Chapter 7
Johnny
On the outside, I’m cool and calm.
On the inside? I’m a fucking inferno.
He’s late. And testing my patience.
I grip my beer bottle just to keep from drumming my fingers.
Every expression means something. I make a living by controlling mine.
Mimicking. Manipulating. It’s all a performance, and a damn good one.
Makes the difference between life or death, most of the time.
So, I sit here, perched on a grimy barstool in some hole-in-the-wall dive, acting my ass off. Just call me Henry Cavill.
Tonight’s look? Low effort. Black hoodie, ripped jeans. No slacks. No leather loafers. I prefer the finer things, but I’d get my ass jumped in this place if I rolled up dressed like wealth.
Finally, my contact walks in, and I spot the second he sees me. He makes a beeline for the stool beside mine.
Internally, I sigh. He’s about as subtle as a Molotov cocktail.
The man slides into the seat and flags the bartender. “I’ll have what he’s having.”
She sets a bottle in front of him, then disappears. My presence usually clears a radius. Aura of ‘fuck off’ and all that.
“You’re late,” I say quietly.
He shrugs, takes a pull. “Yeah, well. Shit came up.”
I don’t respond. Just stare at him, flat and quiet.
He shifts. “Right. Info. Got it.”
Hard rock blasts through the bar speakers, drowning us out. No one sits close enough to listen, and if they were, they’d be dead by morning.
He leans in, speaking low. “The Gentleman’s running a national trafficking network. Guns, drugs, people... whatever the client wants, he provides.”
I nod. Go on.
“The Sheriff? Elected thanks to The Gentleman’s donations. Bought and paid for. His town in Arizona’s a key hub. Has interstate access, major highways, local authority. He used his badge to clear checkpoints and bury evidence.”
I already figured most of this, but hearing it confirmed still lights something cold in my chest.
“When things got hot, The Sheriff called in favors. He had leverage. Got The Gentleman to relocate him, and he sent him here, to Tennessee. Some kind of ongoing job, tied to the trade.”
“What about The Dealer?” I ask.
“He’s new blood. An effort at expansion into Atlanta. Started with drugs, but now he’s testing out people, too.”
He reaches into his coat, pulls out a folder, and slides it across the bar. I thumb through the photos, receipts, surveillance stills. It’s clean work. I tuck it into my jacket.
He drains the rest of his beer and stands.
“Pleasure doing business with you, Crow.”
I nod.
He walks off. I toss a few bills on the bar—enough to cover both drinks and then some—and follow him out into the night. It’s a shame, really. He’s efficient and smart. But loyalty’s not in his DNA. Guys like him work for whoever pays more, and that makes him a risk I can’t afford.
I catch up with him in the alley.
“Wha—” he starts, but then he sees me. His eyes go wide when he spots the silenced Glock in my hand.
“I told you everything I know!”
“I know,” I say. “And I appreciate that.”
I pull the trigger.
His body crumples against the wall before hitting the pavement, blood soaking into the concrete. My favorite part is the eyes. Watching the exact moment the light goes out. Watching the soul flicker and vanish never gets old.
Job done, I turn and walk away, tucking the gun back into my waistband.
The Gentleman’s been up to some shady shit. That’s fine. I plan to burn him for it.
But first? I’ve got a Sheriff to find.
Joe’s time is up.
And revenge? It’s about to get real sweet.
∞∞∞
“Which do you prefer?”
The wedding coordinator holds up two fabric swatches that look exactly the same. Cream, with a hint of shimmer. For the millionth time, I wonder why I’m paying her so much.
“I’m leaning toward the one on the right,” the vapid brunette beside me, replies. “What do you think, Muffin?”
Muffin. Christ.
I smile like it doesn’t make my skin crawl. “I want what you want, Cupcake.”
Our planner beams like we’re the main characters in a romance novel, and I try not to vomit in my mouth. Apparently, I’ve given the right answer, because my fiancée claps, making her four-carat diamond sparkle in the light.
“It’s decided, then!”
Four more months of this circus. Color palettes. Linens. Seating charts. Whether Aunt Margaret can sit next to Aunt Sally. Spoiler: she can’t.
The redhead who’s allegedly the best in the biz, handpicked by my future wife’s high-society friends, pretends to check a mental box and scrolls her tablet for the next bullet point in wedding hell.
“How are the dance lessons going?”
“Wonderful! Jonathan picked it up faster than I thought he would!”
She beams, like I’ve just exceeded low expectations. I nod like a man grateful for praise instead of insult.
“Excellent! And the bridesmaids?”
The women spiral into details about dresses, fittings, hem lengths. I tune them out. None of it matters. I never planned to get married, and I sure as hell didn’t plan for it to be like this. But here we are.
The meeting ends, finally. I hold the door open for my fiancée and walk her to her Bentley. Her heels click annoyingly on the sidewalk.
“You okay, Muffin?” Those wide-set brown eyes blink up at me.
“Great. Why?”
“You just seem a little off today.”
“Just tired,” I lie. I slept fine.
At her car, she grabs my hand and lifts her chin, waiting for a kiss. I give her a dry one. Barely lips to lips.
“I love you, Jonathan.”
“I love you too, Rachel.”
I help her into the car and resist the urge to slam the door. I stand there, all polite smiles and perfect posture, until her taillights disappear. Then, I turn, walk to my SUV, and let my face fall back into something more honest.
Rachel is a means to an end. High school bitch turned high-society nightmare.
Some things don’t change. And if I hear one more word about how my cock is ‘girthier’ than Axel’s, I’m going to put a bullet in something.
They hooked up for one summer, and neither of them will let it go.
Rachel brings it up to needle me. Axel brings it up because he’s an asshole.
If Rachel vanished tomorrow, I wouldn’t even sweat, but I need this alliance.
Need the connection to her last name. Need the power…
so, I’ll marry her. She’ll think it’s love, at least until the license is signed, the vows are made, and the ink is dry.
After that, I’ll be her husband on paper only, but I’ll do everything I can to avoid even getting that far.
If I have it my way? This facade will be wrapped up with a neat little bow before the ceremony.
I’ve done a lot of things I’m not proud of over the last eight years, but my biggest regret? She’s five foot five, golden blonde, and everything I ruined.
I climb into my car and open the glove box.
Dig past the clutter until I find the worn scrap of paper I’ve folded and unfolded too many times to count.
The edges are soft now, the creases fragile.
I’ve read it a million times, but I read it again anyway.
Her handwriting is as familiar as my own.
I used to hear her voice when I read it, but I don’t anymore. That’s what kills me the most.
My thumb traces the words at the bottom.
P.S. You’re mine, too.
She better still believe that, because if she thinks I’ve forgotten her, she’s wrong. I haven’t forgotten shit.
I’m doing everything within my power to set things right.
And when I do?
She’ll remember who she belongs to.
∞∞∞
Back in my high-rise, I grab a beer from the stainless-steel fridge and step out onto the terrace. Below, downtown Nashville hums with life. Neon signs flicker. People laugh. Music drifts up from bars packed with tourists pretending they’re cowboys.
I paid a small fortune for this view, and it was worth every penny. I’ve paved my own way. Nothing about it is legal, but it’s lucrative. I almost have everything I want. Almost.
Funny thing is, I got into this line of work because of my stepfather, Ben. Right out of college, I got recruited by the FBI. That lasted until one psych eval flagged me for “borderline psychopathic tendencies.” Whatever the hell that means. They couldn’t see my potential, but Ben did.
Ben was dirty for years before he retired early.
If his department ever found out what he’d been up to, he’d die in a federal prison.
But, I get it. The justice system doesn’t always work, so, Ben found another way.
He feeds names to a mercenary group. The worst kinds of names.
Rapists. Traffickers. Killers. When they cross a certain line, Ben hands them off like broken toys, and we take care of them. Permanently.
He saw something in me early on. The skill. The stomach. The control. So, he vouched for me. Five years later, I’ve made a career out of killing monsters, and I have zero regrets. Not one.
Axel, Nik, and Ben know the truth about my occupation. Everyone else thinks I work for the FBI. Let them. It’s easier that way. Less questions.
I take another sip and watch the world move below.
Somewhere in all that chaos are the two names I can’t erase, Joe and Lina.
They’re both being protected by people with deep pockets.
He’s slippery, but Lina’s better. It comes down to a matter of want.
Lina doesn’t want to be found. Joe doesn’t care. Thinks he’s untouchable.
Lina went to UGA for a while, then vanished. Her trail dried up overnight. Ben swears he’s not in contact with her, but I know better. Somewhere, there’s a burner phone or a hidden email chain. Even with a hacker on payroll, I haven’t cracked that mystery yet.
It’s fine. I’m patient.
Before Axel approached me, I heard through the Underground that he was looking for her. He and Nik have no idea what I’ve been up to. No clue I’m walking straight into a marriage I don’t want for a long con they wouldn’t understand. They think I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. Doesn’t matter.
They’re playing the first move in my game, just like I knew they would. And if everything goes to hell? I’ve got contingencies. Always do.
Neither of them will admit how much they miss her, but I’ve seen the bracelet Nik still wears. I’ve seen the cheap Gossip Girl keychain still dangling from Axel’s keys. We all carry our grief differently.
When they came out as a couple, I wasn’t surprised.
Axel’s childhood room was right across from mine.
They don’t exactly fuck quietly. Good for them.
At least someone’s satisfied. Rachel? She’s a human starfish.
Pillow princess. Demands oral like it’s owed to her and refuses to reciprocate.
Missionary or nothing. God forbid she break a nail. She’s lucky I’m not a quitter.
My phone buzzes.
Rachel: Miss you, Muffin! You’re coming over tomorrow night, right?
Christ. Muffin. I hate that name. I don’t know why she picked it. Probably to piss me off. That would be very on brand.
I text back, playing the part.
Johnny: I’ll be there, Cupcake!
Four more months. That’s all. Then I’ll have her father, The Gentleman, in the palm of my hand. When that day comes, I’ll gut his empire from the inside out.
Even if I have to marry the devil’s daughter to do it.