Chapter 3
THREE
“It’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.”
—Alice, Alice in Wonderland
Wonderland
Three Years Later
I’d be lying if I said this isn’t fun.
Took a while, but McQueen finally let me off the annoyingly short leash he’d kept me on, and once freed, I hit the ground running.
Not that his hesitation wasn’t understandable.
I don’t blame him for exercising caution.
I haven’t always been able to rein in my impulsive inclination toward violence, and in fact, I’m still a bit… unpredictable.
Okay, let me be honest, I can be downright feral when the situation calls for it—like now,
More often than not, though, I deserve a shiny gold star for my efforts to restrain myself. I can’t pretend to have mastered the delicate art of temper control entirely. Still, after demonstrating that I’m (somewhat) stable, I’ve earned the freedom to, shall we say, release my reckless abandon.
Fantastic for me.
Extremely unfortunate for this jerkoff who dared to misappropriate Roman McQueen’s property.
Oops, his mistake.
Nicholas Lowell clearly forgot Roman’s ruthless nature and the physical damage I’m capable of inflicting upon a human body.
Not only did Nick foolishly attempt to embezzle nearly one hundred grand from my boss—who also happens to be the same man who took me in and raised me after my parents died—but this asshole also made the monumental error of derailing my plans for what should have been a perfectly fine Saturday night.
Wait…
With a calculated tug on the chain draping from my leg, I extract a gold fob from the depths of my black pants.
This watch, one of my most treasured possessions, now feels almost sacrilegious in this dingy storeroom.
It feels utterly misplaced in a setting so far removed from what it represents, especially as I prepare to do the devil’s work.
I glance at the hour, my mood strained beneath the weight of anticipation, and snap the watch shut without pausing to read the engraved words on the underside of its lid.
My love eternal. Those three words have been etched deep into the gray matter of my disordered brain ever since Alice gifted this to me on my sixteenth birthday.
That memory clings to me like a shadow as I slide the timepiece back into the safety of my front pocket.
It’s actually Sunday. Just past midnight, sure, but a new day has indeed begun.
After a sharp tug on the leather gloves that cling tightly to my tattooed hands, I grasp Nick by the jaw and pull him close enough that he can catch the unmistakable scent of cinnamon gum wafting from my mouth.
“Your bullshit ruined our night,” I growl, my voice low and steady.
I swivel his head to the left, forcing him to take in the imposing figure of March.
Weighing in at two hundred sixty pounds and towering at six feet four inches, he stands like a solid wall of muscle, effectively blocking the steel door behind him.
His menacing expression makes it clear that my ornery brother from another mother isn’t about to step aside and let Nick slip away.
He’s holding up his cell phone, and, in true wiseass fashion, I wave cheerfully to Roman, who is watching the scene unfold via a video call.
I deliver a sharp smack to Nick’s cheek. “Apologize.”
“I’m sorry,” Nick squeaks, the apology pushed out past lips that are scrunched, split, and bloody.
March and I might have, perhaps, a bit too enthusiastically, pulled Nick from Suite 101 of the Chateau du Monde, the luxurious hotel where Roman hosts a weekly high-stakes poker game.
Within those walls, under crystal chandeliers and with a million-dollar view of Jabberwocky Bay, the wealthiest and most powerful men of Grimm County gather.
All of them far too comfortable in their seats at Roman’s table.
The solitary silver lining of Nick sitting at McQueen’s table is that he was recklessly wagering with funds pilfered from one of Roman’s clandestine bank accounts.
Foolish fucking move, gambling with money stolen from the man who owns the game.
Roman watched with quiet satisfaction as a significant portion of his money effortlessly returned to him.
A perfect scenario—the house does indeed always win…
One way or the other.
Nick fucked around, treating Roman-fucking-McQueen like an ATM.
Now, he’s in the finding out stage.
I release his jaw with an impatient shove. A smirk tugs at my lips, hidden behind the black balaclava. March wears a similar mask, although Nick knows who we are. The concealment of our faces adds a layer of threat, heightening the tension that hangs thick around us.
The glow from the single overhead bulb adds a sense of claustrophobia to the backroom of Stan’s Butcher Shop.
Cliché, sure, as is the lingering stench of animal carcasses that adds to the ominous atmosphere.
Admiring our handiwork, I appreciate the contrast of crimson blood against Nick’s ashen complexion, glad we didn’t have to drag this asshole halfway across Grim County to conduct our business.
The beauty of Stan Krakowski and Roman being friends is that we’ve got this cozy spot to do our work.
Personally, I find it hilarious that this place is right on Main Street.
It’s the perfect example of how hiding in plain sight keeps it invisible.
But Roman always had a talent for concealment.
From the true purpose behind his Horizons to his ruthless nature, the man is a master at showing the world only what he wants it to see.
His cool smile, which never quite reaches his eyes, hides his cruelty, and despite the gruesome work we do for him, there’s a certain camaraderie among us, his so-called wards.
He carefully chose each of us, forming an army of lost boys, of killers, to do the dirty work so he never has to bloody up his own hands.
He may have taken us in, provided a home for us, and raised us to thrive in a world that would have chewed us up and shit us out, but he’ll kill any of us in a heartbeat if we show even a hint of disloyalty toward him.
Not even I’m immune to his wrath, and I’m the one he gives the most leeway to because I’m nuttier than a squirrel’s turd. That makes me his favorite weapon.
Oh, sure, Roman was excellent at acting like he cared about us…until he realized we didn’t need his affection. What we…what I…needed was a home, not a family. He gave me shelter and food when everyone else turned their backs on me, and for that, I allow him to be the finger on my trigger.
Which brings me to Nick…
I gotta give Nick his due. He’s been a hell of a fighter throughout this entire ordeal, right up until March and I wrapped the duct tape around his wrists and ankles.
That’s when the last of his fight drained out of him.
He took his beating, shed a ton of blood, and now, we’ve got him bound to a chair that’s bolted to the cement floor.
We spread a plastic sheet under him and behind him, you know, to catch the mess we intend to make. He hasn’t confessed yet. But he will.
They always do.
Everyone breaks, eventually.
“Since you enjoy gambling so fucking much, let’s make a wager.
” I stroll in a wide circle around the chair, fishing in my pocket to pull out whatever loose change is there.
Flicking a coin at Nick, I taunt him by saying, “I bet one shiny nickel that you’re wishing you could rethink your shitty life choices right about now. ”
Nick flinches as the coin bounces off his stupid face and rolls under his chair. “Maddox, I swear you’ve got it all wrong.”
“Bull. Shit.” March and I were already at the suite when Roman signaled us with a decisive nod that it was time to…
remove…Nick from the game. And by remove, I mean we physically dragged him out, stopping his protest with a solid jab to his face that stunned the hell out of him.
We hauled him through corridors and out to the car, locking him in the trunk of March’s Barracuda for the short drive to Stan’s.
“No, but seriously, Nick.” I give his cheek another light, teasing tap. “What made you think you could sit at Roman’s table with a pocketful of his money?”
Under ordinary circumstances, Nicholas Lowell would never be granted access to the game. He lacks the traits Roman values most: wealth, power, and prestige.
Tonight, though, those rules were suspended to allow Roman to regain some of his money before setting us free on Nick to ensure that he won’t ever be able to steal from Roman McQueen again.
The dumb prick took the bait and is now ensnared in a web of his own making.
I pull free the sleek black custom 9 mm from the shoulder holster wrapped around my chest, my right hand steady as fuck. Weapon leveled, I make damn sure Nick gets a good, long look down the barrel. “You had to know Roman would eventually find out you were stealing from him.”
“I didn’t—”
“Don’t you lie to me!” My roar ricochets off the concrete walls as I jab the gun at him to punctuate my outburst. “Don’t you dare fucking lie to me, you miserable little maggot.” I press the muzzle to his forehead. “I’ll put a goddamn bullet right between your—”
“Maddox.”
I pause, drawing in a deep, steadying breath through my nose to let the cool air fill my lungs.
Then I release it slowly through my mouth.
I repeat this practiced ritual a few times to help me regain my composure before giving March a subtle nod of gratitude to silently acknowledge that his steadfast support anchored me when my mental spring started to uncoil.
See, the truth is, sometimes I go a little bonkers, but with a single word, March calls me back to myself, which is ironic considering how quickly and easily he flies off the handle.