Chapter 23 #2
A few minutes later, my security lead enters. Tall, sharp-eyed, and annoyingly blank-faced.
“Well?” I ask, swirling the glass in my hand.
“We’ve traced Douglass’s last movements to Huntington-Russell Estate. After that, nothing. No prints, no traffic cameras, no trail. Either he’s excellent at disappearing, or there’s a property we don’t know about. He very well could be at the estate.”
I let that settle. The vodka in my glass warms in my hands as I take a third full measure down my throat.
“Meaning you’ve come up with nothing.”
A nod. “For now.”
My jaw tightens.
And then I hear it—soft as breath, the creak of a floorboard just outside the study door. I turn my head slightly, catching the faintest blur of movement.
Two little heads shoot away quickly from the crack in the door, revealing a caught and curious little wife and her friend reflected in the mirror in the hall.
Of course, she couldn’t help herself.
I rise slowly, letting the silence thicken. The money I pay these men. An undigestible amount of fucking cash, and they have nothing. Nothing.
I’m furious.
“Gentlemen,” I say, loud enough for the eavesdroppers to hear. “Would you excuse me a moment? Seems I have something else to take care of.”
I turn to leave with a nod, as the men continue to draft our next moves.
The security lead shifts his weight, pulling a folded sheet of paper from the inner pocket of his blazer.
I’m nearly to the door when I turn around to listen again, realizing Martine may be of help after all.
“We’ve begun cross-referencing all properties under Douglass’s name and shell corporations we’ve tied to him over the years.
There's the townhouse, the vineyard, and an offshore account connected to a private airstrip in Palermo. A cabin in Oregon. An apartment in Geneva. Nothing’s been touched in weeks. ”
I lean back, unimpressed at his inability to find the slithering slug of a man.
Hudson clicks his tongue, arms folded. “What about vehicles?”
“Two SUVs. One’s been parked at the cabin since winter. The other’s gone dark. His jet’s still grounded, but we’re keeping an eye on the pilot. No movement on any of the usual channels.”
He pauses, scanning his list once more.
“The last I heard, Douglass was short on cash, so it wouldn’t make a whole lot of sense chartering a jet right now,” Archie mumbles, helping himself to more vodka.
Then—
A loud gasp, followed by the sharp clatter of footsteps.
Martine bursts through the door, barefoot, breathless, cheeks flushed.
“You forgot about the yacht,” she snaps, voice high with urgency. “The one moored at the river dock!”
Everyone turns.
My eyes find hers, slow and steady. “And how exactly do you know about the yacht, darling?”
She swallows, defiant even in the silence.
I rise, the air in the room shifting with me. “Gentlemen,” I say, voice low, dangerous. “Give us a moment.”
They file out quickly, leaving the door wide open behind them.
“We have a yacht!” She yells again excitedly, “I didn’t hear him say it, but we’ve had it since I was little.”
“And you’re letting me know in the same sentence you’re guilty of eavesdropping, is that correct?” I grunt at her, my patience as thin as a thread.
She gulps and backs up a step, hesitant to speak again, suddenly remembering her instructions from this morning.
“Well, this is my home too,” she says tartly, folding her hands in front of her long slip dress and matching silk robe that trails along the floor. The emeralds at her neck catch the light as she lifts her chin, daring me to push back—revealing the little demon I’ve always known her to be.
“That it is, darling,” I say softly as I walk to her and pull her to my chest. Taking is just as precious as giving, and she’s a good girl for helping, even if her methods are against expectations.
“There’s something I need to tell you, and it’s going to hurt,” I murmur into her hair, pulling her soft frame close to mine. I have to bend to breathe her in—apple and honey, warm and familiar. Her head barely reaches my chest.
“Will I like the pain?” she asks quietly, her voice muffled against me as I begin to stroke her hair. It's delicate, fine as silk, slipping through my fingers like something too precious to hold.
“You won’t, but I’ll hold you through it.”
“Okay…”
“Your brother Ford is alive, and I’m going to bring him back to you.”
“Forgive me, but it’s a bit obvious,” she says with a light giggle, the thought of seeing him again lighting her up from the inside.
Obviously, she understands that he’s alive. However, when she understands what was at stake all along, it could have a profound impact.
I watch her for a beat, then shake my head gently.
“See, darling…that isn’t what I have to tell you.”
I reach for her hand, grounding myself in the warmth of her skin. “And while it’s my job to protect you, I’ve decided the best way I can…”
I pause, the words catching in my throat. I want one last second of silence. One last breath of certainty before everything shifts.
“Is by waiting for Ford to tell you himself.”
She looks up at me, slightly annoyed with tears in her eyes, like she doesn’t know if she should be upset with me or thank me.
She opens her mouth to speak, and within seconds, I’m gripping her tighter to me, suddenly certain in my subsequent acts of retribution. Of control. Of revenge.
“It’s time for your silence, Darling, no speaking unless you’re spoken to.” I kiss her soft lips as she gulps down her tears.
“But Dale—”
“You can take a bath and help Dale clean herself up, but after that, you're to go straight to our room and get into bed.”
It’s the middle of the day, but I don’t care. I need to know that while I’m gone, she’s safe. That she’s home, in our bed, waiting for me.
“I have just one more question,” she asks, breaking her silence and making me growl.
“I’m sorry, but I need to know,” she insists, clutching at my dress shirt to pull me closer to her.
I catch sight of Archie slipping back in through the mahogany double doors, here to collect me for the final decisions on our next move.
This is what she does to me. She consumes everything. In her presence, even the most urgent tasks lose their weight. She’s a distraction—dangerous, intoxicating, wrapped in perfection.
Archie lingers by the door as I run my hand along her cheek, then grip her chin between my fingers.
“You may ask,” I mutter, the words rough and frayed as the vodka blurs the edges of my restraint.
“Dex, is he alive as well?”
A sudden wave of pity catches me off guard as I look at her—really look at her. I realize the weight of what she’s lost in such a short time. Everything I’ve taken from her. Everything the Brotherhood has stripped away. And how much more I’ll demand before it’s over.
“No, darling, he isn’t,” I tell her softly, watching the understanding and sobering truth course over her features.
“Hayden, we have to go.” Archie interrupts, and Martine straightens herself, putting her head back down in her submissive stance.
“I’ll be back soon.” I kiss her cheek before I follow Archie out of my study and to the front entrance of the Estate.
Outside, the sun is too bright for what we’re about to do.
We move as a unit—me, Archie, and Hudson—our footsteps heavy on the gravel drive as we head for the car.
Each of us armed, guns tucked beneath tailored jackets, my knife at my waistband like a third hand.
No words are needed as I unlock the doors of my Range Rover.
The tension has already settled, thick and inevitable.
“He’s certainly on the yacht,” Hudson says, sliding into the passenger seat, voice low but certain.
“But is Ford?” Archie adds, casually resting his hand on the grip of his pistol.
I say nothing, just drive. The engine hums beneath us as the city falls away.
“Look, I’m always happy to help guys, but why is it we’re pissed?” Hudson says lightly, like only a Taft could, making a joke or a party out of a serious situation.
“You may want to shut up and pay attention, Hudson, this has to do with you, too.” I snarl, opening the glove box and throwing a manila envelope onto his lap.
I veer right onto the freeway, zooming past cars at an illegal speed.
Photos fall out of the envelope into his lap, and Hudson picks them up slowly, his brow furrowing at the disgusting graphics he now holds.
One by one, he sorts through the images, each growing in clarity, lashing him with photos of his father fucking Martine's mother.
“What the fuck is this?” Hudson growls, holding a zoomed-in, black-and-white, grainy security image of his father taking Margaux from behind at The Seraphim Club.
“I’m sure you know exactly what that is,” I say, annoyed. I’m sure seeing his father fuck Martine's mother is shocking, but I don’t have time to console his ego, nor would I if I had the time.
“You’re telling me Martine is my...” He shakes his head, reaching into his sports coat for a cigarette, lighting it quickly, and taking a deep inhale.
“Half sister—” Archie starts laughing, “God, Dale and Martine are related? No wonder.”
Hudson simply tucks the photos into the envelope and returns them to the glove box, and takes another deep drag of his cigarette.
“So this whole time there's been a Huntington-Russell-Taft baby, and no one knew.”
I just throw Hudson a sideways glare, surprised at how slow his brain is moving as we race to the boat dock.
“Well, Huntington-Russell by birth, Taft by blood.” I clarify.
I coast the car with my knee as I light a cigarette of my own, impressed at Archie's ability to piece all of the puzzle together. He’s always been a great assignment teammate, no matter how deeply he grates my nerves.
Hudson sits in contemplative silence, and I let it, knowing the siblings will have a lot to talk about once they’re reunited.