don’t know. Shooters have targets, right? They’re skilled and rarely miss. So why was no one shot? Maybe it was a warning.”
“For who?” I ask.
“Yeah, who?” Bronx echoes.
She throws up her hands.
“How would I know that?” Then she pokes me in the chest with a painted nail. “You’re the one talking about enemies, allies, and perception. How come your elite security guys didn’t see that coming? For all we know it’s connected to the shooter from last night.”
The crowd parts after most people have left the room and my breath catches when Arturo Mancini strolls toward us. Dad and Mom stand at the table, panic etched onto their faces.
“What the hell are you doing here? You the Grim Reaper or something?” Livvie says.
He looks between us. “I assume neither of you were hit?”
My blood boils. “Looks that way, Arturo, doesn't it?”
“Very good. Pay attention, both of you. We can reach you wherever you are. In a public place or in the shower fucking your wife. That was a simple message. We don't tolerate loose ends or people who choose not to obey an order.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I demand. “What loose ends?”
“Watch your step, Viacava,” he grunts. “Or you won’t like what comes next.”
“What the fuck?” I say, shoving him backward. “No more of your goddamn cryptic games, Mancini. I know a warning shot when I hear one. Was that your real message?”
“Kingston,” Mom calls out. “Stop. Please. Don’t make this worse than it has to be.”
I turn to my parents and shake my head.
“How much more don’t we know?” I hold up a hand to his face, suddenly aware of the bustle around us. Eyes are everywhere and our business is wide open. “Fuck this… I don’t want to hear about it now. I don’t trust anything right now, and that includes you, Mancini.”
I grab Livvie’s hand. “We’re leaving.”
“But Kingston, you don’t know if it’s safe,” Mom says.
I don’t give a shit. I don’t look back.
“How are we getting home?” Livvie asks once we’re in the elevator heading to the ground floor.
I pull out my phone and order an Uber Black. “I’m not giving them control of anything else right now, including how the fuck we’re getting home. And I want to get away from here before the fucking cops show up; otherwise, we’ll be stuck all night.”
The elevator dings and the doors slide open on the lobby floor. I lace my fingers with Livvie’s and we walk close together along with the throngs of people on their way out of the building.
We walk out into the crisp night air and Livvie hugs herself. I shrug off my jacket and drape it over her shoulders.
“I guess chivalry isn’t dead after all,” she says with a hint of a smile.
“Came damn close twice and third time’s the charm.” I wink at her, then look down at my phone for the license plate number.
A blacked-out Audi A8 pulls up to the curb right in front of where we stand, windows tinted to the point where they're opaque.
But I caught a look at the license plate when it rolled to the curb.
It’s not our driver.
Doesn’t appear to be anyone’s driver. It’s just parked here.
Waiting. Watching.
And I don’t fucking like being on display.