Chapter 23 #3
“This isn’t a good thing, guys,” Hudson says quietly, suddenly understanding why it’s a bigger secret than some simple family gossip. There are always consequences in the Brotherhood, and Martine could seriously suffer them if her bloodline were exposed.
Being the heir to the Huntington-Russell fortune as a Taft would be a mess the Brotherhood wouldn’t look too kindly at.
It would warp the power allotted to each founding family in the Brotherhood, giving Martine far too much.
I’ve tormented myself over finding a solution to protect her from the imbalance, and so far, my only surefire fix for this problem is to bury it with my bare hands. Starting with Douglass.
This isn’t a burden. It’s a fucking insult. Martine is my wife, and I don’t give a single shit who her family is or how they’re connected. None of it matters—unless it puts her in danger. And right now, it has.
Her uncle crossed a line. He dragged her into something she never should’ve been part of. He threatened her. He taunted her with her brother, as if it were some twisted game.
And because of that, I’m past rage. I’m fucking volcanic. I will burn this entire thing to the ground before I let anyone touch what’s mine again. Even a threat is too far.
When we pull up to the dock, we see the sleek yacht waiting, bobbing in the water. It’s massive in size, with ‘The Margaux’ painted obnoxiously on the end. There’s no easy way to get aboard unnoticed in daylight. No shadows to hide in, no cover to cloak our intent.
So we don’t bother.
I adjust the cuffs of my jacket and step out first, my shoes hitting the dock with deliberate weight. Hudson follows, then Archie. We walk straight toward the yacht, every inch of us saying we’re supposed to be here.
Because at this point, there’s no use pretending. We’ve already been seen.
We board without hesitation, the wood of the dock groaning beneath our steps. The sunlight glints off the yacht’s polished metal, the air thick with the scent of salt and silence.
The deck is eerily quiet as we fan out—Hudson heading below, Archie sweeping the cabins with a practiced ease. I move toward the back, where the door to the main salon is cracked open, a whisper of cold air spilling out.
And there he is.
Douglass.
Stretched out on one of the leather settees, barefoot, shirt wrinkled, a half-empty bottle of expensive scotch cradled against his chest. The idiot is asleep.
Not for long.
This feels too easy, too sloppy. But somehow it works for him. He’s not a brilliant man; he’s a cockroach who has useless ideas and threatens people he has no right to.
I shut the door behind me with a sharp click, and his eyes flutter open. He moves slowly, clearly groggy from sleep and the liquor. His fat belly sways with the boat, and it takes him a moment to clear the sleep from his eyes before they go wide with recognition.
“I’ve been looking for you,” I say, my voice like gravel.
Before he can speak, I cross the room and hit him square in the jaw, hard.
The punch lands clean—his head snapping to the side, the bottle clattering to the floor. He groans out, barely registering the hit before I deliver another.
“You stupid motherfucker,” I grunt, as I rain down punches. I feel my rage explode through my fists as they clash with teeth and flesh.
To threaten my wife, to send her a taunting box, to think he could steal her rightful fortune and destroy her is unacceptable, and I’ll make him pay for it.
Lazing on her yacht, reeking of alcohol and unwashed body, taking something from my wife that belongs to her is unacceptable.
Over and over I hit him, grunting with each pounding as my regular breaths turn ragged from physical exertion.
I’ll make him pay for the pain he caused her. For the headache and money it took to track this useless spineless bastard down.
She should be finishing school. She should be coming home from class, to a fine dinner in our formal dining room, kneeling at my feet. Instead, because of this man, she’s in our estate, surely cowering.
“Where is Ford?” I snarl, grabbing the front of his shirt and hauling him upright. “Where. Is. He?”
I have to fix this. I have to fix this for her.
His lip is split, and one of his eyes is already swollen shut—blood blooms red across his straight white teeth.
“I don’t—” he stammers, but I slam him against the wall before he can finish.
From somewhere below deck, I hear Hudson call out, “Clear!” and Archie follows a second later, “Hayden!”
My jaw clenches. My grip tightens.
“Try again.”
Douglass groans as I slam him against the wall again, this time with more force. The whole yacht seems to jolt with the impact. His head thuds against the paneling, eyes rolling for a second before I bring my fist down into his ribs.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
He gasps, spitting blood onto the cream upholstery as I growl out a low scream full of rage.
I’m panting from the beating I’m giving him, and still it’s not enough.
“You think this is a game?” I hiss, driving my elbow into his side. He doubles over, wheezing, but I don’t let him fall. I grip his collar and drag him upright like dead weight. My knuckles are red and starting to swell, but I don’t stop.
“You took him. You took Ford. Where the fuck is he?”
His lip is shredded, his other eye now swelling shut—but then, he laughs.
A low, rasping thing that bubbles up through the blood in his throat.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he croaks. “I haven’t even followed up with the lawyer.” He spits out, blood flying from his mouth.
The words stall in the air. My heart slams once, violently.
“What the fuck are you saying?” Archie shouts, running up to hold Douglass up so I can punch him once more in the face, forcing a tooth out of his mouth to fly across the room.
And then it hits me.
Not the yacht. Not another safehouse. Not Palermo or Geneva or some goddamn airstrip.
Or is he? Is he somewhere else entirely, and I’ve only just hit yet another dead end?
He’s not capable of something so elaborate. So was I wrong all along?
Douglass is still wheezing as Archie throws him on the floor, blood dripping from his nose, coughing into his sleeve. I crouch beside him, grab a fistful of his shirt, and jerk his face up to mine.
I growl. “Where is he?”
He lets out a broken laugh, more breath than sound. “I have no idea what you’re asking of me,” he croaks.
But this time, I hear the fear behind the bravado. I see it too—in the twitch of his eye, in the way his lip trembles under all that blood.
“Tell me where, you pathetic fuck.”
“I—” he coughs again, reaching for the couch. “I’ll call off the lawyers, I will.”
I go still.
The weight of it settles in. Cold and thick and goddamn infuriating. This is another fucking dead end.
Douglass was a useless, broke fuck, suing for cash and nothing more. All the threats, everything I thought I figured out was wrong.
He doesn’t know anything. He wasn’t part of his brother’s plans.
All that posturing. All the cryptic games. The yacht. The silence. The blood I spilled for this.
And he has nothing. This had nothing to do with the twins. This was simply a ploy for the inheritance.
I slam him back into the floor with a grunt of disgust, rising to my feet as his body curls in pain.
“Useless,” I spit. “You don’t know a fucking thing.”
Hudson and Archie appear behind me, already reading it on my face.
“He’s bluffing?” Archie asks.
“No,” I say, jaw tight. “He’s clueless.”
Hudson glances toward the dock. “Then why the performance?”
“Because he’s a coward,” I snap. “Just a cockroach desperate for a fortune.”
My hands are still shaking as I turn toward the exit. But somewhere in the back of my mind, her voice cuts through—the way Martine ran into that study. The way she knew about the yacht.
The way Ford was always one step closer than I realized.
“Let’s go,” I say through clenched teeth. “He’s not here.”
And if I’m right, Ford’s been under our noses the entire time.