“Shit,” I breathe, blowing a lungful of smoke against the door in front of me.
I know what you’re thinking: There’s no way a father would use his seventeen-year-old son as bait.No dad would send his kid walking into a situation to spring a trap, just so his soldiers could do whatever it was they were supposed to do.And normally you would be right.No normal dad would do any of that.
But as I said, Gem Boudreaux doesn’t like me all that much.
And if I was him, I might think that a seventeen-year-old kid who’d recently become friends with the Landry girl was exactly the right person to spring such a trap.After all, I have a good reason for being here.
In theory, I could be here to see Brooks Landry.
“Fuck,” I mutter, and this time I put a lot more heat behind the word.
Because that makes more sense than I like, and I should have seen it before I was standing in front of Dominick Landry’s fucking door.Already on his property.
Inside walls that will make it nearly difficult to escape quickly, regardless of the sport bike sitting in the driveway waiting for me.
I slip my hand around to my back and caress the pistol I keep in my holster there, then let my fingers travel into my pocket for the butterfly knife.At least I didn’t get here unarmed.
I just need to work on figuring out my father’s plans more quickly.Especially if he’s starting to think I need to take a bigger role in the family business.
Nothing to be done about it now.I’m here, and I know this place is covered in cameras.Someone inside this house already knows I’m here, standing on the doorstep like a nervous suitor afraid to knock on the door and see the girl he’s been dreaming of.
The damage is done.No going back.
I paste a sly grin on my face, stiffen my back, and raise my hand to knock on the door.
* * *
The moment the door opens, I know something is wrong.The man at the door isn’t the butler–who I’ve never seen but know exists–but instead a man wearing all black fatigues and a mask around the bottom half of his face.He’s taller than me by a foot at least, even though I’m tall for my age, and has sunglasses on.
In the house.
In the middle of the night.
He also has a high-capacity automatic rifle strapped across his chest, complete with a scope and a silencer attached.
This man isn’t meant to be in a fucking house.He belongs on a battlefield, or at the very least out in the yard, looking out for invaders like me.I don’t even think he’s one of Dom’s regular guys.I’ve never seen his soldiers in anything other than sharp black fits, their hair combed and their loafers perfectly shiny.They’re deadly, no doubt about that, but they always look good doing it.
This guy looks like he just got back from slicing a body from hip to sternum and pulling out the organs to sell them on the black market.
The thought should bring me pause or at least counsel caution, but I’ve never been one to obey those sorts of rules.
“I wear my sunglasses at night,” I murmur, giving him my most sarcastic look.“Bold of you to have them on in the house, though.Hard to see the bad guys if you’re already impeding your vision, isn’t it?”
I don’t wait for him to answer, but push right past and into the foyer before he can say anything.“I’m here to see Dom.”
“He’s busy,” the man snaps, stepping around me and putting his massive bulk between me and the rest of the house.“And who the fuck are you to come in here asking for him?”
I look up at the guy, anger growing in my belly at being spoken to like this.This asshole might look like a serial killer but he’s obviously nothing more than a soldier, here to do a job.
And I’m the fucking Boudreaux heir.
He shouldn’t even be looking me in the fucking eye.
“Lucien Boudreaux,” I tell him, letting my voice fill with ice.“Heir to the Boudreaux family and all that comes with it.So I’d suggest you remember your place when you’re speaking to me.I’m here to see Dominick Landry, and I have important business with him.I don’t give a fuck if he’s busy.He can put it on pause and give me the five minutes he owes my father.”
The man looks like he’s going to argue and I stretch up to my full height, wishing like hell I’d worn something more impressive than jeans and a t-shirt.
Though I didn’t exactly think I’d be coming in here to have a dick-measuring contest with some jacked-up Rambo.
