Kira exhales. “God. I forgot how creepy this place is.”
“It’s a cemetery,” I remind her. “They’re not supposed to feel welcoming.”
She shoots me a look, then she twists in her seat, brows lifting in command mode. “Okay. Let’s rein it in. No PDA. Be respectful.”
“I don’t have to talk to anyone, do I?” Caleb catches my gaze in the mirror.
“I specifically don’t want you talking to anyone here,” I tell him. “The people here aren’t here for ourfather,” I give him a knowing look. “They’re here for James Landon.”
He nods, understanding. James doesn’t have family or friends, only business partners. As it is, I don’t even want Kira here— I don’t want anyone seeing a weakness to use against me.
I ease the Hellcat into the line of parked cars with darkened windows, the engine rumbling low before I kill it. “Alright,” I say, pushing open the door. “Let’s go say goodbye to a man none of us actually liked.”
The four of us step into the cold, and I tuck Kira into my side. Ahead, beneath a canopy of dead branches and a faint hum of murmurs, the delegation awaits.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Kira
Jax wasn’t kidding about the people attending the service. Not a single person looks mournful as the officiant says his final words. Their cold, calculated eyes say they’re only here for one thing—to make sure James is dead. Most of them are clearly bodyguards to several more important-looking men, not too dissimilar to Arnold in appearance.
I shudder at the feeling of being surrounded by sharks, all probably packing weapons under their heavy wool overcoats. The only one with a gun actually on display is the captain of the Cloverwick PD, a common deputy at his side. I only recognize him by his air of importance and the two silver bars on the collar of his uniform. I try not to look at him, not wanting to draw his attention. He’s the one that Jax went to in order to make the Marshal investigation go away, and I have no doubt he knows who I am, knows what was in the back of my truck.
As the congregation breaks apart, a man with a goatee and slicked-back hair clasps Jax on the back. It’s a chummy move, but Jax’s arm around my waist loosens, and he subtly shifts me away from him. There’s a warning in his tense muscles, and I take the hint. Backing up, I catch the man offering Jax a condolence with an undercurrent of phony sympathy.
I have no idea of the workings of Landon Enterprises, but I can tell when someone is trying to get in good with the new person in charge. But this isn’t a typical business, and these men don’t look like the type to stay cordial for long if they don’t get what they want.
I fall back until I’m on Nix’s side, where she and Caleb are standing before the neighboring gravestone. My shoulders sag when I realize who it belongs to. Katherine Landon. Caleb and Jax’s mother.
I don’t know how she passed, only that Jax loved her. Given the dates on the stone, it seems she died the same year Jax was a senior, which would put Caleb somewhere around nine.
“Car accident,” Caleb says without me having to ask.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him.
“She was really pretty,” he says. “But you wouldn’t know that because James didn’t keep any pictures of her.”
My heart aches at the admission, and I find myself loathing the man in the coffin beside me even more, if that’s possible.
“You’ll always have your memories. He can’t take that from you.”
He nods, and I place a hand on his back. My gaze absently finds Jax as I rub what I hope are soothing circles through Caleb’s coat. Jax’s chin is held high as a different man speaks to him, this one less amiable and more stony. But Jax exudes his own dangerous importance, and it’s a little scary how well he fits in with these men. He has a disinterested brow raised on his dark features and eyes that dare anyone to defy him.
My stomach does that warming thing it always does when I look at him, but this time I let it flow through me. I’ve embraced his danger—am protected by it. For the first time, I feel optimistic about the future, and go figure, it’s at a funeral.
Touching my lips to stop a smile, I pull my gaze away before I can get caught eye fucking him at his father’s burial.
The sound of tires on gravel pulls my attention, and I turn to find a chain of state troopers looping through the circular entrance. The commotion pulls more than just my gaze, and a quiet falls over the congregation as everyone hones in on the procession.
A black SUV slips in ahead, braking hard at an angle and jumping the curb. The tires crush the grass, and I wince as the troopers come to an abrupt halt behind it. The sharks I’m surrounded by eye each other with amused suspicion.
Jesus, is one of them about to be arrested?
The Cloverwick captain barges to the front, his chest puffed as the deputy scrambles to follow, and it’s clear he knew nothing about this. He parks himself like a sentinel before the band of international criminals, hand rested on his gun.
“What can I help you boys with?” he asks as the troopers climb out.
But it’s the man who steps out of the SUV that speaks. He’s wearing a crisp suit, shoes polished too nicely to be crunching in the sleet, and an unimpressed grimace. He’s handsome in a wet kind of city slicker way. Too noir for my taste, but still striking. He can’t be more than thirty.
