28. Kingsley
Kingsley
I’ve been avoiding Shawn all day.
I was first at the base with Mateo, tackling a mountain of paperwork I‘d been putting off for weeks when Shawn showed up. He said he had something extremely important to tell me. I blew him off, saying I needed to get this done first before we could talk.
Later that day, I was speaking with a furious customer who demanded a refund because a lifeguard told her kid at the water park he couldn’t run up the water slide the opposite way—entitled parents piss me off.
That’s when Shawn reappeared, arms crossed, with this super intense stare, like he was gonna blow if we didn’t chat immediately.
When Shawn’s desperate to tell me something, it’s never good news.
The second I walk through the front door of my home, Shawn’s waiting with a folder. Biting my tongue, I push past him and head for my bedroom. He’s on my heels.
“What part of ‘I need to talk to you’ don’t you understand?” he grumbles.
“I’ve spent all day dealing with petty guests and looking over the dozens of shipments that have gone missing in the last six months. Sue me if I don’t want to have a serious conversation with you right now.”
Shawn closes the door once we’re inside my room, and I turn my back to him as I rummage through my closet. If I ignore him long enough, maybe he’ll finally leave me alone.
“Where are you going?” he asks, voice deep with judgment.
He already knows my answer. “To work with Rip and Thomas.”
“You can go off with them, but you can’t listen to what I have to say?”
God, he sounds like my sisters. Whiny and full of accusations.
I pick up a coat off the hanger, deciding whether I want to wear it. “We’re working, Shawn.”
I hear Shawn coming closer, and then his hand is on my shoulder, turning me to face him. His tall frame looms over me, close and personal. “Guess what? What I have to say is about work, too. It’s about your pals.”
I should have known. He wouldn’t be itching to tell me so badly if it wasn’t about them. Shawn has had it out for the Wrights the moment my dad hired them, and he’s dying to be right.
I push past him again, and Shawn only grunts, then follows me to the other side of the room. As I sit on my bed, my head beginning to throb, he hurls the folder at me. It has to have at least fifty pages of information inside.
“Make it quick,” I say dryly.
“Redgrave,” Shawn states.
I blink? “What?”
“Open the folder.” He points. “They aren’t Rip and Thomas Wright. They’re Rip and Thomas Redgrave.”
I skim the first page of information, but there is no need. The last name is instantly recognizable to me.
The Redgraves are a powerful crime family in England.
My dad once told me we were tight with them back in the day when Grandpa was boss.
It was a major advantage to have a dependable ally in other countries; they provided security and ensured the shipments of drugs, guns, and products were of higher quality.
But, like all good things, shit hit the fan.
It started as a petty dispute over shipments, and could have been resolved if they had acted like the grown men they were.
Instead, it turned into a mess of incomplete truths and petty behavior.
After that one mess-up, the alliance was done for, and they swore off war, opting to act as if the other never existed.
So a Redgrave being anywhere in our vicinity is not a good thing.
“George Redgrave’s kids?” I ask, still flicking through the papers.
“No, Emma’s.”
I look up, brows knitting. “I thought Emma Redgrave had no children?”
Shawn sits, a pleased smirk on his face, eager to expose the truth. “She didn’t. Until eleven years ago, when she and her wife adopted Ripster Kroger and Thomas Dalisay at ten and twelve years old from a foster home.”
“Emma Redgrave has a wife?”
He nods. “They’ve been happily married for years, but have never gone public with it. Just like they never went public with the adoption.”
We had always wondered why Emma had never been married off to a man to better the Requiem. Looks like George has a heart for his sweet sister.
I can’t blame them for hiding it. While most people don’t think twice about who you fuck in your free time, there are a few who do. Just a couple of years ago, Henry Moonclaf, son of one of the higher-ups in one of our allied families, Caesar Moonclaf, was outed.
The Moonclafs tried their hardest to backtrack and bury the video of Henry’s bodyguard fucking him into the mattress, but the internet lives forever.
But it wasn’t the media that went nuts; it was the old-head mobsters who couldn’t accept a gay man being as tough and successful as Henry. Not to mention that wasn’t the first time Henry had been seen with men of other families, so he already had a strike against him.
It caused a real problem in the Moonclafs family, and they solved it by demoting Henry. That was when I knew I could never go public with my sexuality. My family may be supportive, but I can’t say the same for everyone else.
“Getting the job here wasn’t enough. To get the intel they needed, they had to get close to you.
They’ve been sneaking around since you started letting Rip into your life,” Shawn says.
His voice is gentler, and that look of superiority has disappeared, like he’s making an effort to break the news more softly now. Fuck that.
“So Rip and Thomas belong to the Requiem,” I say slowly, speaking my thoughts aloud. The room suddenly lurches, and I clutch the bedspread to keep from falling.
I continue flipping through the sheets of paper. It’s birth records, adoption papers, and contracts that Emma and George Redgrave made to ensure they keep the secrets a secret. Nothing about Rip and Thomas being the ones to give away Crowncrest information.
I shut the folder with a thud. “This doesn’t make them the mole. It only proves they aren’t who they say they are.”
Shawn’s mouth falls open in shock, as if I’ve shot him. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“I’m not. Sure, they lied, but that doesn’t mean they’re the reason Aralynn’s in jail. It doesn’t mean they’re the reason our last few jobs have been compromised.”
“What else could it mean?” His eyes widen in disbelief, as if I’ve grown an extra eye. “No, I don’t have the concrete proof they did it, but I don’t need it. They’ve been undercover, lying to all of us for months. That alone is enough to act.”
I rest my elbows on my knees and drop my head in my hands.
He’s right. Two enemies living in our headquarters and having access to all types of sensitive information is enough cause for taking them out.
Regardless of whether they were giving intel—which they probably were—not acting would deem us as weak.
We can’t have another instance to make us look that way, not after the damage I’ve caused.
I wipe my sweaty palms against my pants, my heartbeat quickening at the sheer thought of laying a hand on the Wri—I mean Redgraves. You couldn’t even avenge Sylvie, how will you punish Rip?
I knew our relationship would never last, and I had increasing suspicions he wasn’t who he said he was. It was a gut feeling, one I pushed down constantly because I didn’t want to deal with it. Now I have no choice but to face it.
“I’m sorry, King,” Shawn mumbles. “I’m sorry that lying douche used you, but it’s time to get out of la-la land.”
Congratulations to Shawn. He finally gets to be right about something.
“Alright.”
He pauses. “Alright?”
I stand and slip my coat on, my jaw clenched. “Alright.”
“So you agree we can’t let this slide?”
I nod silently as I zip the zipper. Shawn’s got this look like he doesn’t believe a word I’m saying.
“Great.” He stands up, still eyeing me skeptically. “I can finally choke the smug grin off Rip’s stupid face.”
In a flash of anger, I lunge toward my friend, hands colliding with his chest. His back slams against the wall, too shocked to move, and I lean into his face.
“You won’t lay a motherfucking fingertip on him,” I grit.
He flinches away from me as I crowd him, still shoving him against the wall.
“I will handle Rip and Thomas. You will keep your hands to yourself and your big mouth shut until I handle it. No one knows anything about what we’ve found out, and if they do, I’ll make sure you can never speak again. Got it?”
Shawn’s lips curled in a silent snarl. “Yeah.”
I let go of him. If he lays a fucking cuticle on Rip, I’ll cut his tongue out. For his sake, I hope he doesn’t assume I’m bluffing.
I storm out of my bedroom, not bothering to let Shawn know where I’m going. We planned to meet at the mini-golf course to film another video since the first did so well, only now there will be fewer putt-putt and more flying fists.
It’s dark when I arrive, but the golf course’s neon lights cast a vibrant glow on the grounds.
Rip and Thomas are having a conversation while they wait, but something about their conversation gives me pause.
They haven’t realized I’m here, and yet they’re huddled together whispering as if they’re discussing the whereabouts of a bomb they planted.
Have they always been like this, and I was too blind to see it?
Thomas is the first to notice me. His back is straight, and he’s giving that same stiff wave he’s been giving. I don’t know what exactly changed, but the guy is jumpy around me.
I take a seat on the bench beside Rip, but keep a noticeable distance between us. His eyes fall to the gap, and he doesn’t comment on it, but his jaw tightens.
“Hey, Kingsley,” he says.
I nod up at him. There’s this weird quiet between us, and honestly, I don’t feel like breaking it. I know they notice something’s up, but they don’t have the will to say anything about it? Then neither do I.
“Ready to start?” Thomas asks.
Nodding again, I grab a club. Rip does the same while Thomas hauls around his camera equipment.