An elderly lady two homes over clutches her chest, walking backward as she keeps both eyes on us. A younger woman with her seems less afraid and more enthralled. It’s a testament to their eras. My father was a bastard with little regard for the locals unless they contributed to his wealth. Our legacy couldn’t be further from that. It’s still not great news to see us show up in their neighborhood, but it’s just harmless dancing right now.
When Don McLean belts out the line about it being the day that he dies, the door swings open. Prophetic. Music has a way of telling a story.
To be clear, I’m not committed to that outcome. But I never say never.
“Coffee?” I ask as I breeze past Hunter into a beautiful foyer.
High ceilings, lots of light, wood floors. I bet he imagined Tessa here, backed into a life she never wanted and an identity that wasn’t even hers—one she’d adopted to keep the peace with people who fail to see how out-of-this-world fantastic she is. The thought has me seeing red.
“Nice place.” Cash squeezes Hunter’s shoulder as he kicks the door shut behind him. “It’s a shame meeting you”—he flashes that wily grin of his and pauses for a beat too long before finishing his greeting—“this way.”
“Likewise,” Hunter deadpans.
Bold. This guy has balls—I’ll give him that. In too many places, but we’ll get there.
Still flicking my butterfly knife, I head straight for the kitchen with Hunter and Cash trailing behind me. “American Pie” keeps droning on to guide our reunion. It’s a long-ass song.
When I spot the half-full coffeepot with a tree of mugs beside it, nestled next to a knife block and a Bundt cake, I decide to make myself at home. Keeping my back to them with the small island between us, I tuck my butterfly knife into my pocket, choose a piece of cutlery from the block, cut a slice of cake, and pour a cup of joe, all while Cash has eyes on our esteemed host.
“Does Tessa know you’re here?” Hunter asks from the threshold with his preppy holier-than-thou bravado.
“You are a nonissue for her, Hunter, so it wouldn’t matter either way.” With my back still turned, I take a bite of the Bundt cake off the end of a chef’s knife. Store-bought but tasty. “Wasn’t that your theory when you took those trips to the Bahamas?”
And even with the music blaring, a slight creak in the floorboards alerts me to his position, his shift of weight due to nerves, and the fact that Cash hasn’t budged from his station three feet from him.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hunter lies.
And I spin, hurling the chef’s knife into the molding four inches from his temple.
“Fucking hell,” he hisses as his entire body flinches and trembles, finally giving me proper reverence.
Respect is earned.
Here’s an entertaining tidbit about me. When Axel became my legal guardian, I was pissed off at the fucking world. He solved that issue by allowing me to train with some of the most ruthless members we had and our circus performers. Those he trusted, of course. It was a valuable outlet for my inner ragewhile also preparing me for the creeps who could possibly take advantage of me, my empire, or those closest to me.
My father was the kind of demented asshole that people wanted revenge on long after he was burned to a crisp. We were at risk until Axel cleaned up our business, so in the meantime, he ensured we were prepared.
It wasn’t your average training. Scaling walls, car stunts, acrobatics, shooting, knife throwing, party tricks, and learning to do nearly all of that blindfolded, which led to echolocation—in the sense of painting a picture of my environment through only sound. My teen years were fucking weird, but it’s always gratifying when all that hard work comes into play.
“Want some cake, Cash? It’s not bad.” I grab a couple of plates out of the cupboard, having picked the right one on the first try.
That wins me an arched brow from my little brother. He’s in awe and a little unnerved anytime someone has any sort of psychic tendencies. It’s unsettling to a guy who can swindle a swindler.
“I could go for cake.” He saunters over to take the piece I dished out for him, grabs a fork from the utensil drawer, and helps himself to a cup of coffee.
Hunter stands frozen. Barely breathing.
Finally, I turn back to scrutinize his ashen face. “I’ve never understood lying at this stage. Early on, before there’s clarity as to whether you’re truly made? Sure. It’s a survival technique, but if the deranged man, who busted into your house and has access to a plethora of knives, confronts you with information you know to be true, you might as well fucking own it.”
Still nothing. Broken after one knife chucked at him. Boring.
“You keep thinking about your next move while I tell you what I know.” I hold up another chunk of cinnamon cake, skewered with a santoku knife, which has such a comfortablehandle, and cast a demented grin at Hunter. “There are some missing funds that I’ve been trying to locate for a colleague. The good news is, we have serial numbers on some of those bundles and friends in high places. We couldn’t get a hit on the money in the US, but eventually, we found it at a casino in the Bahamas. And when I ran the guest list for the past few years, guess whose name popped up. A lot.”
Hunter swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing with discomfort as he keeps his chin up. “I didn’t take anybody’s money.”
“I figured you’d say that.” I pop the treat into my mouth, wash it down with a swill of the steamy coffee, and point the blade at him with a thoughtful frown. “It might even be true. So, what were the trips for?”
“Business,” he states with absolute confidence.
