Epilogue
SAMSON
“Out of fucking carne asada,” I grumble as I glare at the menu through my open window.
The heat in my car is on low, but I suddenly feel warm all over, that slow-rising rage moving through me like a tsunami.
The carnage will come sooner rather than later.
I need to wait until I have the appropriate outlet.
I shouldn’t put my axe through the screen in front of me to tell them how unhappy I am.
I shouldn’t, but I’m tempted to. I have one right in the front seat. Not that Wylder would approve of my choice of weapon.
I can just picture his look of exasperation.
He has no imagination.
“Fuckers,” I mutter loudly enough that they can hear me. It’s not their fault, and they’re certainly not paid enough to deal with me, but I’m a grumpy asshole at the best of times.
Take away the one thing I’ve been merrily dreaming about all day? It makes my usual assholery seem downright pleasant.
A tinny voice comes through the speaker. “Sir, please watch your language.”
“Can’t help it, I’m hungry. I want to make a complaint.”
The man sighs. “You’ll have to come inside to do that. Please pull forward.”
Go inside? Fuck that. I don’t have time. I have an appointment in twenty minutes. Plus, getting out of my car defeats the point of going to a drive-through.
I’ll just have to commit murder while hungry. My stomach grumbles unhappily, but I don’t have any more time to waste. I’m on a deadline. I have to get home to watch the next episode of Move Masters. Have to learn some new techniques for the dance routine I’m working on.
For what, I don’t know. But I do know one thing—dance is the only thing keeping me sane recently.
With all my brothers falling in love, like fucking Cupid himself is hanging out on the estate, my whole world has been turned upside down.
It’s no longer just the six of us. We now have Wyatt.
Ansel. Neo. Jules. Sure, the last one’s been around for a while, but there’s no missing how Harley’s been looking at him.
How they’ve been looking at each other.
The less said about Dalton and Jackson, the better. No fucking clue what’s going on with them, but it won’t ever come to anything. Doesn’t matter how much the kid moons over my brother, there’s no way Dalton will ever go for him. He’s too young, and not at all his type.
Regardless, everything is fucking topsy-turvy now. Can’t go anywhere without tripping over someone making out with or dry humping one of my brothers. It’s gross. Got me feeling all tense and weird. It’s just such fucking odd behavior.
No one will ever catch me doing that shit.
Anyway, dance is what’s keeping me sane. Well, mostly. I’ll never be the best dancer.
I frown when I think of what’s keeping me from sitting in front of my TV right now.
Rowan Mitchell.
The request to The Firm was simple—Rowan Mitchell murdered Adam Willis. I want him dead in the most painful way possible.
Matthias’s research uncovered the notes from the murder investigation. Normally, Wylder would be the one to do this part, but he’s getting better at letting us help.
Matthias is just as capable. He found it all: The autopsy report. Crime scene photos. Details from the first on the scene. The forensic report.
All that was missing was the murderer.
Like whoever made the request, the police suspected Rowan Mitchell too. He was best friends with the victim. The last to be seen with him. Caught on CCTV leaving Adam’s apartment around the time of his murder.
The police might not have enough to prosecute, but that’s where we come in.
The Firm delivers its own brand of justice.
It’ll be a pleasure to kill him, mostly because he deserves it, but also because I’m hungry as fuck and there are no fucking carne asada tacos to be found.
Rowan Mitchell will be an excellent outlet for my anger.
Following the GPS to my location, I find a parking spot on the street. Staring out of the window, I frown at the name on the outside of the building before double-checking the address Matthias gave me.
Nope, this is right.
It’s a dance studio.
What the fuck? Is this some kind of sick joke from Wylder? He’s been making fun of me dancing with my axes and swords since catching me practicing with them several months ago.
Neo apparently has video of it.
If I didn’t like them both so much, I’d kill them too.
I reach over into the duffel bag and pull out my gloves and two slim knives. The perfect ones to slide into someone’s neck and retract without anyone being the wiser. They’ll be dead in seconds, unable to make a sound. I probably won’t use them, not when I have my favorite dagger with me.
But it’s always good to have options.
I stare up at the Rhythm Showroom. Dance studio or not, I will be taking this fucker out tonight. Then I can finally head back home.
Even though, home right now is annoyingly…schmoopy. Too much love in the air. Makes me unreasonably grumpy.
I should dig a hole and crawl into it. Build myself a windowless bunker beneath the ground. It would make me happier than what I have to witness each day.
Drives me fucking crazy.
I step out of the car, holding my jacket closed against the cool wind nipping at my exposed skin. I pull my hat low over my head and stalk forward, moving through the double doors of the studio and striding through the lobby. No one questions my sudden appearance or who I am or why I’m here.
In the corner, there are two guys sitting on the floor with earbuds in their ears. Heads bob in time to music while their eyes are glued to the phones in their hands.
Stupid kids these days.
No sense of adventure.
It’s what will make this one so easy. The target is only twenty-four. A young guy who won’t know what’s happening to him. Probably won’t even notice that death is coming for him. What must it feel like to die?
I don’t know, but I’ve imagined it. Seen it more times than I care to count, too.
Often at my own hand.
Behind another set of doors, I hear the music; a slow, sensual beat.
My hips start to move, but I stop them as I slide into the dimly lit auditorium. The only lights are on the stage, the rest of the seats shrouded in darkness.
I’m a ghost against the back wall, my gloved hands grabbing on to the knife strapped to my thigh and tucking it into my pocket.
My gaze naturally finds the stage, the eight men and women on it writhing in time with the beat.
They’re obviously rehearsing for some kind of upcoming performance, and I can see just from a few seconds of watching that they are really fucking good.
If only I’d been allowed to dance earlier in life, I could have been on stage with them.
But Father wouldn’t allow it.
It was too gay for him.
Too bad it didn’t matter.
I’m gay as fuck.
Suddenly, the lights shift to something warmer, and the crowd onstage parts.
A dancer appears, his leggings tight like a second skin.
He steps out from the ether, dragging his feet in a slow, deliberate glide, his hips rolling with a confidence I wish I possessed.
His hands trail up his bare chest, unhurried, as if he knows I’m watching.
And I am. My eyes are riveted on him, the way he moves, the lines of his body. His hair is a dark chestnut, his cheeks a pretty pink.
He’s beautiful. A work of art come to life.
But then I see it. The tattoo on his hip. The sheet music twisting up his side. The identifying mark Matthias found on his records.
Fucking hell.
He’s Rowan. The one I’ve been sent to kill.
The one I can’t look away from.
I shouldn’t be watching him now, but I can’t stop as his body writhes on stage. He’s a miracle. A talent rarely seen.
It’s a fucking shame I have to kill him.
Especially with a body like that.
I watch the rest of the rehearsal, pressed into the shadows, my eyes unable to unstick from Rowan Mitchell. I tell myself it’s because I can’t attack him while he’s onstage.
But really, it’s because I can’t look away.
Rowan undulates with a grace I can only dream of. The stage is a mere suggestion beneath his feet, like he’s returning to it because he wants to, not because gravity demands it.
It’s sad he’s chosen the wrong fucking path in life. The path that’s put him firmly in The Firm’s sights.
There’s no going back for him. Not now. Tickets are likely being sold for this performance right now. A performance that’ll go ahead without its star.
If it goes ahead at all. Even to my untrained eye, I can see that Rowan is leagues above the rest of them.
I doubt any of them can fill his shoes.
When the scene they’re rehearsing ends, they break character, each of the dancers breathing heavily as they clap and pat each other on the back. They look elated, and they should be. They did a great fucking job.
Rowan, in particular, is shining bright. He makes a point of speaking to each person, a broad smile on his face.
I can feel the heat of his sunshine all the way back here in the shadows.
With no reason to linger, I silently head backstage. Crouching down behind some stacked boxes, I wait for the perfect moment. With any luck, Rowan will end up alone back here, and I can make my move then.
I hear the approaching chatter and immediately pick out his voice. I don’t know why I’m so confident that it’s him. Just that I am. There’s only one among them who can have a voice so melodic it’s almost angelic.
My chest aches at the thought of being the one to take him from the world. That I’ll be the last person he sees before he dies.
It doesn’t usually bother me, especially when they’re guilty of the shit that Rowan has done.
So why is it bothering me now?
Probably because you have more blood on your hands than most of St. Dismas combined.
That’s true, but this is my job. I only kill those who deserve it.
There’s no evidence to suggest that Adam Willis deserved to die.
But Rowan killed him anyway.