Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
KADE
"Your sister's here," Ash calls from somewhere down the hall.
I'm standing in front of my bathroom mirror, running my fingers through my hair one more time. Making sure every strand sits right. Because tonight, apparently, I give a fuck what I look like.
How the hell did I even get roped into this shit?
I groan and walk out of my bedroom, stopping at the hallway mirror for one last check.
Fucking tuxedo. The black jacket pulls tight across my shoulders—tailored or not, it still feels like a straight jacket.
The bow tie sits at my throat like a noose.
The pants are pressed so sharp they could probably cut glass, and these dress shoes instead of my boots make me feel like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's life.
I look like a trained fucking monkey in a suit. This whole thing pisses me off.
"I guess I'm ready," I mutter as I walk into the living room, still adjusting the damn cufflinks that keep catching on the jacket sleeve.
Beck's got his arm draped around Grace's shoulders, leading her toward the kitchen like they're old friends. My jaw clenches automatically, tension shooting up my neck.
"Beck." My voice comes out flat, dangerous. "I suggest you get your arm from around her if you fancy keeping it attached to your body."
He throws back a grin, all charm and zero concern—the same expression that gets him out of trouble and into women's beds with equal efficiency. "Relax, man. I'm just letting her taste dinner. Havoc actually cooked something that doesn't taste like cardboard for once."
"Damn," Ash says from where he's sprawled on the couch, looking me up and down with exaggerated appreciation. "I guess we have more than one pretty boy in this house now."
"I'll show you a fucking pretty boy." I glare at him, flexing my fists.
"Well, well, well." Havoc walks into the room from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel. His version of a smile plays at his mouth—that barely-there smirk that means he's about to bust my balls. "Look who decided to join civilized society—"
"Don't even start," I cut him off before he can get rolling. "Not in the mood."
"Grace, let's go." I need to get the fuck away from these assholes before I put Ash through the wall just on principle, or before Beck says something else that makes me want to demonstrate exactly how well I can throw a punch while wearing formal wear.
She comes out of the kitchen still smiling, mid-conversation with Beck about whatever the hell he just fed her. "It was so good, Beck. You need to get me the recipe."
"I will." Beck leans against the counter, all casual confidence, arms crossed over his chest in that way that shows off his arms. "Send me your number and I'll text it to you."
"Nope." I cut between them physically and verbally. "Not happening. I'll send it to her for you."
He just smirks, knowing exactly what he's doing. Fucking with me because he can.
Grace laughs—actually laughs at the whole situation like it's cute instead of irritating—then turns to look at me properly for the first time since I walked out of my room.
Her eyes go wide, sweeping from the polished shoes up to the styled hair, and her whole face lights up in a way that makes all the discomfort and bullshit almost worth it.
"Oh, Kade." Her smile gets brighter, genuine. "You really clean up nice."
"Thanks." I shift my weight from foot to foot, suddenly uncomfortable with the attention in a way I'm not when I'm just in jeans and my cut. This version of me feels exposed somehow. Vulnerable. "Can we go now? Before these idiots decide to take pictures or some shit."
"Yeah, yeah." She's still laughing as she grabs her purse from the coffee table, that soft chiming laugh that sounds nothing like the harsh world she's been dragged into. "Come on, grumpy."
I walk her toward the door, feeling three sets of eyes tracking our movement.
"Have fun, pretty boy," Ash calls after me, his tone dripping with amusement.
The other two start cracking up—actually fucking giggling like school girls—as I shut the door behind us, their laughter echoing through the wood.
"You fucking owe me," I say once we're outside in the cool night air, my breath visible in the darkness. "Big time. Like, you owe me whatever I want level of debt."
"Fine, I'll owe you." Grace bumps her shoulder against my arm as we head toward the driveway, her heels clicking on the concrete. "But you look handsome and it's not going to be that bad. I promise."
"If you say so." I open the door to the black SUV Fernando uses to drive her around—bulletproof windows, reinforced frame, the whole nine yards. Damián's orders. My sister doesn't go anywhere without protection.
The drive to the hotel takes twenty minutes through Saturday night traffic.
Grace fills the silence with details about the charity event—something for foster kids, scholarships for college, giving opportunities to kids who grew up in the system.
Good cause, actually. The kind of thing that matters, that does real good in the world instead of just making rich people feel better about themselves.
Still doesn't mean I want to spend my Saturday night in a suit jacket that costs more than most people’s rent, surrounded by the San Diego elite making small talk about stock portfolios and vacation homes.
"Kade." She puts her hand on my arm, her touch light and warm even through the expensive fabric. "Thank you. Really. I know you'd rather be literally anywhere else right now."
I glance at her in the dim light of the SUV's interior.
She's nervous—I can tell by the way she's worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, by the slight tension in her shoulders.
This matters to her, proving she can fit into his world.
Proving she belongs here, that she's not just some small-town girl playing at being cartel royalty.
"It's fine," I say, and mean it more than I did five minutes ago. More than I did when I was fighting with that fucking bow tie in the mirror. "You're family. This is what family does."
Her smile makes the whole fucking night worth it already. Makes the uncomfortable shoes and restrictive jacket and the evening of small talk seem like a small price to pay.
We pull into the hotel's circular drive—one of those fancy downtown places where rooms start at five hundred a night. Valets in burgundy uniforms rush to open doors, and the entrance glows with warm light that spills onto the sidewalk.
"Food's supposed to be good," Grace says as we head inside, her hand tucked into the crook of my arm. "Open bar too."
Now we're talking. At least there's that.
The ballroom is exactly what I expected—crystal chandeliers hanging from ceilings that must be twenty feet high, round tables covered in white linens with elaborate centerpieces of flowers I can't name, people in designer clothes that cost more than most people make in a month.
Everyone's pretending to give a shit about charity while really just networking and showing off their wealth, making connections that'll benefit their businesses or political campaigns.
But Grace... Grace fits right in, I realize as I watch her.
She's got that natural grace her name promises, that small-town princess charm that works on everyone from mechanics to millionaires.
Within five minutes she's making easy conversation with some councilwoman's wife, laughing at the right moments and putting people at ease with that genuine warmth that can't be faked.
I stand at the bar, nursing a beer and watching the crowd with the same attention I'd give a potential threat. Cataloging faces. Reading body language. Staying alert even in this supposedly safe environment.
Because nowhere is really safe. Not for people like us.
Grace rejoins me at the bar after fifteen minutes of working the room like she was born into it. She orders a ginger ale with a lime wedge, looking perfectly comfortable in this world of fake smiles and expensive clothes.
"Not bad so far?" she asks, taking a sip of her drink.
"Nah." I take another pull from my beer. "But the night is young."
The words are barely out of my mouth when I spot ángel Lazaro cutting through the crowd moving toward us.
Charcoal suit, burgundy tie, the kind of effortless polish that comes from growing up with money.
He's smiling—that practiced political smile that probably wins him votes and covers up whatever cartel business he's really thinking about.
"Kade." He extends his hand when he reaches us.
I shake it, his grip firm and measured. Everything about the guy is controlled, calculated.
"I'm glad you could escort Grace." His attention shifts to her, genuine warmth replacing the professional mask for a second. "You look beautiful."
"Thank you, ángel."
I don't know him well—just that he's Damián's more level-headed brother, the one who can navigate city council meetings and cartel negotiations with equal ease. However the fuck that works. Seems like a conflict of interest to me, but what do I know about politics?
"Come on." He gestures toward the crowd. "Let me introduce you to some people."
Grace smiles and sets her drink on the bar. I down the rest of my beer and do the same, holding my arm out for her. She takes it naturally, and we follow ángel around the room while he works the crowd like a professional campaigner.
Politician after politician. Councilwoman this, Commissioner that. I smile, shake hands, make the appropriate conversation while my brain slowly melts from boredom. Grace handles it better than me—actually seems engaged, asking questions about their work, making them feel important.
We're talking to some older chubby guy and his even chubbier wife—something to do with the DA's office, I think—when another man approaches.
He's older than me but not old. Early thirties maybe.
Good-looking in that polished way wealthy men always are.
Designer suit, expensive watch, the kind of confidence that comes from never being told no.
He claps a hand on ángel's back, and I catch the flash of annoyance that crosses ángel's features before he masks it.
"Aren't you going to introduce me to your guests?"
"Rich." Angel's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "I was wondering where you were. Haven't seen you all night."
"I've been making the rounds." The guy's attention shifts to us, his gaze lingering on Grace just a second too long. "Who is this beautiful couple?"
"This is my sister-in-law, Grace, and her brother Kade." ángel gestures between us. "Grace, Kade, this is Mayor Delaney."
Mayor. Right. I shake his hand, grip firm enough to make a point without being aggressive. "Nice to meet you."
He takes Grace's hand and kisses it—actually fucking kisses it like we're in some period drama—and I resist the urge to break his fingers.
"Nice to meet you, Mayor," Grace says smoothly.
"Nonsense, call me Rich."
"Rich." She smiles, all Southern charm and perfect manners. "My fiancé Damián wanted to make it tonight, but my brother was sweet enough to fill in."
I'm a little in awe watching her work. Sweet and polite while throwing Damián's name around like a warning.
We don't give her enough credit, but we should've known she had layers when she fell for a man like him.
This version of Grace—the one who can navigate cartel politics and high society with equal ease—is someone I'm still learning exists.
Rich opens his mouth to respond, but movement across the room catches my eye.
Fallon.
She's standing near the far wall in a dark blue dress with a neckline that plunges deep between her breasts.
The fabric clings to her curves, sophisticated and sexy in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
Her hair's pulled up, showing off her neck and shoulders, and even from here I can see the elegant line of her throat.
Fuck.
Some guy's standing next to her—older, blonde hair styled perfectly, expensive suit—talking to someone else and completely ignoring her existence. She stands there looking like sin itself while he acts like she's part of the fucking furniture.
"Who are they?" I ask ángel, nodding toward the group. Trying to sound casual when what I really want is to walk over there and claim her attention like that asshole clearly isn't.
ángel follows my gaze. "That's Daniel Reid, the DA, and his wife." He pauses. "Not sure who they're talking to."
"Oh, you have to meet Daniel." Rich's smile widens, something calculating in his expression. "Come on."
He's already moving toward them, and we follow because refusing would be more noticeable than going along.
She’s married to the DA? But somehow that doesn’t stop my heart from pounding against my ribs with every step closer to Fallon.