“My Barons think it was intentional,” I grunt, lowering the bar with control.
“Looks like a message to me.”
But who is the message for?
I rack the bar, sit up. “Did you bring me what I’ve been looking for?”
He nods toward the file. “It’s in there.”
“Thoughts?”
I straddle the bench again and take the folder he hands over. Flip to the marked page.
“I don’t think it’s a copycat,” he says. “Nothing lines up exactly, but I tracked down the boy like you asked.” My mind had been turning over Lavinia’s questions for days. “The details were buried deep, closed juvenile records, but I found them.”
I scan the heavy script–notes from the responding officer the night of the murder-suicide. Child, male, age three, located on scene. Covered in blood. Placed with social services.
Another page clipped behind it: a twenty-year-old adoption certificate, Forsyth Family Court seal. Date. Time.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter, seeing the name listed for the adoptive parent:Rufus Ashby.
The child?—
“Fucking hell,” I repeat.
“Yep.”
I look up at him. “Seriously?”
Max shakes his head, expression grim. “Poor bastard went from one sadistic murdering father to another.”
Lex Ashby is the son of the Forsyth Carver.
I close the file, the weight of it settling in my gut like lead because if there’s one truth in Forsyth, it’s that every tragedy inside the city limits will always lead directly back to a royal.
The Velvet Hideawayshines like a diamond in South Side, the former rapper’s mansion converted into something far more profitable than its original owner’s desired for a personal showpiece. Kendrick pulls the SUV around the back of the building, away from the light,easing the car to a stop. DK exits the passenger seat and meets me at the front of the car. The back entrance is nondescript: plain black door, a single bulb overhead, and a buzzer that’s more for show than security.
“Is this it?” he asks, eyeing the door like it might bite. The muscle-bound security guard standing at the door looks like he may actually be willing to bare his teeth in a fight.
Before I can answer, another car pulls up–a blue muscle car, engine growling low. Doors open and slam. Sy and Nick step out, both large and muscular, shoulders tense, already mid-argument that spills into the driveway. I look to see if my son will follow, but no, he seems to have stayed back tonight.
Probably for the best.
Nick’s voice cuts through the night. “If there’s a new body, then it can’t be Ballsack. Why the fuck hasn’t he been released?”
Sy runs a hand through his hair, his Bruin ring glinting under the streetlight. “I’m doing my best, baby brother. The police are holding him on outstanding charges. You need to stand down and let me figure it out.”
“You’re too fucking slow,” Nick snaps. “We’ve been patient. We’ve stood down. We’ve let that fucking Fed walk all over us and one of our men. This shit has to stop.” He tilts his head, that 237 crawling down his cheekbone, visible in the light. “Maybe it’s time you let me handle it.”
“Maybe it’s time for you to remember your fucking place.” Sy’s finger jabs into his brother’s chest. “You handed over the title. You supported me. Now you have to let me take care of the frat and everyone in it.”
They glare at one another, the air crackling.
“I swear to God, Sy, if he’s not released in the next twenty-four hours, I will break in myself and get him.”
I clear my throat.
They both look over. Nick scowls. Sy clenches his jaw.
