19. Tristan
I move quietly in the morning, taking a shower and getting dressed in another bathroom so I don’t wake Evie. She distracts me without even trying, and I can’t deal with her siren call right now. There’s one thing on my mind at the moment, and that’s securing Doyle Whiskey once and for all. Today is the day.
Remembering that I left my piece in the nightstand, I jog back upstairs and edge silently into the bedroom again.
Pulling my Glock quietly from the drawer, I spy the rose I made for Evie the other day. I started doing origami when I was a kid, when my mom was always looking into ways for me to calm my mind, channel my focus. What started as forced fun turned into something I actually enjoyed, and now I make shit just for kicks. Liam especially loves my creations. I’ve made him everything from the dinosaurs hanging in his room to the animal party favors he gave out at his last birthday party.
I lay the rose on the pillow beside Evie, figuring she’ll get a kick out of it, and head back downstairs. Timmy’s dozing on the couch, so I shake him awake. Juniper gives me a dirty look from her spot near his arm. “Leaving now. Keep an eye on her, okay?”
He nods, rubbing his eyes as he sits up. “Yes, sir.”
“You got what you need? ”
Timmy holds up his phone and then lifts the pillow, showing me his gun.
The weather’s starting to cool down. Finally. This is the first time I’ve worn a jacket since I got to Savannah.
The new crew got in late. They’re staying at a rental six minutes away, a McMansion in one of those generic, brand-new subdivisions where half the houses are still empty. I pull into the driveway, parking behind a pair of black Suburbans, and walk up to the front door with Malachi and Finn.
Alex answers the door, pulling me into a hug. “Tristan, my man.” He grips Finn’s shoulder, then Malachi’s, as they pass. Robbie’s sprawled on the couch, talking on the phone while Andy sips a cup of coffee. These guys, I know. Alex is one of Lucky’s best friends. Robbie’s gone on jobs with us for years.
“Hey, Al. How was the drive down?”
“Brutal,” he says with a grimace. “I’m getting too old for road trips.”
“Stop bitchin’,” laughs Robbie, getting up to throw me a fist bump. “What’s good, T? You running this town yet?”
“I’m halfway there,” I joke, nodding toward Perry. He, Sullivan, Jett, and Vance round out the crew. I don’t know them as well, but Lucky does, and if he sent them down it’s because he trusts them as the best Saoirse’s got. We’re family here, bound by loyalty and our time in the trenches, if not blood. “How’s it going, man?”
We gather around the kitchen table, kidding around and sipping on shit coffee while we catch up. They tell me what’s been happening back home, and I bring them up to speed on the scene in Savannah. Who to watch for, what to expect. What to avoid.
“And you might as well know, ‘cause you’re gonna find out anyway, I got married,” I add, flashing my left hand.
Alex’s jaw hits the floor. “What the fuck?”
Robbie, who married his high school sweetheart super young, yanks me into a congratulatory hug. “Lucky didn’t even say nothin’!”
“We had to keep things under wraps for a while, didn’t want any unnecessary attention,” I explain, patting Robbie on the back as the room explodes with exclamations and good-natured ribbing.
“Who’d you marry?” demands Alex, still looking at me in disbelief. “Must be some girl to tie your whorin’ ass down.”
Smirking, I take a long sip of coffee. He’s not wrong. If there’d been a vote amongst our friend group on least likely to ever get married, I’m pretty sure I’d have won outright. “Her name’s Evie. It’s … a long story.”
“That’s it? You can’t just drop some shit like that and not give us details!” Andy looks past me to Finn, who’s leaning against the wall behind me. “She’s not imaginary, is she?”
“Trust me, she’s real.” I laugh over the snickers. They don’t need to know she’s Randall Doyle’s daughter. They’ll learn soon enough—for now, it's best they focus on one thing at a time. “You’ll meet her later, okay?”
Finishing up our coffee, we leave for the distillery. Perry stays behind in case we need someone close to Timmy and Evie.
The distillery’s parking lot is oddly quiet for a Friday morning when we pull in. There’s just one car at the far end. I park right in front of the main doors, unable to shake the feeling that something’s off.
“They are open, right?” Alex echoes my thoughts from the back seat, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror.
“Supposed to be,” I answer, grabbing my briefcase from the floor by Malachi’s feet. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Doyle was up to something, though.”
The guys wait in one of the Suburbans while Alex, Finn, and Malachi come inside with me. The same blonde receptionist from last time is on the phone at the front desk. She holds a finger up when she sees us, her voice low as she talks to whoever’s on the line. After a moment, she hangs up and looks expectantly at me. “Mr. Kelly?”
Either she’s got a great memory, or Randall told her I was coming this time. “Yes, ma’am. Is Mr. Doyle here?”
She gives a small nod, her smile hesitant as she glances at the others. “You can go on back. He’s expecting you.”
We nod our thanks and walk toward the back offices, the sound of our footsteps echoing against the high ceilings. The door is ajar, and I don't bother knocking as I push it open. Randall’s enormous desk is a chaotic mess of paperwork, but his leather chair is facing the large window with its vista of his land. He swivels slowly around when he hears us enter the room, a glass of whiskey in hand. “Kelly,” he greets in a gravelly voice, raising his glass in a mock salute before downing it in a single gulp.
“Doyle,” I reply.
His gaze slides over to my entourage and then back to me. “Didn't realize you'd be bringing company,” he gripes.
“Then you don’t know me very well,” I counter, motioning for Finn to shut the door.
“Truer words have never been spoken. Now, what can I get you boys?” he slurs, walking unsteadily to the bar across the room. “We got, ah … let’s see … my daddy’s favorite, the rye whiskey. Real bold, with notes of black pepper, cinnamon, and dried fruit. Or maybe you’re into bourbon, eh? Smooth and sweet, caramel and vanilla, toasted oak?”
“We’re fine, thanks.” I gesture to an empty seat across from him. “May I?”
Pouring himself another drink, he waves us toward the seats. I set my briefcase on the large desk between us. Malachi and Alex take the seats nearest the door while Finn places himself near the windows overlooking the distillery grounds.
“You know,” Randall says, settling heavily into his chair once more. “You should know your product if you’re gonna sell it, boy.”
“Distillery seems quiet today,” I comment, opening my briefcase and pulling out my copy of the contract. “Is there some Southern holiday I’m not aware of?”
“Gave everybody a day off, told ‘em we had a few renovations to do,” he says, his glazed eyes hardening. “Didn’t know what you had planned.”
“I told you what I had planned,” I say calmly, sliding the contract across the desk. “There you go, in case you misplaced your own.”
Randall glances down at it for barely a second before refocusing on me.
“I’m sure you’ve gone over the fine print, but in case you haven’t, let me explain,” I say. “This contract states what was agreed upon before—Kelly Logistics assumes control of the distillery as of today. If you choose to stay on in a managerial role, overseeing daily operations, you will report to either myself or Conlan. If not, we will hire someone else. Either way, an independent accounting firm will come on to handle the books, including payroll. They’ll make sure distillery’s bills, debts, and repairs are handled. Once we received our monthly cut”—I pause, tapping on the payment schedule addendum—“you receive yours.”
Randall gives the contract another disinterested glance. “You really expect me to sign this?”
“Do you have three hundred thousand, fifteen dollars on you?” I ask. “Cash. I don’t take checks.”
“Not liquid, but I can?—”
I push the contract closer to him. “Stop fucking around and sign.”
Randall lunges for the contract, crumples it like an angry toddler, and tosses it into what I assume is a wastebasket beneath his desk. Rage rises up so fast that for a second, my face throbs with it. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to just smash his fucking face into the gleaming mahogany of his desk, see if that helps. We have Randall over a barrel, and the only one who doesn’t seem to be catching onto that is this fucker himself. It’s time he learned that actions have consequences.
Instead, I rise calmly from my seat and walk around his desk. He leans back from me, watching warily, very likely imagining the same scenario I just did. I signal to Malachi, who locks the office doors, before slipping my Glock from my waistband. Sitting on the edge of his desk, I rest the gun on my lap.
“You screw your business associates, your friends, and your own family. You’re still trying to screw me. But you can’t, because you’re at the end of the line, Randy,” I say pleasantly. “Grab another copy, Finn.”
Finn obeys, placing a fresh contract and a pen on the desk. Randall recoils as I raise the gun and tap it against the paperwork. “You’re out of chances and I’m out of fucks to give. Sign it.”
“I’m not signing that,” Randall grits out, but his face has gone pale.
I can’t tell if he’s brave or just so arrogant and entitled that he thinks he can still get his way. Leaning forward, I yank his tie down swiftly, stopping just shy of smashing his face against the desk. Alex comes to the other side of the desk, squeezing his hand around the back of Randall’s neck to hold him in place.
Tapping Randall’s cheek with the gun, I smile. “Yes, you are.”
He goes still, forehead gleaming with sweat. “This is unbelievable,” he whispers. “Does your father know what a thug you are? ”
“Why do you think he sent me? Sign it,” I command.
With a shaky hand, he scrawls his signature across the bottom of the contract. Then I have him sign the “original” contract, the one detailing the loans he took from my father and the agreed upon repayment plan. It’s dated eight years ago, when Dad lent Randall money the very first time, and contains addendums for every additional loan.
“Thank you, Mr. Doyle,” I say, slapping the man’s back as I step away. “It’s been a pleasure.”
“Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?” he cries, the rims of his eyes going red. “There is no distillery without Doyle! It’s been in my family longer than this country has existed. My great-great-great-grandparents brought it over from Ireland and built it up with their own blood, sweat, and tears, passed on from one generation to the next. This is my life’s work! My land?—”
“And you squandered it all.” I put my gun away, unmoved by his passionate, drunken monologue. “With your gambling and your shitty business practices. You should be on your knees right now, thanking God it’s the Kellys taking over and no one else. We’ll do right by this place, not because of you, but because of your family’s blood, sweat, and tears .” I lean in, close enough that I can see the pores on his nose. “And because your daughter deserves better. They both do.”
Randall stumbles back against the edge of his desk, his chest rising and falling in deep, agitated breaths.
“Will you be staying on as a manager?” I ask.
“Hell no!” he roars. “You can kiss my ass!"
“Good. I’ll be changing the locks to both warehouses today, then. Figure that’s a good place to start, right? How are the repairs over at West Julian coming along? They fix that water damage yet?” I sigh, shaking my head as I scan the contracts with my phone.
“This is robbery,” he croaks.
“Sucks, doesn’t it?” I send Lucky PDFs of the contracts, promising to FedEx the originals as soon as I leave. “The distillery, warehouses, and contents of both now belong to us, Randall. You may not remove anything from the premises.” I glance around his office. “Well, you can take the stuff in here. Don’t forget your rye whiskey.”
“You will live to regret this,” he says, looking shellshocked. “Let Owen know he’ll be hearing from me. ”
“Oh, now you want to talk to him? Typical.” Straightening up, I tuck the signed contracts into my briefcase and head for the door. “Listen, you got one week to get your affairs in order, okay? After that, you need to be gone.”
Evie’s in the garden with Timmy when we get back to the house, kneeling on the grass with a shovel while he lounges nearby with a joint. They’re talking quietly, Timmy nodding at whatever she’s saying. That kid never leaves her side. I chose him for Evie because he’s unassuming and non-threatening—to her.
But he’s deceptively capable. The rest of us know that behind that stoner babyface is someone who does whatever it takes. Timmy offers me the joint as I walk by, but I decline with a shake of my head. “Maybe later.”
My girl glances over her shoulder at the sound of my voice, her eyes cautiously searching mine. “Hey,” she says softly, rising from her knees and brushing the soil from her hands. She’s in leggings and a thin sweatshirt that hits just above her knees. “How’d it go?”
“It’s done,” I say simply, feeling strangely conflicted for the first time … ever. I did what I came down here to do and that’s a massive fucking relief, but there will be consequences, some good and some not so good. What happened today affects a lot of people, Evie being one of them.
“Okay.” She nods slowly, not coming any closer. “Is my dad okay?”
“He acted the way we expected,” I say, hoping she doesn’t want me to go into detail. “He opted not to stay on, so I gave him a week to sort things out before we come in. I’ve already changed the locks at the warehouse by City Market.”
“Oh, wow,” she breathes, looking a little stunned. “Okay.”
I glance at Timmy, who gets the hint and lopes off toward the house. “Listen, this was just the first step. Maybe the most important step, but there might be some fallout with the Deschamps.”
Evie peels off her gloves, dropping them into a bucket near her feet. Taking a slow breath, she pushes the strands of red that have escaped her ponytail with the back of her hand. “Depending on how much my father owes them, do you think we could just pay them off? Would your family even consider it?”
“I don’t know,” I say slowly. “I can talk to Dad and Lucky, but he probably owes a lot. I mean, he was going to use you as leverage.”
Hurt flashes over her face as she looks away. “That’s true.”
“Your father’s in pretty deep with the Deschamps,” I tell her. “I don’t know the full extent of it, but it’s messy.”
“I’m starting to realize that.”
“Things could get rocky,” I add.
“You’ve been saying that for a while,” she says, giving me a wry smile.
“’Cause it’s true.” Walking closer, I brush my hand down the length of her arm and link our fingers. “What d’you think about staying with my family for the next few weeks? Maybe even a month?”
“Your family?” she blurts, her eyes lit with alarm. “In Boston?”
I shrug casually, as if my gut isn’t tightening with apprehension at the thought of her being gone. “Yeah.”
“Without you?” she clarifies, a small frown marring her face.
“Well, yeah.” She doesn’t look too keen on the idea, not that I expected her to be. Still, maybe I can make her see reason. “It’d be nice. You’d love Bria, and Lucky’s little boy, Liam. They’re going to the beach house?—"
Evie shakes her head. “Why would I do that?”
“I finally told my dad everything,” I say. “He’s worried about you getting caught in the crossfire, so he suggested sending you up.”
She disentangles her hand from mine and crosses her arms over her chest. “Have you gotten to know me at all over the past few weeks?”
Here we go . “Evie.”
“I’m not a child, Tristan! What makes you think I’d want to cower in Boston while you deal with things here?” she rants. “I can handle myself.”
“I know that,” I shoot back. “I know you can handle yourself, Evie. But there’s nothing wrong with taking a breather.”
Evie gazes back at me earnestly. “I didn’t sign up for this to run away when things get tough.”
“You didn't sign up for any of this,” I argue, frustrated. Not at her, but at the situation we’re in .
“Didn’t I, though? The day I married you?” She tosses up her hands. “I knew who you were, what your family was like. I might not have realized how deep the rabbit hole went, but I wasn’t totally na?ve.”
She’s not wrong, I guess. “To be fair, I was the lesser of two evils.”
“And the cuter.” She takes a deep breath, sobering. “Seriously though, this has always been my fight, too. The distillery might not be Daddy’s anymore, but it’s still partly mine, isn’t it? And I’ve been dealing with Cole in one way or another for years. I’m not letting you face any of this alone.”
“But what if something happens to you?” I ask, giving life to words I’d rather didn’t see the light of day. “I will burn this fucking city to the ground, Evie. I’m serious.”
“Then don’t let anything happen,” she replies simply, her gaze stern. “You do what you need to do, and I’ll be here. In Savannah. Not having tea parties with your mama in Boston.”
“Evie—”
“I’m not leaving,” she says firmly. “You can’t make me go.”
“Fine. Okay. That’s what I told my dad you’d say, anyway.” Relief that Evie’s set on staying with me wars with frustration that she won’t go to someplace safer. She’s stubborn and fierce, but … well, that’s why she deserves a place at my side. Maybe she’s as crazy as I am.
“Unless …” Her eyes narrow, and she drops her arms. “You want me gone?” She almost curves in on herself, suddenly seeming a lot less sure.
“Nah, it’s not like that.” I reach for her, but she takes a step back.
“You got the distillery,” she murmurs, her face going slack. “You don’t need me anymore, do you?”
“Stop acting like a nutcase, Evie. I was trying to do the right thing. Shit.” I yank her into my arms and hold on, prepared to shake her back to reality if need be. “The unselfish, keeping-you-safe-even-though-I’d-miss-you thing.”
“I want you to be selfish,” she begs, resting her forehead on my chest. “I want you to be as selfish as me because you’re the one thing I can’t give up. Because …”
“What?” I ask, kissing the top of her head.
“You’re all I’ve got left,” she says softly. Shakily.
Her admission snakes around my heart and squeezes. I can’t imagine what that would feel like. “Not just me. My family loves you, too. That’s why they wanted you to come, Evie. Not so I could get rid of you—so they could take care of you.”
She buries her face in my shirt with a quiet sob, her tears leaving a wet, warm spot on the fabric. Tilting her chin, I kiss her tears, licking my lips to taste the salt.
“Weirdo,” she whispers, wrinkling her nose. But she closes her eyes when I do it again, when I trail kisses over the freckles on her cheek and down to her mouth.
There’s something primal and appealing about tasting her tears, and I find myself getting hard. Mentally I’m already ten steps ahead, pulling Evie back into the house, bringing her upstairs so I can lay her on our bed and show her with my body what I’m not ready to tell her with my words. I want to fill her up so that she can’t remember what it feels like to be empty. But Evie brings me back when she presses closer, wrapping her arms around my waist. “We’re a team,” she murmurs. “If you stay, then I stay.”
“And what about when everything settles down?” I ask, gazing down at her. The days are getting shorter, and the sun’s already getting low in the sky. “And it’s time for me to go back to Boston? You gonna come with me?”
She hesitates, and I see the same ambivalence in her eyes that I feel whenever I think about this very thing. “Maybe.” Her voice is barely audible against the rustling of the trees in the evening breeze.
I pull her closer, cradling her face with one hand as I run my thumb along the worry lines that have formed between her brows. “Let me ask you in a different way,” I say. “Are you going to stay with me, Evie?”
“Yes,” she says quietly. “I am.”