29. Phoenix
Phoenix
Storm opens the door for Con, who shoots me a dirty look before turning to face him.
“Cops are here. I told them we never left the suite. Atticus already cleaned up anything that says otherwise, but they need your statement. Someone saw a girl in a trashy dress and a guy with blond hair following her.”
“You’re the one who picked out my wardrobe,” I mutter, but it falls on deaf ears. Neither of them is paying attention.
“My knife,” Storm says, eyes flicking toward the hallway. “I dropped it at some point. I don’t know where it is. If they find it?—”
“I have it.” I dart back into the bathroom.
I dig through the little dress I wore, checking the seams. Whoever designed it had the good sense to stitch in a hidden pocket around the neckline—probably meant for strippers to stash their tips, but it worked just fine for a blade.
I hand the knife to Storm. Con immediately rips it from my hand and shoves it into his pocket, glaring at me like I just confessed to treason. I don’t know what crawled up his ass, but he’s doing a great job of destroying the last shred of calm I managed to scrape together from that bath.
“What the fuck do you think you’re going to do with this?” he snaps. “Trying to pull something later?”
For a second, I think Storm might defend me again. But apparently, his spine only works when it’s not one of his own doing the damage.
“I grabbed it when I stood up,” I say, somehow managing to keep my voice steady. “Storm was upset. I knew he’d want it back.”
Con makes a dismissive noise in the back of his throat and clenches his jaw until it clicks. Then he pushes past Storm, grabs me by the throat, and slams me against the wall.
My back hits the wall with a hard thud, and I choke on instinct. Not from pain. From rage. My hands curl into fists, but I don’t lift them. Not yet. Not with Storm watching and doing nothing.
“Don’t fucking worry about Storm,” he growls. “Go talk to the cops. You were up here. You saw nothing. You know nothing. And once they leave? You’re going to tell us the truth.”
Then he turns on his heel and stalks out of the room.
I exhale a shaky breath and glance at Storm. His mask is already back on—indifference carved into every line of his face.
He won’t even look at me. That stings more than it should. I don’t need his protection—but I hate that I wanted it.
He strips off the robe and pulls on dark gray sweatpants and a ribbed white undershirt like this is just another Tuesday.
Men should not be allowed to look that hot with that little effort. It’s unfair .
“I think your uniform is going to raise more suspicion,” he says without looking at me. “Better to stay in the robe.”
Dismissed. Just like that.
“Fuck you,” I whisper. I wrap the robe tighter around myself and step out into the main room, every inch of me feeling exposed.
“Ms. Phoenix Jones?” a female police officer asks, looking down her nose at me.
“That’s me, officer,” I say with a polite smile, allowing the same neutral, don’t-poke-the-bear expression I’ve used with every cop I’ve ever dealt with to snap into place. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”
“You can tell us where you were about two hours ago,” she barks.
She’s already made up her mind about me. I know that tone. There’s no changing it. But I can at least keep this as professional as possible to avoid provoking her.
“I was here. I’m staying in the suite for a while, and I haven’t left today. ”
“Is there anyone who can corroborate that story?”
I glance around and gesture to Maverick and Atticus on the couch—and Storm, who’s now emerging from his room. His hair is combed back, still damp, and styled like a fucking Backstreet Boy. The man might be deadly, but Jesus, he looks good.
The officer must agree, because she stumbles over her next few questions.
I stay quiet, answering when spoken to in clipped, respectful phrases. Storm is less polite—curt, but not rude. Just enough to stay on the right side of the line.
Eventually, the officer leaves her card and tells Storm to call if he ever needs anything. Her smile lingers longer than it should before she heads for the elevator.
“Do you guys always flirt your way out of trouble?” I ask.
“No,” Maverick says. “If the cop’s a dude, we pay them. Unless it’s that one that was really into Atticus.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Atticus mutters, rolling his eyes. He heads toward the dining room table, which is now covered in food.
Storm grabs a plate and starts to load it up with pasta and steak, then pauses. He looks at me, then dials it back—smaller portions, mostly protein and simple carbs. Atticus gives him a weird look but doesn’t say anything.
“Sit down, angel,” Storm says. I take the nearest seat, and he places the plate in front of me, handing me a fork.
“Eat.”
It’s not a request. After a brief, truculent pause, I dig in. I’m starving.
The bath helped. But everything else—Storm’s mood, Con’s hands around my throat, the looming consequences—have left me feeling wrung out. Bone-weary. Unsteady.
The others fill their plates and settle in around me. No one speaks. Not until they finish their first round and go back for seconds.
Then Con starts talking.
“What the fuck happened? ”
“Dude, it’s—” Storm begins, but Con holds up a hand to silence him.
“I want to hear it from her. The one who doesn’t get blackout drunk on violence.”
“I just went for a walk, but because of the dresses you make me wear?—”
“Nope.” Maverick stops me cold. “Nobody in this room is stupid enough to believe that women are attacked because of what they wear. Try again. This time, try not talking out of your ass.”
“Now a man believes that a dress isn’t an invitation? Fucking figures.” No one replies to my jibe, and after a moment I huff in defeat. “Fine. I went for a walk because I was mad, and Storm was following me. But apparently someone else was, too.”
“Two men,” Storm says. “One tall with a 1970s dirty-cop mustache. The other—shorter, balding, smells like bacon bits.”
“Who are they?” Atticus asks, eyes locked on mine.
I lick my lips and roll them inward. This is it.
The moment I decide if I’m going to put my life in the hands of the Titans—four notoriously cruel, womanizing assholes who buy their way out of trouble.
Four men who did something so terrible no one talks about it, but it still got them expelled, even after their families tried to buy their way out.
Do I trust them with my life?
Or do I lie and hope they never find out?
I think about it for a moment and realize—lying won’t save me.
Even if they believe whatever ridiculous story I come up with, I’ll still have the mob to deal with. And dealing with the mob means being turned out as a prostitute, and probably beaten and raped for years.
At least if the Titans turn on me, they’ll just kill me. I slump back in the chair.
“They’re thugs who work for a local bookie backed by the mob,” I say.
They all stare at me like I just started speaking another language.
“I know all of those words individually,” Atticus says. “But they don’t make sense coming out of your mouth. ”
“My father got a loan from a loan shark and placed a bet with a bookie for the big poker tournament last spring.”
“Your father came in dead last in that tournament,” Maverick says. “Made a huge scene about it.”
I nod. I didn’t know that, but it’s very on-brand for him.
“And when he realized he couldn’t pay the money back to the mob, he stuck a rifle in his mouth,” I say, unflinching. “Right in my kitchen. Did you know they don’t clean after they take the body? It took me days to get that kitchen clean enough that I could go in there without wanting to vomit.”
I don’t know why I tell them that. It’s not like they care. But I haven’t been able to tell anyone else, and the detail just kind of stuck with me.
Atticus pushes his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. Storm looks away. Maverick clears his throat.
“So why are they after you?” Con asks.
“Because they want their money,” I shrug. “And if I can’t give them the money, they want to take me instead. Make me earn back my father’s debt. ”
“Earn back how?” Maverick asks.
Everyone shoots him a look.
Maverick glances down. His jaw twitches, and for once, he has no comeback.
“Okay, fine,” he mutters. “So that’s why you took the contract. The payout at the end would let you clear your father’s debt. Why are they bothering you now? You’re nowhere near even halfway done.”
“They don’t know about the payout,” I say. “I offered them money, but they only gave me twenty-four hours to come up with it. So I told them I could get them information.”
“What kind of information?” Atticus’s voice sharpens.
“Honestly?” I slump back in my chair. “I don’t know.”
“Earlier that day, I heard about the girls going missing. Some of the staff think you might be involved. That’s when I was offered the contract. So I told the mobsters I’d spy on you. Give them dirt. See if you were really behind it and if they could blackmail you. ”
“That is the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard,” Atticus scoffs.
“I know. They thought so too. But whoever they work for has it out for you four, so... here I am.”
I stare at my plate. Can’t look up. Can’t see their faces. Not that it matters. I know what I just told them seals my fate.
I just don’t know what that fate’s going to be.
The crash of shattering glass makes me flinch.
“How the fuck could you?” Con roars. “I thought—I thought—fuck, it doesn’t matter what I thought. What matters now is what the fuck are we going to do with you?”
I look up to see Maverick holding Con back. Atticus gives me an appraising look. Storm’s eyes bounce between me and Con like he’s calculating risk.
“What happened in the alley?” Atticus asks, his voice calm. Almost clinical.
“The two men grabbed me. Dragged me into the alley. Apparently, they were tired of waiting. Since I didn’t have any information, they figured they’d take their first payment. ”
Atticus’s gaze narrows. Sharpens. “They’re responsible for the other bruises. For your wrist.”
It’s not a question, but I nod, anyway, my gaze faltering. “I—yes. They were waiting for me one night. They wanted to make sure I understood what would happen if I didn’t pay Dad’s debt.”
“You should have fucking told me—” Con starts. I can’t tell who he’s angry at—me, the men who assaulted me, or himself. Maybe all of us.
“Then what happened?” Atticus asks, cutting him off. “In the alley?”
“One of them backhanded me. Threw me to the ground.” I raise my hand and gently touch the bruise, still tender on my face. “That’s when Storm saw them, and he?—”
I don’t know how to describe what happened. How do I say he dissolved into a rage monster? That he turned into something cold and unrecognizable—something more terrifying than anyone I’ve ever met?
“Did he kill them?” Atticus asks.
“No.” I shake my head. “You guys got there pretty quickly. I think the one with the mustache might have trouble using one of his hands from now on. Storm sliced him pretty deep at the elbow—he couldn’t move his fingers.
Then Storm threw his knife and hit the guy through the shoulder socket. .. I think. It all happened fast.”
“And the other one?”
“Will probably need stitches,” I say with a shrug.
Atticus nods and walks into the next room, already dialing his phone.
Maverick gets Con seated again. His fists are planted on either side of his plate, knuckles white. But I don’t think he’s going to lunge.
“Is there anything else you need to tell us?” Maverick asks, hands still on Con’s shoulders.
I shake my head.
Then stop.
“The staff that’s missing. Or dead?—”
“Jesus fuck, not this again,” Con spits. “How do you even come up with that crazy conspiracy theory?”
“That’s what I’m trying to say. I didn’t come up with it. I overheard it in the bathroom. Some of the other staff are already putting things together, and they’re talking.”
Con and Maverick lean in to whisper, too low for me to hear. I keep my hands folded in my lap, my fingers stroking the soft edge of the robe.
“Anything else to add?” Maverick asks.
No one moves. No one speaks. They’re deciding. Calculating risk, reward, control.
I lift my head. Breathe deep. And ask the only question that matters.
The one I’m afraid to hear the answer to.
“What are you going to do with me?”