CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MADDOX
Quaint sidewalks, live oaks, large homes with basketball nets in the driveway and flowers around the mailboxes.
I rap on the wood door again and lean against the stone.
The sleeves on my black button-up are rolled to my elbows, my ankles are crossed, and my wingtip shoes are gleaming in the bright daylight.
I stick one hand in my pocket while the other twirls my butterfly knife.
There’s going to be a lot of hemming and hawing before I’m invited in, so I might as well get comfortable.
Cash shuffles his deck of cards, filling the small porch with the melody of ruffling snaps to accompany the tittering blue jays, the balisong’s click-clack-rattle, and our blaring soundtrack from his phone.
Ryker and Axel prefer quiet on their interrogation runs, but where’s the fun in that? Theme songs make everything better.
Today’s playlist has a wide variety. As we’re veering toward the time to let ourselves in, “American Pie” by Don McLean comes on. Fitting since we’re smack dab in the middle of cookie-cutter suburbia.
That’s a good fucking omen, so I tuck my sunglasses into my shirt pocket, peer through the glass, catching a pair of muddy brown eyes I never wanted to see again, and wink at our host. The withering stare of indecision peering back assures me we’re off to an excellent start.
When the tempo picks up, Cash and I pound in unison and then break into a dance. This is one of those instances where enhancing the crazy solves half the issues. At least the ones we’ll face inside.
An elderly lady two homes over clutches her chest, walking backward as she keeps both eyes on us.
A younger woman with her seems less afraid and more enthralled.
It’s a testament to their eras. My father was a bastard with little regard for the locals unless they contributed to his wealth.
Our legacy couldn’t be further from that.
It’s still not great news to see us show up in their neighborhood, but it’s just harmless dancing right now.
When Don McLean belts out the line about it being the day that he dies, the door swings open. Prophetic. Music has a way of telling a story.
To be clear, I’m not committed to that outcome. But I never say never.
“Coffee?” I ask as I breeze past Hunter into a beautiful foyer.
High ceilings, lots of light, wood floors. I bet he imagined Tessa here, backed into a life she never wanted and an identity that wasn’t even hers—one she’d adopted to keep the peace with people who fail to see how out-of-this-world fantastic she is. The thought has me seeing red.
“Nice place.” Cash squeezes Hunter’s shoulder as he kicks the door shut behind him. “It’s a shame meeting you”—he flashes that wily grin of his and pauses for a beat too long before finishing his greeting—“this way.”
“Likewise,” Hunter deadpans.
Bold. This guy has balls—I’ll give him that. In too many places, but we’ll get there.
Still flicking my butterfly knife, I head straight for the kitchen with Hunter and Cash trailing behind me. “American Pie” keeps droning on to guide our reunion. It’s a long-ass song.
When I spot the half-full coffeepot with a tree of mugs beside it, nestled next to a knife block and a Bundt cake, I decide to make myself at home.
Keeping my back to them with the small island between us, I tuck my butterfly knife into my pocket, choose a piece of cutlery from the block, cut a slice of cake, and pour a cup of joe, all while Cash has eyes on our esteemed host.
“Does Tessa know you’re here?” Hunter asks from the threshold with his preppy holier-than-thou bravado.
“You are a nonissue for her, Hunter, so it wouldn’t matter either way.” With my back still turned, I take a bite of the Bundt cake off the end of a chef’s knife. Store-bought but tasty. “Wasn’t that your theory when you took those trips to the Bahamas?”
And even with the music blaring, a slight creak in the floorboards alerts me to his position, his shift of weight due to nerves, and the fact that Cash hasn’t budged from his station three feet from him.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hunter lies.
And I spin, hurling the chef’s knife into the molding four inches from his temple.
“Fucking hell,” he hisses as his entire body flinches and trembles, finally giving me proper reverence.
Respect is earned.
Here’s an entertaining tidbit about me. When Axel became my legal guardian, I was pissed off at the fucking world.
He solved that issue by allowing me to train with some of the most ruthless members we had and our circus performers.
Those he trusted, of course. It was a valuable outlet for my inner rage while also preparing me for the creeps who could possibly take advantage of me, my empire, or those closest to me.
My father was the kind of demented asshole that people wanted revenge on long after he was burned to a crisp. We were at risk until Axel cleaned up our business, so in the meantime, he ensured we were prepared.
It wasn’t your average training. Scaling walls, car stunts, acrobatics, shooting, knife throwing, party tricks, and learning to do nearly all of that blindfolded, which led to echolocation—in the sense of painting a picture of my environment through only sound.
My teen years were fucking weird, but it’s always gratifying when all that hard work comes into play.
“Want some cake, Cash? It’s not bad.” I grab a couple of plates out of the cupboard, having picked the right one on the first try.
That wins me an arched brow from my little brother. He’s in awe and a little unnerved anytime someone has any sort of psychic tendencies. It’s unsettling to a guy who can swindle a swindler.
“I could go for cake.” He saunters over to take the piece I dished out for him, grabs a fork from the utensil drawer, and helps himself to a cup of coffee.
Hunter stands frozen. Barely breathing.
Finally, I turn back to scrutinize his ashen face.
“I’ve never understood lying at this stage.
Early on, before there’s clarity as to whether you’re truly made?
Sure. It’s a survival technique, but if the deranged man, who busted into your house and has access to a plethora of knives, confronts you with information you know to be true, you might as well fucking own it. ”
Still nothing. Broken after one knife chucked at him. Boring.
“You keep thinking about your next move while I tell you what I know.” I hold up another chunk of cinnamon cake, skewered with a santoku knife, which has such a comfortable handle, and cast a demented grin at Hunter.
“There are some missing funds that I’ve been trying to locate for a colleague.
The good news is, we have serial numbers on some of those bundles and friends in high places.
We couldn’t get a hit on the money in the US, but eventually, we found it at a casino in the Bahamas.
And when I ran the guest list for the past few years, guess whose name popped up. A lot.”
Hunter swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing with discomfort as he keeps his chin up. “I didn’t take anybody’s money.”
“I figured you’d say that.” I pop the treat into my mouth, wash it down with a swill of the steamy coffee, and point the blade at him with a thoughtful frown. “It might even be true. So, what were the trips for?”
“Business,” he states with absolute confidence.
“In the Bahamas?” I confirm.
“Yes.” He nods his head to the tune of whiz, then thwack as I fling the santoku knife into the molding directly above him.
It’s farther from him than the first since the guy isn’t quite six foot, but the message of my perfect aim lands all the same.
I tap Cash’s plate as he chips away at his dessert. “Pretty good, right?”
“Sure.” He shrugs. “I mean, I’ve had better, but not bad for the Piggly Wiggly.”
“My thoughts exactly.” I smack my lips. “I like the cream cheese frosting. Might have to see if Tessa is into that.”
Cash chuckles, and Hunter fumes.
“Try again,” I order Hunter. “Business doesn’t line up with my findings.”
Maybe he’s learning or simply at a loss, but he offers no response.
“I don’t know what fuels you, Hunter, but your gumption hasn’t gone unnoticed.
For an ordinary guy—real estate, I believe—you have a lot of moxie.
” With that acclaim, I select the cleaver, twirling it in my grip.
“In the spirit of transparency, I’m still contemplating sticking one of these blades in your throat. But we’re not there yet.”
Cash tsks, his gaze shooting from Hunter to me. “You should ask him a question. He’s pissing himself.”
“He is pissing himself. Another motherfucker with a weak bladder,” I note as a yellow river winds its way from the kitchen to the dining room. I angle my head in an exaggerated attempt to view the unfortunate architecture. “Your house is on a tilt, man. Might want to get that looked at.”
Nothing but crickets … and “Help!” by The Beatles.
“That’s fucking timely.” I chuckle and gesture to Cash’s pocket, where the music is crooning.
“I’d think it was spooky, but I might have had something to do with it.” He smirks at Hunter. “I had a feeling.”
I swing the cleaver toward our interrogee. “Let’s get to it then. When I saw you frequented the resort and casino there, I went down a little rabbit hole.”
“Morbid curiosity,” Cash tacks on, taking a seat at the island.
“Indeed,” I agree while still keeping my gaze on Hunter and his piss river. “And you didn’t disappoint—in regard to feeding my curiosity. You had an escort service that you spent quite a bit on and a business associate that you met there often.”
“My parents own a time-share in that resort,” he explains. “A lot of us stay there.”
“Your parents are realtors then?” Cash muses.
“No,” Hunter whispers, already shuddering for what’s to come.
“Who falls under the us that stays there then?” I press.
“Friends … buddies … coworkers, uh,” he stammers. “Family.”