Chapter 24
twenty-four
I used to think I liked silence.
Not the kind that comes from peace. I didn’t grow up with that. My father made sure of it. His voice was a weapon, and the quiet between beatings the inhale before the next storm.
When I killed him, I thought I’d earned silence. Real silence. The kind I could control. No noise. No people. Just the steady rhythm of my own breath and the sound of a blade sliding along skin.
That’s the silence I lived in for years. Cold. Chosen. Safe.
But this, this is something else.
The hush of a kettle before it whistles. The shuffle of bare feet in the kitchen. The scrape of a chair across tile as she sits next to me and sips coffee without needing to speak. It’s not a quiet I ever knew I wanted. But I want it now. Every damn morning. And I want her inside it.
She moves around the house with confidence, finally having learned her own shape.
She claims counter space and drawers and shelves I didn’t even know I had.
Her scent and her things creep into every crevice.
She watches me constantly, shamelessly. When she thinks I’m not looking.
When she knows I am. She touches me, always.
Palms on my back, a chin to my shoulder while I read to her, the slide of her hand into mine for no reason at all.
I let her. I make room for it and then I live for it.
She’s a perfect morning. This morning, every morning, coffee, her fingers tapping an odd count on my skin, is noise I need.
It will kill me if I ever have to go back to the silence.
She walks into the kitchen, hooks a finger in my belt loop, tugs me in, kisses me.
She steals my mug, sips, makes that cute-as-fuck face, hands it back with, “much too violent,” and kisses the corner of my mouth.
I push her perfect ass against the counter, her pupils blow when I drop to my knees.
In every touch, every taste of her, that’s where I find God.
He sure as fuck wasn’t anywhere near those shipping containers.
Sava and I came home together after that.
Evie’s intel was good. The containers were the closest I’ve seen of hell up close.
We took seventeen girls to Dead Man’s Hand’s clubhouse.
Elsie met us there to treat them. When they’re feeling up to it, Dominic will find places for them to go.
Back to the home they were taken from if they have one, or to a family who will be good to them.
Some will stay right where they are and end up working in one of his bars or strip clubs.
Sava left two days ago. No goodbye. Monsters aren’t good at goodbyes. She left a note on the kitchen counter:
Take care of her.
Like I’d ever need the reminder.
Lindy never asked where Sava went. Just took the extra blanket from the guest bed and folded it neatly in the hall closet. I didn’t ask her why she looked so tired after. Some things don’t need words.
That night we watch a movie and avoid talking about the girls or about Sava. Her head slumps to my shoulder, and I’m stuck not moving for two hours. I don’t care. I sit there memorizing the weight of her.
And of course, that’s when fucking Travis shows up. He rings the doorbell and Lindy stirs. I unlock my phone and remotely let him in. By the time he’s standing in front of me, Lindy is all the way up. “What the fuck do you want?”
He holds up a file. “Got something that can’t wait.
” His hands shake when he passes me the folder, but Travis isn’t afraid of me.
Well, he is, but not right now. Right now he’s over-caffeinated and has pulled too many overnights.
“Three of my sources have been burned in less than ten days,” he says, quieter.
“If De La Torre secures a partner here… I don’t have the time or the manpower to grow a new network. ”
I take the file but don’t open it. “And you didn’t call because?”
“Because I have an unconventional way I want you to handle this and I figured you’d say no over the phone.” He edges past us before I can stop him and heads for the kitchen. “Also because I hear your girl makes a mean espresso.”
“It’s eleven at night,” Lindy giggles, and tries to stand from the couch but can’t because I grip her waist.
“Adrian gossips worse than any female and you’re not staying.”
“You haven’t even heard the pitch.”
“I can read a file without you here.” I open the folder. There’s a photo of a man I don’t recognize in his early fifties. Beside him is a younger woman, clinging to his arm. Probably the wife.
“Name’s Valen De La Torre. He controls weapons imports from the U.S. into Spain’s east coast. Valencia, Barcelona, the whole Mediterranean corridor. But for some reason, he’s just popped up in Vegas. No heavy security. Just him and his wife taking the scenic route. Something’s off.”
I close the folder. “You think he’s running?”
“I think he’s scouting territory. Or offloading guns to a heavy hitter and wants to handle it personally. Either way, he’s vulnerable right now.”
“And?”
“And I need someone who can get close. He’s paranoid. If he smells a setup, he’ll vanish. But a couple on vacation?” He doesn’t grin; he looks tired. “That, he might let his guard down for.”
I don’t even let the words land before I snap, “Absolutely not.”
“I figured you’d say that.”
“You’re not putting my wife in a room with a man I'm going to kill.”
He eyes me. “She’d be safer with you than anywhere else.
And you’d have eyes on the wife in case she’s a problem.
” When I say nothing, he sighs, theatrical enough that I want to break his fucking ribs.
“She’d be playing a role, Cassius. She’s not walking into a firefight.
She’s walking into a hotel lobby with you.
Holding hands. Playing house. You get him alone. You do what you do.”
“I’ll do it alone.”
“He’s paranoid, Cassius. I talked to Sava, but she’s not good for this.
He’ll know she’s a pro. We’ve been tracking him for weeks looking for an opening.
This is it. He relaxes around civilians, families.
I hate it, but it’s who he is. If you walk in, a man on vacation with a woman who makes him look domesticated?
” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “That gives us a real shot at him.”
I don’t respond. I can’t. My pulse is hammering. “I’m going to break your fucking ribs.”
Travis lowers his voice. “I doubt she’s made of glass. You’re not the same without her. If you think keeping her locked in this house is protecting her, you’re lying to yourself.”
I push Lindy off me as gently as I can before I lose it. I rush Travis, pinning his back to my fridge. He doesn’t struggle. “She isn’t locked anywhere. She can walk out the fucking door any time she wants.” Lindy’s breath is on my neck, but I don’t turn around.
“I’ve got girls in holding who won’t talk until I show them a photo of this piece of shit’s dead body,” he grits. “I wouldn’t ask if there was another way.”
“Cassius,” she touches my forearm, pulling me around to face her.
“Sit back down.” She tugs me to the couch and I slump down.
“I’m going to make Travis that espresso.
” She heads back into the kitchen. Twenty minutes later, after my wife caffeinates him, my anger is right where she left it.
Travis walks past me to the door, leaving the folder behind.
“Let me know by tomorrow.”
He’s turning the handle when Lindy’s voice breaks the quiet. “I’ll do it.”
Travis turns, but I don’t.
“You will not be a pawn,” I say to her without looking away from the door.
“She already said yes, Cassius. Maybe you should trust her to know what she can handle.”
The next second, Travis is slammed against the wall, my forearm pressing into his throat, folder fluttering to the floor.
This fucker never learns. I understand the agreement.
I understand my role. What I think he’s forgotten is, I don’t answer to him.
Uncle Leven, Adrian, the other Accord members, they can get me targets from anywhere.
Travis is replaceable, and will be replaced if he doesn’t stop acting like I’m an attack dog he can unleash whenever he wants.
“Don’t. You. Fucking. Speak to her, speak about her.” He doesn’t fight me. He knew exactly what he was risking the second he opened his dumbass mouth. Especially after already provoking me before.
Lindy’s voice again, “Cassius—”
I push off him hard enough to make the wall groan and round on her.
Her eyes are wide but unflinching. “You can trust me—”
“This isn’t about trust,” I say. “I will not bring you around a man like him.”
Travis straightens, rubbing his neck, still catching his breath. “It’s not madness if it works.”
Lindy turns to him now, a fire in her eyes that I’ve only seen a handful of times during training sessions. “You,” she stabs his chest with her index finger. “Need to shut the fuck up.”
He does.
“I will not survive losing you,” I say to her, stroking her cheek with the back of my hand. And then I fixate on him again, “The world won’t survive it, Travis.”
Travis lifts his hands in mock surrender, backing toward the door. “I’ll wait to hear from you,” he says carefully, eyes still on me. “And if you pass, I’ll take it on.” His gaze flicks to her. “Melinda, thank you for that delicious espresso. I see why he’s so tightly wound.”
I should let him. Make him carry what I carry. Instead, muscle memory stands up. I was built to take the cuts so my brothers didn’t have to; apparently it extends to Travis.
The door clicks shut behind him. Silence stretches, thick and humming.
She disappears upstairs for a while and I disappear to the basement and punch the living shit out of my bag making a mental note to print a picture of Travis’ stupid face and tape it to it.
She’s by the kitchen when I return, barefoot, hair half-damp, wearing one of my shirts.
“I wasn’t agreeing to be bait,” she says quietly.
“I know.”
“If I can help, I want to.”