Chapter 30
The Trickster
T he smoke clings like a second skin, burrowing into my pores and settling at the back of my throat with every breath. Even stripped of my jacket, it lingers, metallic and sharp on my tongue as I sink into the couch in Nick’s office.
My brother stands at the window, shoulders rigid beneath his tailored shirt, afternoon sunlight cutting harsh angles across his face. He doesn’t look at me when he speaks.
“Tell me again.” His voice is controlled, measured. The voice of the heir who learned to hide rage before I learned to wield mine.
Ned shifts on the couch beside me, his sleeves are rolled to expose forearms streaked with soot. His eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second—solidarity, permission—before he looks away.
“There’s nothing to tell that I haven’t already said.” I drag a hand down my face, feeling grit beneath my fingertips. “The hotel’s gutted on floors three through five.”
Nick’s jaw tightens. “And the guests?” His question hangs between us, heavy with what we both already know.
“That’s just it.” I lean forward, elbows on knees, the taste of smoke souring my mouth. “There weren’t any. No bodies. No casualties. Not even a fucking maid or bellhop caught in the crossfire.”
“On a weekend.” Nick finally turns, eyes narrowed. “At our busiest hotel.”
“Exactly.” The word scrapes my throat. “The place should’ve been packed. Instead, it’s like someone cleared it out before lighting the match. Only casualties were profit margins and some precious art in the lobby.”
My brother crosses to the bar cart, pouring two fingers of whiskey into a crystal tumbler with the kind of precision that tells me he’s counting breaths. He doesn’t offer me one. Doesn’t need to. We both know I’ve been sober for days, and now isn’t the time to break that streak.
“What did the fire inspector say?” Nick asks, swirling the amber liquid but not drinking.
“Said it looked like arson.” Ned’s voice is gravel, worn smooth by years of delivering news. “Clean job, too. Professional. Points of origin precisely placed to cause maximum property damage with minimal risk to life.”
“Someone trying to send a message without catching a murder charge,” I add, the words bitter on my tongue.
Nick takes a measured sip, then sets the glass down with deliberate care. “Marco checked in just before you got here. So did the three. None of them has heard anything.”
The weight of those words presses against my sternum. The three major crime lords have a network of informants that run deeper than anything else in this city. If there’s movement they aren’t aware of it means trouble.
“This kind of silence costs serious money,” I state.
Nick’s mouth twists with disgust, but he doesn’t say anything. And neither does Ned.
The implication hangs between us, unspoken but understood. This was calculated, aimed directly at the Knight family, and executed with enough power to ensure the usual channels of information went dark.
“So it’s personal,” I say, the words scraping past the smoke still coating my throat.
Nick meets my eyes, the scar on his face making him look even more menacing when he’s this angry. “It’s worse than personal. It’s patient. Whoever did this has been planning it. Building toward it.”
My gut coils tight, acid churning. I know what he isn’t saying—that we’ve both made enemies. That the list of people who’d want to hurt us would fill a fucking phone book. That the timing, so soon after I’ve taken Eve as my wife, creates a vulnerability we can’t ignore.
I’m on my feet before I realize I’m moving, my body thrumming with an urgency that drowns out the fatigue of hours spent sifting through ash and debris.
“I need to get back to Eve.” The words come out rough, urgent.
Nick studies me, taking in the tension wired through my frame, the barely leashed violence in my stance. “You love her?” he asks, his tone clipped.
Fuck me, now isn’t the time to get into this shit. “I do.”
For a moment I think he’ll order me to stay—to put business before personal concerns—and I’m already calculating how much that command will cost our relationship.
But he just nods once, sharp and decisive. “Go then. Take Ned.”
“And you?” I ask, already moving toward the door, Ned a step behind me.
“I’ll talk to Carolina. Get her and Willow somewhere secure until we know what we’re dealing with.” He drains his whiskey in a single swallow, the only sign of his own unease. “And Jack?”
I pause at the threshold, hand already on the doorknob. “Yeah?”
“Look after your wife.”
As I stride out, the taste of smoke turns to ash in my mouth, bitter, and foreboding. Whatever game is being played, the opening move has been made.
I’ve always had a penchant for gambling, but I usually never get in without even knowing what game we’re playing. But no matter the rules, now it’s our turn.
The drive back to Eve’s apartment stretches like a garrote—tight, biting deeper with every mile. Ned doesn’t speak beside me. He doesn’t need to. The smoke smell has settled into both our clothes, a constant reminder of the trap someone’s s prung.
My knuckles bleach white against the steering wheel as I take a corner too fast, headlights smearing across rain-slick asphalt like watercolors bleeding through paper.
My jaw aches from clenching, molars grinding together with each block we pass.
Something cold has settled in my gut—not fear, something worse. Certainty.
“Take it easy,” Ned says. “I’d like to get back to my sister in one piece.”
“I need to get to her,” I growl.
Ned nods, his profile sharp in the passing streetlights. “You told her to stay put. She’ll be fine.”
“We’ll see,” I reply. I hope Ned’s right, but with my luck I’m already trying to come up with worst-case scenarios to prepare myself.
The words taste hollow. We both know that the best way to go after a Knight is to capture a pawn. And fuck knows the city is full of men who’ll do whatever it takes for power and money.
With each mile closer to Eve, my body coils tighter. My shoulders bunch beneath my shirt, neck rigid, something primal rising beneath my skin. The steering wheel creaks under my grip, plastic protesting as I take the final turn onto her block.
I park half on the curb, engine still running as I slam out of the car. Ned is right behind me, his footsteps echoing mine up the stairs. We don’t wait for the elevator. Don’t trust the crawling pace of machinery when every second pulses like a countdown.
The hallway to Eve’s apartment is too quiet, our footsteps and breathing the only sounds. Even before we reach her door, I feel it—the wrongness, the absence where she should be.
Though closed, her door isn’t locked, and I quickly shove it open. “Eve?”
Silence is all that greets me as I rush inside.
The apartment feels hollow, the air too still, like a stage after the actors have gone home. Ned pushes past me, calling Shelby’s name, but the lack of answer is confirmation enough.
“Eve!” I bellow, moving from room to room. It’s pointless. Her place is too small for her not to hear me. The fact that she isn’t replying can only mean… “Answer me, for fuck’s sake! ”
“Shelby? Shel, where are you?” Ned shouts for his sister while I’m looking for my wife.
When I’ve gone through every room twice and end up back in the living room, I slam my fist into the wall. “Fuck!” I roar.
Ned’s no longer shouting, and when I glance over at my friend, he looks like he’s taking stock of the apartment. I snap to attention, noticing the pillow on the floor. Next, the mug shattered near the coffee table, ceramic shards scattered in a pattern that speaks of impact rather than accident.
I stride over to the doorway, my gaze is locked onto something else. A smear near the entrance. Dark and wet against the wood. I drop into a crouch, fingers hovering over the stain.
“Jack!” Ned comes to stand next to me, phone already in hand. “Shelby’s not answering her cell—”
I press my thumb into the smear. Rather than being dried or congealed, it’s warm and slick against my skin. “Blood,” I say, the word falling from my lips like a stone into still water.
My pulse doesn’t quicken. My breath doesn’t catch. Instead, something cold and clear washes through me, a crystalline calm that feels like floating outside my body.
Ned curses, spinning in a tight circle, eyes wild as he sweeps the apartment again. “Maybe they went out? Maybe they—”
“Someone took her.” I rise slowly, blood still wet on my fingertips. I bring it to my nose, inhaling the copper tang. “Took them both.”
Ned is still talking, still moving, still calling Shelby’s name like she might materialize from the shadows if he says it often enough. I tune him out, my focus narrowing to the blood on my skin and the space where my wife should be.
I cross to the kitchen sink, turn the tap, and watch red spiral down the drain. The water is cold against my hand, a shock of sensation in the numbness spreading through me. With mechanical precision, I dry my hands on a dish towel, fold it, and set it back on the counter.
Turning back to the blood smear, I study it from this new angle. It’s too much for a simple cut finger. Too little to be a fatal wound. It could be a signature.
Ned stares at me, confusion warr ing with the panic in his eyes. “How can you be so fucking calm?”
I meet his gaze, and whatever he sees in mine makes him take a step back. “Calm?” I mock. “I’m not fucking calm.”
On the inside, I’m bellowing, pacing, and throwing shit around just to have something to do. But I’m also planning, calculating, and trying to come up with…
“I need answers,” I say, already heading for the door. “Stay if you want.”
“What do you mean? Your wife is gone. My sister is gone. We need—”
Instead of replying again, I practically run to the stairwell, taking the stairs three at a time.
When he finally catches up with me, I’m almost out of the building. But to Ned’s credit, he doesn’t ask more questions or try to slow me down.