Chapter 18
Denver
An hour later, we pull up in a dark, rain-soaked street, heavy gray clouds blanketing the sky.
The buildings are packed together, most looking shut up or abandoned, except for one with a neon blue sign fixed behind a small, dirty window.
Two men flank a wooden door, eyeing us as we get out of the car.
I rub my arms against a breeze but go still when Colt drapes his scarf around my neck. “You’re under my protection here. No one will touch you.”
I watch him as he focuses on tying the knitted scarf, adjusting my hair so it isn’t trapped beneath. “But?”
He meets my eye. “You’re a Luxe. They won’t hurt you, but they also have no reason to respect you.” He touches my chin, lifting it. “Head up. Eyes up. Remember who the fuck you are.”
My swallow is deep, hopefully hidden by the scarf, and I keep an edge of tease in my voice—confidence where there is none. “And then they’ll respect me? That sounds too easy.”
Colt smiles. “Respect isn’t always earned through blood. Confidence goes a long way.”
I nod, glancing at the door. “So … act like I belong?”
“Del.” He tugs the scarf gently, drawing my attention back to him. “You do belong.”
We make our way across the street. The men at the entrance straighten, and Colt holds the door open for me.
I cross the threshold into a long room made up of dark, aging wood.
A man behind the bar is pulling a pint, two customers waiting, and an old television is playing a football game.
Small tables and booths make up one side of the narrow building, and a pool table at the back has seen better days, but there are still two men around it, cues in hand.
I instinctively lift my chin, stepping into the role of Deluxe—a woman who strides through this life and isn’t intimidated by every single person in front of her.
“He’s upstairs,” Colt says and points to a door at the far wall. He strides toward it, and one by one, each man forgets what they were doing. If they were sitting, they stand. If they were facing the bar, they face Colt. They place down beers, whiskeys, and cues, and give their attention to him.
Colt is a tower of strength as he walks between the divide created by burly men who, I know from experience, will be armed.
He nods at a few of them as he moves with easy strides, his shoulders back, seeming taller than he ever has.
I wonder if he’s misjudged the situation, because it feels like the men are marking their territory, challenging him, and I remain in place, waiting for a gun to be drawn, my heart climbing around my ribcage.
But no one moves. No one pulls a weapon or shouts a threat. No one even speaks.
And I realize I’ve seen this before. Whenever my father entered a room, on the few occasions I was with him in a place busy with dangerous people, they would stand. Some would take off hats and bow their heads.
A room filled with power would bend a knee to my father because of who he was.
I’m witnessing it again with Colt.
My heart races at memories long lost. Of my father shaking hands with people I didn’t know.
He knew names, jobs, family members, issues they were having.
He may have had sides of him that were monstrous, but to those who deserved it, my father gave them time.
And to some, that means more than money or power.
At the far end of the room, Colt stops and turns, clearly surprised that I haven’t followed. I’m still frozen by memories and a sliver of fear—and then he smiles. A reassuring smile. A remember-who-the-fuck-you-are smile.
I force my feet to move, to keep my shoulders straight, to look these men in the eye—but none of them meet my gaze. Their heads aren’t down, but not a single man silently challenges or scrutinizes me. While it isn’t new for people to show me courtesy, it’s never like this.
Respect. Not fear.
I reach Colt, and he says, “You good?”
I nod. “Fine.”
He opens the door for me.
A steep, almost suffocating wooden stairwell leads us upstairs.
We reach a place that could have been an apartment at one point, but now it’s an open space, inner walls knocked through, the paint-spattered wooden floor stripped back.
The windows rattle, condensation gathering on the glass, and sitting in a chair, bound and gagged, is Spider’s man.
Colt removes his coat, pulling it over one shoulder, then the other, before laying it on a paint-stained table. His dark shirt clings to the powerful lines of his body, his entire focus on Spider’s man as he rolls his shirt sleeves to his elbows, revealing the artwork that gave him his name.
This is the same man who drank with me. Who confessed to his most famous kill being an accident. Who bargained for his brother’s life instead of securing it by killing me. Now, that good man is tucked away. He isn’t Colt Harland.
He’s Ghost.
The bound man watches as Colt slips on silver knuckle-dusters.
Taf looks almost giddy. I give Lewis an intrigued look, but he seems unsurprised, and I return my attention to Colt as he removes the tape from the man’s mouth.
Our captive is in his late thirties, brown hair stuck to his head with the sweat that’s pumping out of him.
His pale blue eyes are fixed on Colt, jaw tight, his breathing not frantic—until he sees Colt’s arms. His eyes widen and he shakes his head quickly.
Colt says, “Name.”
Not a request, or a question. A demand.
“Spider didn’t say it’d be you,” the man says.
Colt watches him, and with total calm, repeats the word. “Name.”
“M … Malcolm. But he said it would be her. He told me to get her—”
The first crack of the knuckle-dusters against his cheek is exactly how I imagine metal hitting bone to sound. It’s a thud mingled with a crack, and Malcolm lets out a pained exhale, his eyes wide.
“Get me and do what?” I ask.
He takes a few pained gulps of breath. “Kill you or take you, whatever we could.”
Two hits this time, and blood spritzes across the old wooden floor. Colt flexes his fingers as spittle drips from Malcolm’s mouth.
“Why?” Colt asks, rolling his shoulder.
Malcolm takes in mouthfuls of air. “She killed Dorian.”
“Wrong.” Colt hits him again. Again. Again. Each smack has me holding my breath, my gaze darting between Malcolm’s face and Colt’s fist. My heart races and Lewis stays close, as if trying to protect me, but the danger is on our side. “How did you find Denver?”
“H-hotel … someone spotted her. Took a photo. Posted it online.”
Shit. I’d hoped being on a different coast would protect me from this twisted form of celebrity, but apparently not.
Colt says, “Tell me where Spider is.”
“P-please …” Malcolm sobs. “I don’t know.”
Colt crouches before him. “Malcolm, here is my issue. I don’t like it when people try to hurt my friends.
I like it even fucking less when someone shoots at my fucking niece.
” Malcolm lifts his head, his eyes teary.
“So, while I’d love to listen to you plead and whine, you’re not leaving this room.
It’s your choice how long it takes you to die.
And the longer it takes, the more creative I get. Tell me where he is.”
“I don’t know!” Malcom cries.
Colt stands. “Untie him.”
Taf releases Malcolm, and Colt seizes the back of his neck, dragging him to the far side of the room. I watch with interest, my head tilted, as he throws Malcolm to the wooden floor.
“Bite it.”
Bite it. Bite what? My gaze lands on the concrete block, and I press my back into the wall.
Malcolm looks up at Colt. “Please—”
“Tell me where he is.”
“I’m not important enough to know!”
“You have a tattoo of a spider on your neck. That means you know something. So talk, or bite the fucking block.”
No, this isn’t happening. He isn’t really going to do what I think he is.
The smell of urine fills the room, and I reach down and take Lewis’s hand. He keeps his darkened gaze on Colt.
Colt crouches and grips Malcolm’s mouth, prying it open.
“Arizona!” He sobs. “He’s in Glendale.”
“Do you have an address?”
“Y-yes.”
Colt glances at Taf, and he takes out his phone, typing in the address that Malcolm recites. Once he’s finished, Malcolm sobs into the floor.
“I’m going to send men to that address. If you’ve lied, you die. If one of my men doesn’t come back, you die painfully,” Colt says. “Understood?” Malcolm nods slowly, and Colt stands, meeting my eye. “Do you have anything you want to ask him?”
I shake my head, still holding onto Lewis’s hand.
Colt approaches and keeps his voice low. “You need to move hotels. Taf, can you deal with him while I go with Del?”
“You’re coming with us?” I ask.
He’s already going for his coat. “Why wouldn’t I?”
The million other things he could be doing. Sending men to Arizona. Going to Arizona himself. Finding out what else this guy knows. Going home.
But instead, he comes with us to the hotel. Colt doesn’t say much on the drive over, only asks me if I’m okay, and I nod quickly. Seeing him like that was … strange. He has a reputation for a reason, but witnessing it firsthand was intense.
We reach the hotel, and one of Charlie’s men, Victor, strides alongside us as we cross the lobby.
“I want six downstairs, two on each stairwell,” Colt says. “And two on each floor.”
I skid to a stop, giving Colt a pointed look. “Colt, this is my security, not yours.”
Victor keeps a neutral expression, but Lewis snickers, looking at Colt as if they’re siblings and he got away with the cookie that Colt was caught with.
Colt tenses his jaw and clearly swallows several words before gesturing for me to take over.
I say, “The floor below mine has been closed for maintenance for a few days. Send four men there now, because if Spider has anyone in this building, that’s where they’ll be.”
Colt looks like he’s rolling a bitter candy around his mouth. “If Spider’s men are there, four men—”