“People don’t like it when the flame becomes a wildfire.
Fuck them. Burn anyway.”
—Erin Van Vuren
“Hang up the phone.”
Raife’s eyes brighten when he glances at me. The shithead. He grins and waves me over, cell phone still pressed to his ear and feet kicked up on his desk. I stroll toward him, snatch the phone, end the call, then toss it back.
“Okay, that was a little rude.” He lowers his feet to the ground and sits up to slip the phone into his pocket. “That could have been a client.”
“It wasn’t.”
“It could have been.”
I sit across from him and relax into the seat, contemplating.
Raife runs our business front. The first dime the four of us ever claimed as a group was fromMisha, the underground name that now motivates everything we do. It took years, a shitload of trial and error, and hard-as-fuck work for us to become the well-oiled machine we are now. But early on following Katerina’s death, Felix worked out how to infiltrate some of her offshore accounts and make her profits ours—under our new names once we’d reinvented ourselves.
Over time, we learned to repeat the process with all the kills on our list. If they made so much as a penny off the shit Katerina, Hugo, and Murphy executed, it’s guaranteed to become ours, eventually.
Of course, there’s no goddamn way I’m going to live, eat, and sleep off the money that’s behind our black souls—hence our front: Matthews House, Inc. Selling cryptocurrency allows us to stay behind the scenes, working online or through Skype, and with three of the branches we developed now topping cryptocurrencies worldwide, it funds our real agenda.
Which is my forte.
Raife is the face of Matthews House, Inc. while I focus on our list, and for the most part, it works—me staying in the shadows. I’m not exactly social.
“They want in,” Raife says on a pleased sigh.
“Which account?” I check my watch, then swipe a hand over my mouth, wondering if Emmy is in my room by now.
On my bed.
In my sheets.
“Silver Jack. But I have a feeling that’s not what you came by to discuss.” I grit my teeth. Raife smirks and folds his hands on the desk. “Hoping I have moredealsto offer?”
Resting my ankle over my opposite knee, I look him straight in the eye. “She’s mine now, Raife.”
His eyes flicker with triumph. “Is that righ—”
“Cut the shit. Stella would’ve informed you by now.”
His grin widens in response.
“I came to tell you myself”—I lean forward, ensuring he can read the severity of my expression—“so I could personally see that you understand when I tell you not to fucking touch her.”
“Well, now that just doesn’t seem fair to the poor girl.” His voice drips with amusement. “We both know you won’t touch her. You’re going to force her to be deprived just because you are?”
Tension pulls my muscles tight, and my fingers rap against the leather armrest. “If I’m not mistaken, I’m the only reason sheisn’tdeprived right now.”
Raife inches forward so we’re level. “Yes, and how was that for you? When she came apart on your hands.” Blood rushes to my veins, hot flames dancing beneath my skin as my adrenaline spikes. Raife cocks his head. “Careful with her, little brother, or your preciouscontroljust might snap.”
A muscle in my jaw twitches, and I run my fingers across the bottom of my chin.
Raife is the only one who knows firsthand how close I got to Sofia. The way I childishly convinced myself I was some kind of savior, the promises I made to get her out of there, to give her a chance to grow up and have a normal life. Then how her death almost unraveled me completely.
Before I found an outlet through sex and blood.
