“Agreed,” I snap. “It’s not a fucking joke. It involves my family. So, tell me what you’re hiding, or I’ll find something else of yours to smash.”
“You can’t punch your way out of this one. It’s not your wheelhouse. Just let it the fuck go.”
“I don’t see that happening,” I huff. “I have been patient. But as you know, it’s not my strong suit. So, if you’re going to be a bone-head, I guess I’ll have to get it straight from the source.”
“You wouldn’t,” Kane grits through his teeth. And just like that, I sense the lid loosening.
“Sure, I will. Etheridges don’t get to fuck with my family. I will find out what they have on my father, one way or another.” I straighten Kane’s collar, then turn around to leave.
Kane lets out a deep sigh, and I can’t help the smug grin that splits my face as I look over my shoulder.
“They don’t have anything on your father.” Kane grips the Rubik’s Cube so hard in his fist, his knuckles turn white. “They have something on mine.”
I freeze on the spot. The rush of getting one over Kane, draining from my face.
Fucking fuck!
Worst fucking case.
Maybe that glasswasaimed at my head and my old man is just losing his sight.
Robert Berkeley is my father’s biggest strength and weakness. He is like a brother to him, who he will protect at any cost. Pretty sure he will put me up for slaughter to save Robert Berkeley if it comes to it. Or whatever is left of him, anyway.
Rob has always been known for doing things you don’t put on paper. Tom and my father spent their lives rescuing him from his bad decisions. Then he lost his wife. And soon after, his mind. It’s why my father took Kane under his wing.
“Do what you want with that. That’s all you’re getting from me.” Kane fixes his Rubik’s Cube and plops it back on his desk.
Typical Berkeley. All half-truths and secrets. Always the same fucking nonsense. Kane’s an asset to The Council. The strategist who stops fuckery before it happens. But his number one job isme. Or rather keep me from turning red.
It’s my father’s biggest fear—me embracing my madness and becoming the echo of the monster inside me.
Unstoppable. Inevitable. Matter of time.
Whenever I’m on the verge, Kane gives methatlook; the same one my father does when he wonders if this is that moment that marks me becoming my grandfather Morelli and joining his lineage rather than my father’s. A future that is mine to take if I wish. But I have no intention to. Not that anyone cares what I think. Their assumptions scream louder than my words.
“Fair enough.” I shrug and walk away, my mind churning already.
“Mase.” Kane’s grim voice stops me at the door. His darkgaze meets mine. I lift an eyebrow. “Stay the fuck away from the Etheridge girl.”
I let a grin slip.
How else am I going to uncover the truth?
Three hours later, I find myself exactly where I shouldn’t be. Where I find myself every night.
Across the street from Charlton House, a high-rise building with floor-to-ceiling windows and Juliet balconies. A luxury tower of aluminum and glass, befitting the class of its residents.
I kill the engine and take off my helmet, Flat 24D in my line of sight. Resting my foot on the ground, I light a cigarette and take a drag, letting the sweet poison fill my lungs before exhaling three rings of smoke in spitting rain.
Kane’s words drum in my head. And no, I can’t let it fucking go. The thought of the Etheridges having an upper hand makes my ribs press on my lungs like a fist I can’t unclench.
Though I probably should be expelling the heat winding inside me somewhere less nuclear.
When my temperature is this high, chaos is inevitable.
Over the years, I have learned to recognize the symptoms. That urge to rip something open, clawing at my fingers, the itch coiling up my spine like an electric wire, spitting sparks, every breath a negotiation between calm and explosion. And let’s face it, it’s always a fucking explosion.
I take another long drag, watching the three girls clustered around the kitchen counter, bathed under warm spotlights. Half-eaten, steaming, white cartons of Chinese takeaway lie between them. The tall one, platinum blond with purple in her hair is talking, lips moving too fast for coherent words. The one in black, wearing glasses, is frowning at her laptop. And then there’s her—the Etheridge girl. She sits on the barstool, herlong hair tied up in a messy bun, a short skirt peeking out of the hem of a baggy hoodie, one bare leg crossed over the other. Steam fogs the window, but I can still make out the shape of her waist, the curve of her neck, the way her chopsticks move like they’re painting the air. And those fucking eyes—like electric ice, the color of some cursed ocean, fiery and incapable of surrender.
