Chapter 45
Rhys
We proceed up the winding drive. It carves through a thicket of skeletal maples and ends at the sprawling stone mansion perched high on the bluff. The Hudson River stirs below, black and flat.
Carriage lamps glow faintly in the frosty winter air, lighting up the three-car garage bay. The whole property looks like it was plucked out of some glossy estate magazine.
Every inch of this place screams old money. This kind of wealth isn’t to be flaunted. It’s hidden in private banks, some of it collecting dust and interest for decades.
Fallon twists her hands to cope. We just drove up to a fortress disguised as a fairy tale. Even my hands are white knuckled on the wheel.
Another guard booth near the house sits squat at the final turn before the main courtyard. I see silhouettes behind the house’s windows watching us against the snowy glare. Watching me. Possibly getting orders to kill me the second I step out of the car.
I freeze halfway out of my seatbelt, one thought burning in my head. Protect Fallon. Even if that means pushing her away so she doesn’t see me get killed.
Mind sharp, I get out, and Fallon does as well. She’s at my side before I realize she’s bounced over to me.
She fusses with my sleeve, tugging it straight. “He notices everything.”
“I’m not here to impress your father with my wardrobe.” I snap my arm away.
“You have to try.” Her voice cracks. “Please, Rhys.”
I notice she’s shaking. “What are you not telling me?”
She nervously hesitates to answer me. I don’t get her usual adorable shrug while she prepares a doozy of an answer laced with charm and fantasy. Fallon, bracing for reality, is something I’m not entirely prepared for.
Swallowing, she says, “Daddy wants me to marry Kosta.”
My mind blanks out. “The man who raped you?”
“Yes,” she breathes through choking tears. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
Something ugly and lethal coils in my chest, a calm certainty that there aren’t enough places left for Kosta Orlov to hide from my wrath.
Now it makes even more sense that her mind twisted my words into me being her boyfriend. Survival does that. It builds safer stories when the truth is that she’s being handed back to the scumbag who hurt her.
“And those other boyfriends you brought here?” I ask, keeping my cool. “Were they to convince your father to let you out of the marriage arrangement?”
She goes still, then slowly shakes her head. “I didn’t plan anything like that. I just thought if he saw me with someone else, and that I was okay, even happy, he would change his mind about Kosta.”
I study her face, the honesty there is stunning.
“But Rhys, I didn’t care about them the way I love you,” she whimpers into my chest. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I hug her and don’t hammer home the fact that she probably got those guys killed. That will make her spiral so bad that she might not come back to me as the same wonderful woman. “I’m glad I know the truth. You are not marrying Kosta.”
I’ll break that deal all right. With a bat to someone’s skull.
I make a mental note to ask Shane to dig further to find out where Kosta is and have him taken out. Immediately. This is all feeling too close.
“It’s late. We have to go inside.” Holding her middle, she steps gingerly across a path of meticulous stone steps.
By the looks of the house and the grounds, it’s clear Elias Black likes everything around him to be perfect and look flawless.
His one source of imperfection?
Fallon.
She gets to the front step, and one of the two massive double doors opens for her. I move to her side, and with my hand in hers, I let the house swallow us.
Inside, the foyer overwhelms with its explicit wealth and power, and only a dash of good taste. Twenty-foot ceilings and a chandelier dripping with crystals hover over marble floors so polished I can see my fucking reflection.
God, I have to get the look of shock off my face.
The scent of pine and roasted meat, the dinner we’re late for, hangs heavy in the air. A twelve-foot Christmas tree trimmed in gold dominates the entryway and sits next to a dark varnished wood railing that snakes in a curve along a grand staircase.
The braided garland hanging from the entryways smells fresh, and the bows look perfect. It’s holiday joy wrapped in razor wire.
“Fallon,” a man’s smooth voice without an accent drifts into the foyer from the top of the stairs.
I size up the man with broad shoulders, muted iron-gray hair, and a military-sharp suit. He’s got a presence that could shake the pine needles off a fake holiday tree.
Elias fucking Black.
Fallon flinches, then straightens. “Hi, Daddy. I’m sorry we—”
“You’re late.” He squashes her spirit as he slings his disappointment like a blade looking for a throat.
He reaches the bottom step and puts his arm out for her to hug him. He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. I’m surprised he’s not holding out his hand for her to kiss a fucking ring.
Then his gaze flicks to me. Icy chills shiver down my spine. His eyes don’t widen. His jaw doesn’t tense. He knows who I am, all right. My name is echoing in whispers throughout this house already.
But he plays dumb.
His gaze slides to Fallon. “And who is this?”
“This is my boyfriend, Daddy,” she says, and then braces for impact.
“Rhys Quinlan, nice to meet you, sir.” I extend a hand to be cordial and non-threatening.
Fallon’s mysterious father meets my gaze. A predator recognizing another. His eyes are the pale blue of a frozen sea. “The pleasure is mine, I assure you.”
Black’s grip on my hand is firm, lingering just long enough to map the strength of my tendons. It’s like he’s calculating where he’ll break me first.
This is a hornet’s nest that needs a dose of gasoline. And a match. But I’m one man against a small army. So, I do what I do when I can’t kill someone yet. I gather intel.
A maid drifts forward to take our bags. The woman gives me a soft smile, blinking. It might be ‘help me’ in Morse code.
“Come on, Rhys.” Fallon pulls me toward the stairs. “Daddy, we’ll freshen up and be in the dining room in a few quick minutes.”
I take one step, but a hand like an iron trap clamps around my arm.
“Surely you don’t think you’ll be sleeping under this roof with my daughter,” Elias warns with Manhattan gangster polish.
Two men in black suits with blacker eyes materialize from a corridor behind the stairs. So that’s where the watchroom is. Noted and clocked.
“Show Fallon’s friend to the guest house,” Black orders.
“Daddy, I’m twenty-five.” Fallon takes her bag from me and sighs as she dashes up the stairs.
“No problem, sir.” I follow the guards with Black’s warning grip lingering on my elbow.
I’m brought through the kitchen. Heat blasts from the stoves as two chefs in white jackets work in silence, knives flashing, and copper pots steaming with dinner. Not one of them looks at me.
One guard opens a door that leads to a back garden. The guest house looms at the far edge of the property. It’s a pretty little stone carriage house that might serve as my coffin. But the snow is knee-deep and untouched. No one dug a path, and I’m not wearing boots.
I glare into the man’s dead eyes. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
The other guard doesn’t flinch. “You weren’t expected, friend.”
“Key?” I hold out my hand.
The guard takes out his phone and swipes a few times. “It’s open.”
Great, they control the locks to either imprison me or come in later to kill me.
“I’m not your friend,” I say and trudge through the snow.
My feet go numb fast, socks soaking, every step a crunch and icy burn.
The door is unlocked, like they promised, but the frame is nearly frozen solid. After a few hard pushes that make my shoulder feel dislocated, I get it open. Inside, the air is frigid, the radiators silent.
Cursing, I kick off my soaked shoes, peel off my wet socks, and run a bath. Steam curls from the faucet, and I stick my hands under the warm deluge just to stop my teeth from chattering.
The main door opens moments later, and I whip around. Elias Black stands there with the glowing snowscape framed behind him. I see someone has carved a neat path between here and the mansion for him.
At least my feet won’t get soaked again for dinner.
“Rhys Quinlan. Lead assassin for your cousin Griffin’s crime family in Manhattan,” Elias says with a lazy smile. “Hired by Ares Zervas, the head of the Greek Mafia, to kill one of my soldiers. This is who my daughter brings home.”
I stand in the doorframe to the bathroom, arms crossed, trying to look tough while barefoot. “That’s a coincidence.” I shrug. “Fallon is using a different last name. I had no idea who you were. And she doesn’t know the man I killed worked for you.”
“David Sinclair was—”
“A wife-beater who crossed a line and started trouble at Zervas’s club.”
Elias’s mouth ticks up. “Are you really Fallon’s boyfriend?”
“No.” The word hits my tongue like acid, but I say this to protect her. “She walked in on the Sinclair hit. She needed a date for a few holiday events. We worked out a deal.”
If he even smells what she means to me, he’ll rip us apart.
“Interesting.” His right eyebrow lifts.
“I can’t have a girlfriend,” I go on, each syllable cold and practiced. “You know who I am. What I am.”
Except, I’m not the same man I was a month ago. Not since I fell in love with his daughter. Not the way she drives me crazy in my bed like a woman. Not the child her father seems to think she is.
“I do not want Quinlan Empire as my enemy,” Black says, pacing. “Especially with their new alliance with the Albanian Brotherhood. But the Greeks are another matter.”
“Ava Zervas Quinlan will stand with her brothers. We will stand with her.”
Black’s smile sharpens. “Not when they learn what Ares Zervas has done.”
My stomach coils. “And what’s that?”
His eyes glitter like cracked ice. “None of your business, assassin. But he’s hiding a sin that will come out eventually.”
I veil the look of shock on my face. It’s best to act bored, so I keep my face flat and turn into a cold, heartless bastard again.
I’m alone. I can’t call for help and put my brother and the enforcer team at risk without knowing exactly what I’m dealing with here. I have to keep playing disinterested to get out of here alive.
Then bring back an army to level the place and rescue my Fallon.
Black’s eyes sweep me from head to toe. “Be in the dining room in fifteen minutes.” He starts toward the door, but then turns around. “Oh,” he adds, voice softer now. “Your charade ends tonight. After tomorrow, you will never see Fallon again.”
I mask my expression even though his threat tears me apart inside. “She’s my neighbor. There’s no way to avoid her.”
“She’s not going back to Manhattan,” he says, his voice icy and detached. “Fallon is promised to another man.”
I consider how to respond. I can’t look like I let myself walk into a trap, but my dignity has no price if Black will punish Fallon for dragging yet another man here to defy his wishes.
I act surprised. “Promised?”
“She has a fiancé. An arranged one. He’s reliable. A man who understands her needs. Who keeps her routine intact.” He smooths a hand down his tie, voice even and calm.
Heat spikes through my blood. Fallon is not marrying someone else. Drugged and caged until she forgets her own name.
Tone flat, rage claws at my ribs. “She hasn’t mentioned him.”
“Because she doesn’t get to choose her husband,” Black hisses. “I do.”
“She can make her own decisions,” I argue, because I can’t help it. “You don’t know her.”
He smiles. Slow. Cruel. “After tomorrow, she’ll be back on her meds, and she won’t remember you, assassin.”
My stomach flips, and I picture a red beam on the back of his head where I would really love to fill with bullets.
In shoes I warmed up in the oven as best I could and a fresh pair of socks, I step into the dining room.
Elias Black sits at the head of the rectangular table and points to a man who pulls out a chair next to Fallon.
She tugs me down into the chair on the other side of her and clamps her hand in mine.
She tries to make small talk, but I keep my eyes clocked on the six men standing guard at the entrances. They will drag me out of here if it looks like I plan to make trouble and take Fallon with me when I leave here tomorrow.
In this creepy dinner for four, Fallon’s stepmother, Black’s fourth wife, sits across from me quietly gulping a martini. Her posture is perfect, but her eyes are dull and glassy. The light behind them has been dimmed.
Maybe she knows her fate. Black will eventually have a fifth wife. She lifts a faint smile my way, but it’s fake.
The dinner is served by two women in white uniforms, each dish plated uniformly with an array of cooked foods. Unlike the horrible Friendsgiving, this meal looks and smells delicious.
Black studies me while cutting into his roasted lamb with surgical precision. “Fallon, are you taking your medication?”
“Yes, Daddy,” she lies easily enough to him.
Good girl.
But I grumble under my breath at the question.
“Do you have a problem, Rhys?” Black calls me on it. “Fallon requires order. Stability. Her medication provides that for her.” His eyes flick to her, then back to me.
Fallon whispers something to the centerpiece.
Her father catches it and hollers. “Stop! Enough. It’s a fucking poinsettia.”
Her jaw trembles, her head bowing like a wilted flower, and my fists tighten beneath the table. For the first time since I walked into this house, I understand that Fallon isn’t fragile by accident. She’s been made fragile. Dosed into obedience. Groomed for control.
I don’t give a fuck what I have to risk to keep her mine.
Battle lines have been drawn.