“That was a long time ago,” I remind my brother.
“Sampson is being diplomatic at best, little brother. He would never name some street-level lone wolf hitman to succeed him. You don’t have the credit. You don’t have the experience. You don’t have the alliances.” Clarence leans back, looking proud of himself. His eyes flick to the window.
I follow his gaze. Outside, a small fleet of junky cars, hulking shadows inside. He did me the favor of driving inconspicuous beaters, but still, dragging his little gang of meathead misfits out here just to send a message? It’s stupid, reckless, and personal.
But it also flexes just how easily Clarence can find me, even this far from home.
“Look.” He leans forward, hands clasped, elbows on his knees. He looks like Dad when he does that—old and formidable. “I may have gotten my hands a little dirty the last few years.”
I narrow my eyes. Clarence has gambled, fought, and killed with impunity. He’s gotten into bad drug games, messy arms deals, and even, supposedly, crossed paths with the DEA. He’s not fit for the mafia, much less to lead it. Sampson knows—and that’s why he tapped me too.
“But I’m still top pick, Malcom. You don’t have a shot in hell at taking over. So back the fuck out, and let this play out the way it was always meant to. Okay?” He pours himself another whiskey and drinks it in one gulp, replacing the glass too hard on the table. “If you don’t, the next time I see you, it won’t be a sweet little catch-up like this. Understand?”
He claps me on the shoulder as he passes.
“We have to have an heir,” I remind him, not looking up, even though I sense him stop on the threshold. “Sampson Gladwell knows the importance of family. You don’t have an heir, Clarence.”
“You don’t know that, little brother.”
I look at him sharply, and find his eyes glittering with cruel amusement.
“And anyway,” he adds, “last I checked, you don’t have one either.” He drums his fingers on the doorframe. “Think about what I said, kid.”
And with that, he’s gone. I watch the cars speed off onto the gravel road and disappear into the huddled hills. Dawn is alighting, and I have another job lined up in the city. I straighten my gloves, clean up any prints I might have left, and leave.
But my head is still spinning as I hit the highway. Clarence revealed two important things to me today.
One, he might have an heir up his sleeve—a kid somewhere, whose paternity he’s probably denied until now, when it might actually be worth something to him.
And two—he doesn’t know about Emma Rosen.
But it’s only a matter of time until he does.
5
Emma
On the fourth day after Malcom leaves, I finally give in.
The maids, Callie and Jen, have been gently coaxing me closer and closer—and I agree, it’s time. To shower.
It’s utter bliss. I was determined to last much longer, but with Malcom absent, the protest was starting to feel desperate and useless. I scrub every inch of myself in the sprawling tile shower, shampoo my hair three times, and even indulge in lotion. I have to remind myself I’m not grooming for him. This is for me. And anyway, Malcom isn’t here to enjoy how lovely I smell after almost a week of captivity.
“That’s better, Miss, isn’t it?” Callie beams at me as I emerge. There’s a fresh fire in the hearth, and a long-sleeved blue dress on the bed. When I go to protest, Callie will hear no objection. “We’ve already thrown out the rest of yours clothes, Miss. It’ll be this or nothing at all.”
I’m too tired and anxious to fight this—and anyway, I’ve decided it’s in my best interest to win them over. It’s something I’ve been working at delicately for the last four days, and I can see the effects already. Both Callie and Jen are sweet, strong, clever women. And as soon as I let myself be vulnerable with them, they admitted me to their good graces. Still, I don’t want to be too agreeable, or they’ll guess my plan.
“When will the master be back?” I ask, a little playfully, as they help me into the dress and soft white stockings. Jen begins brushing my hair. I don’t fight her, even though the domestic pleasure it gives me makes me even more vulnerable than I’m comfortable with.
“Very soon, Miss,” replies Callie, eying me thoughtfully as she places a pair of expensive-looking house slippers at my feet. “Perhaps even tonight.”
I don’t bother hiding my fear. But I wonder—is she lying? Trying to dissuade me from making any stupid decisions? I force myself to give her a small smile, as if to sayI won’t do anything foolish.She smiles back, gently dusting my shoulders. A confidant? Or a sentry for the man who ripped me from my life?
“Will you eat?” asks Jen, unassuming as she folds my towels. “You’ve barely touched a thing since you arrived.”
I need them to believe I’m accepting this life. Slowly, painfully, grudgingly—but accepting nonetheless. So I look sternly out the window and prepare to tell them no—then I sigh, giving in.
“I am hungry,” I admit, and this concession, small and false as it is, wins a smile from both of them.
