Chapter 23 – Marlowe
Chapter Twenty-Three
MARLOWE
No one notices me when I walk in the living room. The brothers sit in a half-circle, hunched over, voices low.
"We should just kill him," Damian mutters.
"Yeah, that’ll really help us figure out where the hell the money is," Bridger shoots back.
Cody shakes his head, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "Not saying I’d be sad if the bastard disappeared, but what does that do for us? It doesn’t get us the cash."
They all want Vick dead. I get it, because so do I.
But that won’t fix any of this. The second I step further into the room, they stop talking.
Three pairs of eyes flick to me, assessing and cautious.
I’m a problem they don’t know how to deal with yet.
I ignore it, moving on autopilot, sinking into the chair closest to me.
My body feels weightless, like I might float away if I don’t anchor myself to something.
From the kitchen, soft music hums just above a whisper, a slow melody blending with the quiet sounds of a brush sweeping across paper.
I glance over. Delilah sits at the table, watercolor paints scattered around her, tubes of pigment left open, some tipped over, bleeding onto napkins, smearing against her fingers.
Her brush drags through a soft wash of blue, her lips parted slightly, completely absorbed in whatever world she’s creating on the paper in front of her.
I tear my eyes away and press my fingers to my temples, trying to think through the sudden pounding in my skull.
Then I lean back in the chair, crossing my arms over my chest. "Don’t stop your assassination plans on my account," I say, my voice steady.
"Please, continue. I have no desire to save that man’s life right now. "
Cody lets out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. "I get what you see in her," he says to Damian.
"Shut up," Damian snaps back. "I don’t see anything in anybody."
A tense silence settles between us.
His eyes meet mine, and drop away immediately. It punches right through me. The warmth of him that still clings to my skin turns cold, doubt spreading in its place. I search his face for something—connection, clarity, anything—but he won’t look at me.
Bridger sighs, rubbing a hand over his face like he’s already exhausted by whatever this is turning into. "Okay, stop. Please," he says, looking between the two of us. "We all heard you in the bathroom not five minutes ago."
Heat rises to my cheeks in a rush.
"You like her," Bridger continues, voice flat, impatient. "Who cares? Get over yourself. Let’s figure out what the fuck we need to do to get this money back."
Cody smirks, shifting in his seat, but he doesn’t add anything.
I press my hand to my throat, my body still too sensitive, too aware of Damian sitting across from me. I don’t let myself look at him again.
"You’re right, we’re wasting time," Damian says. "If we don’t figure this out now, we’re fucked."
Okay, I guess he’s just going to ignore the part about me.
Bridger nods, leaning forward, arms braced against his knees. "Then let’s start with the facts. The money isn’t where Vick said it would be. We have no idea if it was ever here to begin with."
Damian’s shoulders rise with a slow breath, his fingers tapping against his thigh like he’s barely holding himself in check. "So what the hell do we do next? Because killing him would make me feel a lot better."
"Whose money is it?" I ask, looking between them. "How did my father get it? And why the hell was he asking me for money if he had that much stashed away?" The moment the words leave my mouth, something clicks. He kept asking for money. Over and over. Calling me, guilt-tripping me, pushing until I gave in. If he had half a million dollars, he wouldn’t have needed anything from me. “He…he didn’t have it,” I stammer. “When he was asking me for money, he couldn’t have had five hundred grand sitting around. Right?”
Damian lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. “That’s bullshit.” His voice is dark. “Vick took that money. And you’re either blind, or you know exactly where it went and just don’t want to admit it because he’s your father.”
I stare at him, anger flaring hot under my skin. Is he kidding me? “I told you. I don’t know where it is,” I bite out.
Damian leans in, eyes dark, jaw set. “Maybe it went into that bakery.”
I laugh, sharp and humorless. “You can make up any story you want about me, asshole. It doesn’t make it true.”
His fingers flex against his knee, tension coiling between us, pulling tighter and tighter.
Cody sighs. “This is getting nowhere.”
Bridger lets out a hard breath and kicks the coffee table.
From the kitchen, Delilah hums under her breath. Then, without looking up from her painting, she says, "Maybe you two should dance it out again."
Four voices snap at once. "No!"
Delilah shrugs, dipping her brush into a soft wash of green. “It worked last time.”
Bridger groans, standing up, stretching his arms. "We need a real plan."
Damian’s phone rings, sharp and sudden. He pushes off the couch, pulling it from his pocket and answering without hesitation.
“Yeah,” he says, voice low, already on edge.
I watch as he paces, his free hand running over his jaw, then through his hair.
His movements grow sharper, more agitated. Whatever he’s hearing isn’t good.
I tear my eyes away from him and turn toward Bridger and Cody, my stomach tight. “I swear to God, I never knew about any money. I really have no idea what’s happening.”
Cody watches me carefully. Then, after a long pause, he speaks. “Your father stole that five hundred grand from our mother.” His voice is flat. He’s not bluffing.
I blink. “What?”
Bridger flops back down on the couch. “You might as well tell her.”
“He pretended to like her,” Cody says, clearing his throat. “Took her to dinner a few times, made her feel special. And then he banked on the fact that she was losing her memory and had her empty her bank account. Then he disappeared.”
What. The. Fuck. I shake my head frantically. “No. No, that can’t be right.”
Cody doesn’t let me finish. “I think Joel was in on it with him. He’s our father’s friend, the only one who knows mom’s condition.
I don’t get along with him, and I think he was probably planning this for a while.
Our dad is getting out of jail soon.” He leans forward, eyes locked on mine.
“My father thinks the money is his. Vick stole it. We don’t know if we can trust Joel.
But the truth? It’s all Delilah’s money.
And it’s what we need to put her in a memory care facility. ”
I can’t breathe.
I look at Delilah at the kitchen table, painting quietly, oblivious to everything unraveling around her. Tears burn my eyes. I can’t hold them back. It’s no wonder Damian doesn’t trust me. My father is pure evil.
Damian’s voice snaps through the air. “Save your tears for people who’ll believe them.”
I flinch and turn toward his voice. He’s staring at me, his expression hard, unforgiving, merciless.
“We’re out of time,” he says. His voice is tight, panic bouncing behind his eyes. “That was Neve.”
Bridger’s head snaps up at that. “Neve?”
Damian nods. “She just saw Joel with a few heavily armed guys piling into cars.” His jaw ticks. “Who wants to bet they’re headed this way?”
Bridger rises from the couch so fast it scrapes against the floor. “Wait, Joel’s in Nevada already?” His eyes cut to Cody. “How the hell did he get here so fast? We only got back a few hours ago.”
Damian’s gaze flits to me, his voice razor-sharp. “He gave her until tomorrow.”
Bridger swears under his breath and strides toward the window. “Maybe he got the truth out of Vick, since the money isn’t where he said it would be.”
“Fuck,” Cody hisses. “I don’t trust any of this.”
My stomach churns, nausea rising so fast I have to press a hand against my mouth.
My father stole that money from Delilah.
He took advantage of a woman who couldn’t even remember what he was doing to her and drained her entire life’s savings.
Why? Why would he go this far? Could he really do something like that?
And if he had that much money, why the hell did he show up at my bakery back in Jersey, looking for more? Something isn’t adding up.
Damian strides to the far wall, where a shelf is lined with framed pictures. Without hesitation, he presses a spot near the corner. A faint click sounds, and the bottom of the shelf shifts, lowering to reveal a hidden compartment.
Guns.
More than I can count.
Bridger steps forward and grabs two, like it’s no big deal. Like this is normal.
The breath in my lungs turns thin, unsteady. My chest locks up.
Damian grips the largest one, shoves something into the bottom of the gun with a loud slap, then looks at me.
And that’s when it hits. This is real. My father is the bad guy here.
The money is gone. And now I’m standing in the middle of a house full of armed men, waiting for a gang of people with probably even bigger guns to show up looking for me.
I feel detached from my own body, panic crawling up my throat.
Then I hear it. Tires rolling over gravel. A car.
Without thinking, I run toward Delilah, still sitting at the table, still in her own world. I crouch beside her, my voice barely a whisper. “Come, Delilah.” I don’t want her to get scared if Joel starts yelling. She’s so calm now, I want to keep her that way.
Before I can move her, a loud, sharp pop cracks through the air. It’s not thunder. It’s too close. Too fast. A violent snap that punches the air and leaves my bones humming. A window shatters, exploding glittering glass across the room.
I don’t think. I grab Delilah and pull her to the floor, covering her with my body. Were those gunshots? Is someone shooting at the house?
More cracks, three in a row. The sound rips through my skull, through my chest, ringing in the marrow in my bones.
Damian curses, his footsteps fast, urgent. Cody grips his mother, dragging her toward the basement door. She cries out and grabs at the table as paint tubs and dirty paint water crash to the floor. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” I try to say, but it comes out shaking and hoarse.
Bridger and Damian edge toward the windows, their movements precise, their hands steady on their weapons.
Oh my God. Oh my God.
I press my face against Delilah’s shoulder, holding her tight, trying to drown out the noise, trying to keep her safe, trying to keep myself from falling apart.
“I got her,” Cody hisses, his grip firm as he pries Delilah from my arms. “She’ll be safe in the basement.”
I don’t want to let go.
Cody pulls her toward the door at the back of the kitchen, moving fast. He wrenches it open, guiding Delilah down the narrow staircase.
I move to follow, but before I can take a step, Cody turns and shoves me back. “Not you,” he says.
I shake my head, my pulse pounding in my ears. “What?”
Cody grips the doorknob, his face hard, set, unflinching. “Stay up here.” He steps inside, pulling Delilah fully into the basement. The door starts to close.
“No, please, wait—”
The door slams shut. The lock clicks.
I stand there, frozen, the gunfire still ripping through the house, glass breaking, footsteps pounding across the floor.
I can’t do this.
I can’t be here. I have to get out. A surge of panic slams into me, my body moving before I can stop it. I push off the wall, bolt for the back door, and run.
Scorching dry heat slaps me in the face. It dries my mouth, scratching down my throat. The backyard unfolds in front of me. Flat, sun-bleached dirt and dead grass. There’s nowhere to hide. No trees or shed. No shadows deep enough to disappear into.
A heavy force slams into my back, knocking the air from my lungs. Pain explodes through my ribs as I hit the ground, my face pressing into the dry dirt, sharp rocks cutting into my skin. The brittle brush scrapes my arms, my legs, burning as it slices into me.
A grunt behind me. Rough hands clamp down.
The stench of sweat and cologne fills my nose, thick and nauseating.
I thrash, trying to push up, but a knee digs into my spine, pinning me.
My arms are yanked back, the burn of gravel and ground tearing into my skin as I’m dragged across the ground.
Pain sears through my body. I kick, twist, try to get a hand on something, anything, but my fingers slip through dust, my nails tearing against stone.
A rough voice mutters something under his breath, but I don’t hear it over the gunfire still cracking close behind me.
Then, suddenly, I’m airborne. The world tilts and my stomach flips. The sky is below me, spinning and bouncing. My arms flail out, punching and grasping until I’m thrown down hard onto a leather seat. My insides pitch and I gag on the sharp knot at the back of my throat.
A car door slams shut. My breath comes in ragged gulps as I push up, my body screaming from terror.
The metallic click of a lighter snaps in front of me.
Joel’s face appears behind the flame.
His smirk is lazy, a cigarette hanging from his lips as he glances at me through the rearview mirror. "Miss me, sweetheart?"
Taylor is tucked under his arm, curled into him like they’ve gotten real cozy.
Gunshots ping outside the car.
Another presence shifts in the passenger seat. I try to focus my eyes on the blur of movement. Vick. His eyes bounce around the car. His fingers drum erratically against his knee.
The car’s engine rumbles to life and we’re moving, tires peeling. The gunfire fades into the distance.