Archie’s draped casually over the chair at the head of the table, sipping his espresso like he owns my estate. Dale’s across from him, her dark lipstick smudged on the rim of her cup, her legs crossed tightly in her dress from last night. Her eyes are rimmed red, and it looks like she just finished crying.
Hudson turns as we enter, standing at the breakfast bar, helping himself to a plate of eggs. His eyes skim over Martine, then settle on me.
“Grab me a croissant,” Dale shouts over to her cousin Hudson, who rolls his eyes.
“Morning,” he says, too chipper.
I don’t smile. “Make yourself at home.”
Archie snorts into his cup. Dale doesn't look at us at all.
I pull out a chair and guide Martine down into it with a hand at the base of her neck. She sits obediently, her eyes low, and, like a good girl, remains silent.
Dale raises an eyebrow at Martine's lack of greeting. “Martine? Is something wrong?”
“She’s fine,” I say flatly, ignoring her and motioning for service from my staff.
Marine keeps her head down, but I see the flush of red that’s taken to my darling's cheeks.
The butler appears with more coffee, setting a delicate porcelain cup before Martine. She reaches for it. Her hands are steady now, but only because she knows I’m watching.
The band of her wedding ring clinks awkwardly on the porcelain cup, and the room looks at her, causing her blush to deepen.
Archie’s watching too.
“So,” he says, voice light. “What’s the plan, Herron?”
I lean back in my chair, drape an arm across the back of Martine’s.
“She stays here. You and I go with Hudson. Dale can also stay and keep my wife company.”
“Fuck off,” Dale mutters, “I’m not sitting here while he’s out there with someone cutting his fingers off.” Her makeup is smudged a bit from last night, and I’m sure Martine is wishing I could send her to her room to get Dale a change of clothes.
I disregard her then, smile—cold and tight—and reach lazily for a slice of toast.
“Glad we’re all in agreement. Gentlemen, let’s move to my study and get to work.”
Before leaving the room, I lean down to whisper in my wife's ear, “You’re ok to chat with Dale, but when I return, I want your silence.”
She nods, leaning forward for my lips, and I take them in mine, loving the taste of her coffee on them.
We leave the women behind and step into the study. The room smells like cigarette smoke and the sharp tang of vodka—my scent, layered into the leather of the chairs and the old rug beneath our feet. Sunlight filters through the blinds in sharp slits, striping the desk with gold and shadow.
I stomp over to the bar cart and pour three hefty vodkas, one for each of us, and pass them out with the anger I can no longer stifle.
Someone wants to fuck with my wife, and I know exactly who that someone is.
After exchanging a glance with both men, we lift our glasses and throw the liquor back in one smooth, practiced motion. It burns down the throat, sharp and grounding, but none of us flinch. The time of day doesn’t matter. We don’t speak because we don’t need to. The silence between us is thick with the unspoken truth that something has shifted. The stakes are higher now, and we feel it settling over us.
I dial the secure line by memory. A single ring takes me to the head of my private security. The security responsible for overseeing my estate, my wife, and any other Brotherhood projects to which they are assigned.
I’ve used them for selfish, horrific things, and today I’ll use them to exact revenge.
“Bring in the lead on the Douglass case. I want him in my study in ten.”
The voice on the other end confirms, clipped and professional. I end the call and pour a measure of vodka again, even though it’s barely ten in the morning. Hudson and Archie exchange a look but say nothing, and hand back their glasses for their own fill of liquor.
None of us has slept, and the day simply feels like a continuation of the previous night.
