Prologue #2
I rule the underground smuggling networks, collecting and maintaining seedy connections so the Furys can stay one step ahead of the Wildes.
Vices, blackmail, bets—whatever it is, I never lose.
Now’s no exception, which means thanks to the bet I made with Kian McKennon, I’ve got one third of the Troisgarde by the balls.
“I obviously didn’t think you’d twist the bet like this,” he growls. “But apparently that’s the Fury M.O..”
“Don’t act like you didn’t have your own cards up your sleeve,” I chuckle. “The difference is, I knew my opponent and the risks when I made the bet. Unfortunately, for you, that doesn’t seem to be your M.O.. In fact, all y’all should really stop playing games with such high stakes.”
The only reason we’re in this fucking mess is because my father made a drunken bet with the Troisgarde during a poker game in McKennon’s casino over two decades ago. If they lost, their future children would have to marry his on their twenty-second birthdays.
King saw what the Wilde-Fury feud would become, even back then. We’re in an all-out war, and he knew an alliance with the Troisgarde would be the only thing that could keep his family alive.
Roping the Troisgarde in to fight our battles was obviously a shitty deal for them.
But they took it because they were all childless and jaded at the time.
To them, my father was a fool who wanted non-existent stakes.
McKennon and his friends? They never dreamed they were going to lose everything that mattered.
Because the poor bastards did fall in love and have families worth dying for, and the Wildes are more sadistic than ever, out to all but exterminate us and everyone we love.
Whether any of the children wanted to get married or not, my brothers and I have a duty to make sure the daughters stay safe.
It’s how we were raised after all, by both King and our momma.
“Ruthie Fury,” I whisper under my breath automatically, too low for McKennon to hear. Another day of saying her name out loud means another day she won’t be forgotten.
“We were tricked into the pact with your father,” McKennon argues again, exhaustion in his voice. “Obviously we never expected for those chickens to come home to roost.”
I snort. “Well, cluck, cluck, motherfuckers.”
“You shouldn’t be so cavalier,” McKennon warns. “You’re a fucking trickster, like your father.”
“Ah, it’s ‘fucking’ now, is it? Weird to hear your Irish accent get thicker while your curses get more American.”
“‘Fucking’ is not an American word, you arrogant little…” he drifts off in a frustrated groan, then sighs.
“Look, the terms were that whoever found Laoise could protect her, but I made that agreement believing whoever ‘won’ would immediately use their team to extract her. How could I have possibly guessed you’d leave her there?
Bring my daughter home or tell me where she is so I can get her myself. ”
“One, I’m not telling you where she is because she left for a reason. And two—more importantly—she didn’t tell you where she went. For a reason.” I’d keep fucking with the guy, but I’m growing tired of the “fuck-with-my-would-be-father-in-law” game I’ve already perfected.
I pluck the cigarette I keep behind my ear and tuck it between my lips. Even without lighting it, the muscle memory alone soothes my nerves as I continue speaking around it.
“And you still haven’t told me what those reasons are.
I’m not going to force her to go any-fucking-where or do any-fucking-thing she doesn’t want unless I learn why she left, especially because I’m starting to think I won’t like the answers.
Until then, Lucy’s safe with me, alright?
” I try and fail to take on a teasing tone.
“But if you really wanna know where she is, all you gotta do is confess why she didn’t tell her own goddamn parents. ”
Okay, so yeah, my annoyance definitely bled through there in the end. Oops.
The accusation gets down to the heart of why I’m being a jackass right now.
When I first found out Lucy was gone, I was a wreck, thinking that the Fury feud with the Wildes had taken yet another woman my brothers and I were supposed to protect.
I’d thought her parents would be just as horrified as I was after I told them.
But upon hearing that Lucy’s precious cat, Dinah, the one she’d had since she was a kid, was left behind with plenty of food, relief filled their expressions.
Relief.
Because apparently, Lucy scampering away like a little rabbit when things get scary isn’t a new character trait. In fact, she’s done it several times before.
And it all began when she was seven years old…
I’d suspected whatever tightly held family secret that led to her being a runner in the first place was the key to unlocking Lucy’s whereabouts.
I’d hoped her father would trust me enough to confide in me so I could help find her.
But Kian never let anything slip. Now that I’ve found her without his help, he can get fucked.
Except…
Even now, I wait with bated breath, wondering if this will be the moment I find out the truth.
Why did Lucy run?
Why does she think being alone is safer than being home?
McKennon hesitates on the other end of the line.
My heartbeat thrums faster in my veins from lack of oxygen—
“You want me to give you a reason?” He finally replies, venom in his haughty tone.
“She was terrified of being kidnapped by a delusional psycho, one who fancies himself her arranged fiancé. Is that not reason enough for you? Or how about the fact that even if you didn’t kidnap her, your enemies would do it instead? ”
The questions are meant to piss me off and sidetrack me from the truth. It’s our natural back-and-forth that I thought I’d gotten used to. But fuck me, it works this time.
Because he’s right. Why wouldn’t she vanish without a trace just to get away from me? I don’t blame her. My brothers and I were supposed to keep the Troisgarde daughters safe, and so far we’ve done the shittiest job of it.
“Touché,” I concede. “But don’t forget. She ran from you too.”
The line goes silent after our exchange of low blows.
On my screen, Lucy stops at the end of the boardwalk to chat with a fluffy, gray-striped cat.
As she smiles, the mid-day sun shines on her apple cheeks, rosy from the chilly wind.
After a pat on the tomcat’s head, she hops off the dock and onto the sand-dusted, time-worn cobblestones, her duffel bag bouncing with her.
“Where are you going with that thing, bunny?” I murmur low. The bag is bigger than her.
Even though it’s broad daylight, I don’t like that she’s walking around by herself. Wander Isle’s a “sin island,” and as you can guess, it ain’t the safest place in the world. But I get why it’s an attractive hideout. People come to be forgotten and to do things they don’t want to be remembered.
After Prohibition, the teetotaling mainlanders wanted to keep pretending they were above cardinal sins, outlawing brothels, gambling, alcohol, and drugs.
You know, all the fun shit. But no one’s innocent, and in the underworld, money trumps morality every time.
So instead of objecting, the so-called “sinful” businesses simply relocated onto the marshy island off the coast. After a century of being sucked off in the dark and frowned down upon in the light, the people of Wander Isle are a tightknit, protective community.
Luckily, we just so happen to have a Fury man on site. He’s a curmudgeonly bastard, but loyal, and I’ve already convinced him to rent one side of his duplex for dirt-cheap.
I’m sure the price and the anonymity of Wander Isle appealed to Lucy.
Going on the run for six months had to be hell on her pocket change—there’s no record of her taking out money after she withdrew her savings in New Orleans.
Surely, it’s all but dried up by now. If I’m a lucky man, she’ll have to stick around and find a job this time.
And if her habits track, luck just might be on my side.
Two things kept me from going mad when Lucy ran.
The first is that she left little clues all over the country that only her loved ones would be able to figure out.
Playing cards, specifically from the finest deck in the world, a unique fifty-three-card set from the McKennon Casino.
So far, she’s left behind fifty-two cards in fifty-two different towns across the country, each one a silent assurance to her friends and family that she left unharmed.
There’s only one card remaining, the Queen of Hearts. Her card.
I’ve learned a thing or two about the way the Vegas branch of the Troisgarde operates. Each important player in their organization is designated a playing card. Kian is the Ace of Hearts. His wife, Lacey, is his Queen of Diamonds, and then, of course, there’s Lucy. Now I’ve even got one.
The satellite feed shifts to show Lucy stopping at the closed bakery, where she uses the window’s reflection to tuck a stray lock from her ponytail behind her ear.
She peers closer before wiping a smear of cherry jam from the corner of her mouth.
I find myself licking my own lips, entranced by the way she sucks the sugar from her thumb.
All sorts of fucked up thoughts filter through my mind, and I have to stuff my hands in my pockets to keep from palming my dick like a pervert.
The second thing that kept me sane? My Queen of Hearts loves her sweets—a tell that I figured out mighty quick.
Every town she hid in, big or small, had a killer bakery and tearoom.
Turns out, there aren’t many establishments dedicated to that combination.
I tried to anticipate where she’d go, but fifty-fucking-two times I either chose too early or I found out too late.
Until now. If the satellite hadn’t found her, I actually might’ve this time.