“Dex, is he alive as well?”
A sudden wave of pity catches me off guard as I look at her—really look at her. I realize the weight of what she’s lost in such a short time. Everything I’ve taken from her. Everything the Brotherhood has stripped away. And how much more I’ll demand before it’s over.
“No, darling, he isn’t,” I tell her softly, watching the understanding and sobering truth course over her features.
“Hayden, we have to go.” Archie interrupts, and Martine straightens herself, putting her head back down in her submissive stance.
“I’ll be back soon.” I kiss her cheek before I follow Archie out of my study and to the front entrance of the Estate.
Outside, the sun is too bright for what we’re about to do.
We move as a unit—me, Archie, and Hudson—our footsteps heavy on the gravel drive as we head for the car. Each of us armed, guns tucked beneath tailored jackets, my knife at my waistband like a third hand. No words are needed as I unlock the doors of my Range Rover. The tension has already settled, thick and inevitable.
“He’s certainly on the yacht,” Hudson says, sliding into the passenger seat, voice low but certain.
“But is Ford?” Archie adds, casually resting his hand on the grip of his pistol.
I say nothing, just drive. The engine hums beneath us as the city falls away.
“Look, I’m always happy to help guys, but why is it we’re pissed?” Hudson says lightly, like only a Taft could, making a joke or a party out of a serious situation.
“You may want to shut up and pay attention, Hudson, this has to do with you, too.” I snarl, opening the glove box and throwing a manila envelope onto his lap.
I veer right onto the freeway, zooming past cars at an illegal speed.
Photos fall out of the envelope into his lap, and Hudson picks them up slowly, his brow furrowing at the disgusting graphics he now holds.
One by one, he sorts through the images, each growing in clarity, lashing him with photos of his father fucking Martine's mother.
“What the fuck is this?” Hudson growls, holding a zoomed-in, black-and-white, grainy security image of his father taking Margaux from behind at The Seraphim Club.
“I’m sure you know exactly what that is,” I say, annoyed. I’m sure seeing his father fuck Martine's mother is shocking, but I don’t have time to console his ego, nor would I if I had the time.
“You’re telling me Martine is my...” He shakes his head, reaching into his sports coat for a cigarette, lighting it quickly, and taking a deep inhale.
“Half sister—” Archie starts laughing, “God, Dale and Martine are related? No wonder.”
Hudson simply tucks the photos into the envelope and returns them to the glove box, and takes another deep drag of his cigarette.
“So this whole time there's been a Huntington-Russell-Taft baby, and no one knew.”
I just throw Hudson a sideways glare, surprised at how slow his brain is moving as we race to the boat dock.
“Well, Huntington-Russell by birth, Taft by blood.” I clarify.
I coast the car with my knee as I light a cigarette of my own, impressed at Archie's ability to piece all of the puzzle together. He’s always been a great assignment teammate, no matter how deeply he grates my nerves.
Hudson sits in contemplative silence, and I let it, knowing the siblings will have a lot to talk about once they’re reunited.
“This isn’t a good thing, guys,” Hudson says quietly, suddenly understanding why it’s a bigger secret than some simple family gossip. There are always consequences in the Brotherhood, and Martine could seriously suffer them if her bloodline were exposed.
Being the heir to the Huntington-Russell fortune as a Taft would be a mess the Brotherhood wouldn’t look too kindly at. It would warp the power allotted to each founding family in the Brotherhood, giving Martine far too much. I’ve tormented myself over finding a solution to protect her from the imbalance,and so far, my only surefire fix for this problem is to bury it with my bare hands. Starting with Douglass.
This isn’t a burden. It’s a fucking insult. Martine is my wife, and I don’t give a single shit who her family is or how they’re connected. None of it matters—unless it puts her in danger. And right now, it has.
Her uncle crossed a line. He dragged her into something she never should’ve been part of. He threatened her. He taunted her with her brother, as if it were some twisted game.
And because of that, I’m past rage. I’m fucking volcanic. I will burn this entire thing to the ground before I let anyone touch what’s mine again. Even a threat is too far.
