Chapter fifteen
Tilly
Hunter Devane’s Mansion
My uncle’s office is somewhere I’ve never been.
The only men who come here are either of the utmost importance or won’t leave alive.
It’s somewhere that, as a child, I always wanted to visit.
It had almost a mythical quality—where the men in power made important decisions that guided our lives.
My cousins and I would discuss it as if visiting was the holy grail we all yearned for, acceptance that we were trusted enough to pass the threshold.
Now, I see that it’s a place to avoid at all costs.
The decisions and actions made in this office are ones you most likely never want to see or be part of.
I was brought up here by a couple of my uncle’s goons an hour ago.
Since then, I’ve been sitting on the red velvet sofa opposite the office door, waiting for it to open.
One of my companions has stayed with me; I am unsure if I recognize him.
They all come to look the same over the years with their bald heads, tattoos, and dark suits a fraction too tight to show off their muscles.
He hasn’t spoken since he unceremoniously dumped me on my seat.
It took all my might not to bite his forearm as it passed my mouth.
There’s an eerie silence in the hallway of the house.
Downstairs was a hive of activity when we arrived, with men standing around discussing what had happened only hours ago or striding purposefully, trying to look important.
It gave off the vibes of organized chaos.
Everyone needed to be doing something, but none of them had a fucking clue what was going on.
When we arrived back at the mansion, Damon had instructed I be looked after, then he had disappeared with Greyson and my uncle.
I’ve tried not to think about what could be happening to Greyson just now.
Hunter was furious at the hotel, and he isn’t the kind of man to calm down with time.
His fury will boil over—he will want his revenge on those who have wronged him.
The wall clock ticks ominously in the background, each passing second slowly highlighted by the soft beat.
Another hour passes before the office door opens, and Damon walks out.
He meets my eye and nods. I stand to walk forward, and he signals for me to follow him inside.
As I reach his side, he gives me an encouraging smile, but there’s no hiding the sadness underneath.
“I did what I could,” he says under his breath. “He’s not dead.”
We step into the room. It is smaller than I ever imagined and much more clinical.
The smooth walls are painted plain white in contrast to the stark black furniture.
My uncle sits behind a large glass desk that is free from clutter.
His fingers are tented in front of him like a villain out of a movie. I suppose in mine, he is.
“Thank you for joining us, Tilly,” he says, his voice calm and collected.
“We have some issues to discuss.” I search the room for my father, expecting him to be here as he ultimately signed off the arrangements for my marriage.
My stomach lurches at the thought of what he’ll do when he hears I have given my virginity to one of the staff. I hope it kills him.
“Issues?” I shoot back, not attempting to hide my mocking tone. “Whatever could they be?”
His cool resolve cracks, and he jumps to his feet, slamming his palms on the desk. The glass vibrates under the impact, and he scowls.
“If I break my furniture,” he mutters, “it will be your fucking fault.”
“No, uncle, if you smash the glass, it will be one hundred percent your fault. It will be your body connecting with the desk, after all.”
His mouth opens to argue but closes again, not taking my bait of getting into an argument.
Deep down, I know I’m my own worst enemy.
The craving to mess with the men who control my life is too strong.
I can’t help taking the opportunity when it arises.
“I’ll be fucking glad when you’re married. At least keeping you around will have be lucrative.”
The words hit my chest hard. They hurt. Even though I hate my family, they’re still my family.
And the dismissive importance they place on me stabs hard.
I am nothing more than a product to be traded when it suits them best.
“Get fucking on with it,” I snarl, my patience coming to an end with his pissing around.
After what we’d been through during the night, he left me sitting for hours in a corridor with no idea what was going on.
The last thing this man deserves is my respect or any more of my time.
If I push him enough to kill me, at least he won’t benefit financially from my existence.
“McKinney,” he says with a chuckle. “You heard my niece. Get fucking on with it.”
Damon looks back impassively, hiding every emotion or thought he’s feeling. He walks over to a door in the corner of the room. When it opens, he steps inside the cupboard. There is a squeal of what sounds like wheels, and then what was in there comes into view.
Greyson sits tied to an office chair, a bag over his head tied at the neck with a rope.
The white plastic expands and contracts as he breathes, but with his head slumped to the side, he looks to be unconscious.
As the horror swirls inside at the sight, I will myself not to show how much I care.
This is payback for Greyson and me; however, if my uncle sees this hurts me, he may do more to ensure I’ve learned my lesson.
Hunter Devane uses pain in whatever form to keep people in line.
If you love no one, he can’t hurt you, only kill you.
Damon wheels Greyson into the center of the room as my uncle walks around to join us.
He grabs Greyson’s damaged shoulder roughly and squeezes.
The sleeping man winces and groans but doesn’t wake.
As my eyes move across his body, there is so much damage.
His clothing is slashed, no doubt, by my uncle’s favorite knife.
Blood seeps from every bare bit of skin I can see.
His arms are secured to the armrests with thick silver tape.
“This, young lady,” my uncle says, his chest puffed out with pride at his handiwork. “This is how you dispense justice and remind those below you who’s in charge.”
“That’s not justice,” I snap back. “It’s fucking cruelty.”
He takes two huge steps toward me, grabbing my face in his hand. His fingers squeeze my cheeks hard. He leans in close, and I yelp. Greyson stirs in his seat, his arms pulling at the restraints. It’s hard to tell if he is beginning to wake.
“Greyson is staff. You do not fuck the staff.”
“I’ll fuck who I want.”
Damon steps in before I can argue anymore and taps Hunter on the shoulder. He widens his eyes while clearing his throat to break the moment and get whatever their plan is back on track.
“That attitude is what will kill him.” Hunter glances over his shoulder to where Greyson sits.
“Because of you, he has to die. This is your fault, Tilly; I hope you can live with that.”
My uncle’s accusation causes my resolve to almost shatter, and I push the building emotion downward—the guilt of knowing that when I encouraged Greyson, it was dangerous for not only myself but him, though he knew that.
Damon’s phone rings. He lifts the handset to his ear. No words pass his lips; he absorbs whatever information there is, then disconnects the call.
“We need to go downstairs,” he tells my uncle. “Now.”
“I’m busy, you go.”
Damon squares his shoulders before responding, ready to argue. I’ve seen this in him before the odd time I’ve been in his company. He knows when to pick his battles with his boss to get his way. “We’re needed. There’s information on the shooter.”
Hunter’s focus snaps up suddenly, interested in what he has to say. “Who?” he asks, his tone suddenly light. The idea of retribution improves his mood instantly.
“One of ours,” Damon replies, his expression solemn. “There wasn’t a gun at all. It was a recording. We’ve been compromised. The whole setup was a disturbance, not an attack.”
Greyson and I become invisible as the men discuss what happened. We’re now to be punished, no longer a risk to the family's overall safety, so they speak unguarded.
“Which man?”
“It’s two, the twin brothers. They both had concealed speakers to play the shots. My guess is the Russians paid them. But they’re not talking…”
“Make them talk,” my uncle growls, furious.
“I could really use him,” Damon gestures to Greyson, who is now wriggling in his seat. “He’s one of our best negotiators.” Damon's use of the word negotiator tells me Greyson negotiates nothing. He’s one of the best torturers they have. He makes people talk by any means necessary.
“Why would they want to cause a disturbance at New Year?” I pipe up, unable to contain my curiosity. Both men turn to me, looking startled, as if they have only just remembered I’m here.
“Because they want to make their presence known without creating all-out war. It’s a message that they can get to us at any time. The shots being fired during your engagement announcement wouldn’t be by chance. They’re making their feelings known about the arrangement.”
“Killing someone in public isn’t done unless necessary,” Damon adds. “This was a scare tactic.”
“For who?”
He shrugs before answering my question. “It doesn’t matter, us or the Lombardi’s. Everyone. They don’t want your union to go ahead. It’s as simple as that.”
“Let’s chat with the traitorous bastards, McKinney,” Hunter says, striding to the door.
“If I get bored or they are too close to death, Greyson can have a go at them later.”
He turns to me and smiles wide. “Enjoy your final moments together. You’re lucky he’s so good at his job that he’s worth keeping, for now.”
The two men leave, and I rush over to rip the bag from Greyson’s face. Underneath is marled in blue, purple, and gray. The shades of bruising developing under my gaze. I take his face in my hands.
“Fucking hell.” I whisper to myself, “What did they do to you?”
“You’d be better asking what they didn’t,” he replies, amazing me. His swelling bloodied lips barely moving.
“You’re awake!” I squeal.
“I’ve been awake the whole time. Are you okay?”
“You’re asking if I’m okay? Have you seen yourself?”
“No, but I can imagine. I did live through it. And yes, I want to know if you’re okay, Miss.”
“I’m fine, but we need to get out of here. They’ll kill you.” His eyes blink open fractionally. He squints through the small slits. “You look fucking awful.”
He smirks, his face lightening slightly. “Fuck, that hurts. Don’t make me laugh.”
“Laughter is the best medicine,” I tease.
He chuckles again, but this time, it develops into a cough, and he groans in pain. “Not with suspected broken ribs.”
I move to my uncle’s desk and start pulling at the drawers in search of something to cut his bindings.
The unmistakable glint of a knife appears when opening the third one.
I trust my maniac uncle to always have a blade on hand.
I’d be disappointed if he didn’t. I return to Greyson and begin cutting at the ties.
“We can’t run, Tilly.” His use of my name brings me up short, and I stop momentarily. “They’ll find us.”
“I won’t let them kill you.” My hand moves faster, back and forth; the silver tape is strong, and I hack at it impatiently. Finally, the first binding breaks then Greyson reaches for the knife. He winces in obvious pain but doesn’t make a sound. He takes the knife and removes the second restraint.
“Damon won’t let that happen.”
“How can you be so sure?” I ask him, panicking that time is passing and he wants to sit here until they return.
“I’m too good at what I do, pretty girl. Don’t worry about me.”
He reaches up and touches my cheek softly.
I lean in to kiss him, but he shies away.
My heart aches with the rejection. “No, Tilly. That can’t happen. I won’t give them any more ammunition to hurt you. Let’s wait here until they return. We can…talk.”
“Talk?” I cry. “We are held up in a maniac’s office. He and his men are downstairs doing goodness knows what to who the hell knows, and you want to talk?”
“This is a typical day for me at the office. Did you not realize, Miss? You gave your virginity to an assassin.”
“I knew you were…” I trail off, not knowing how to explain what I did or didn’t know. Sure, I understood his job was dangerous. He would do things against the law. But his calm manner in describing what he does astounds me.
“You knew I worked for your uncle but hadn’t thought much more about it,” he suggests, and I nod. “I’m a killer, Tilly. And I’ll do it again, and I would do it to protect you. If seeking revenge on those your uncle hates allows me to stick around to ensure your safety, that’s where I’ll be.”
“But my marriage…”
He takes my fingers and squeezes them softly. “We have time, it’s awhile until June.”
As I open my mouth to respond, the door opens, and Hunter walks in. The hardwood bounces off the wall.
“Get up, Greyson; you’re needed downstairs.” Greyson immediately pushes himself up but then slumps back into his chair. His wounds are still weeping blood, his body exhausted.
“He’s injured,” I shout at my uncle.
“I don’t give a fuck.”
“Let me get cleaned up,” Greyson says. “Then I’ll do whatever the hell you want, Boss.”
“She can help you,” he says, waving a hand at me.
I’ll have a change of clothes dropped in.
I blink at my uncle, shocked by his suggestion, and he raises his eyebrows.
“His dick has already been in your cunt, Tilly. He can’t ruin your reputation any further. If you tend his wounds, he will return to work faster. That suits me.”
“Rude asshole,” Greyson mutters, but my uncle doesn’t respond. He knows he’s won and has everyone where he wants them.
“Thirty minutes, Greyson.” He turns and walks toward the door.
Upon opening it, he stops and glances over his shoulder.
“And Tilly, I’ve spoken to Lombardi; he will still have you. Unfortunately, your little conversation was heard by too many men to hide it. But he wants to move the wedding forward. It will no longer be my birthday gift to you. It will be to celebrate your union on Valentine's Day.”
“What? You can’t!”
My uncle's face splits with a grin. “Oh, but I can. I’m in charge, never forget that. Get that white dress picked out, because February fourteenth the wedding bells will be ringing.”
He slams the door closed behind him, and I’m left staring at nothing.
Within a matter of weeks, I’m to be married off to broker a business deal, and my own behavior has hastened the charge.
“It will be alright, Miss,” Greyson whispers beside me. I turn back to him, and my eyes fill with tears.
“No, it won’t,” I say, shattered with the news. “I have six weeks left to live, then I will be nothing but an object in an old man’s collection. They always win, Greyson; we will always be nothing more than assets.”