It was sweet, if not cavity-inducing.
A dragon fruit sat on Nash’s cutting board next to his kitchen knife. The fruit would be Jonik’s next victim.
“Try it. For me. Please.” Jonik kissed Wren. He lingered. When he ended the kiss, he whispered, “You’ll like it. I promise.”
Wren licked his lips, as if he were tasting the last of the residuals of their kiss. His gaze seemed to focus on Jonik’s mouth. “I’ll try it, Daddy.”
Nash eavesdropped long enough. He cleared his throat before turning toward the mudroom to take off his boots and coat.
When he came back into the room, Jonik stood in front of the cutting board with Wren tucked in next to him.
Wren met his gaze with a smile. Nash was the only one Wren would have a conversation with besides Jonik. Everyone else in the family got a one-word response at best. “Hi. We’re staying here for a while again. Is that all right?”
Nash glanced at Jonik, who didn’t take his focus off the fruit. “You’re always welcome. You know that.”
Wren nodded. “We’re trying new food every week. This week is that weird-looking thing.”
Nash chuckled. Dragon fruit looked alien with its spiky leaves and red coloring. The inside was white with tiny black seeds dotting it.
“Trying new things, huh?”
“One of us doesn’t enjoy exploring new foods.”
Wren rolled his eyes. “We’re on a culinary journey.”
Nash smiled and sat on the barstool on the opposite side of the counter. “So, what’s going on?”
He probably should have waited until he got some sleep. He was too tired to listen to Jonik explain about the next job his uncle needed Nash to go on, although their staying a while had nothing to do with why they were there. Nash was the only other person Wren trusted besides Jonik. He shied away from everyone else. It was hard to watch him around other people. The way he winced and plastered himself against Jonik spoke of a horrible past. The constant reminder was heartbreaking. If Wren felt safe in Nash’s house, then he could move in if it helped him feel secure.
Jonik nodded at an envelope at the other end of the kitchen island. “I need a favor.”
“You need one? Not your uncle?” Nash had to stretch pretty far to reach it, but he got it and opened it.
“My uncle is helping. He’ll be the one to go over the finer details. He’s good at creating stories for his infiltrators, as you know.”
Nash was well aware of Uncle’s skills. Nash had played anything from a biker, which wasn’t that much of a stretch, to a married business executive with three kids and a dog named Sport.
Nash wouldn’t win an Oscar for his performance. That much he knew. His strongest asset was being unmemorable to most people. He knew how to blend into any environment and could navigate most situations. If he wore his cut, he didn’t blend in anywhere except at the club.
“I’m tired.”
“It’s Michael Mallor, Nash.” Jonik turned toward Wren and wrapped his arms around him.
Nash’s stomach dropped. He growled when his dragon came to the surface again and then left the room so he wouldn’t scare Wren. Wren had his own demons wreaking havoc inside his mind. He flinched at shadows. He didn’t need Nash making it all worse.
In the living room, he stared at the blank television screen as if it played the script of his past. His brother took the worst of what Michael Mallor did to them to get him to leave Nash alone. It had worked until Axel couldn’t take any more and had finally succumbed to Mallor’s playtime. Two days after Axel’s death, Daruss and Izzy had rescued Nash. Forty-seven years after that, Mallor resurfaced. After all the years of searching for him, Jonik’s mafia ties were the people who found him.
The Sylvian Mafia had their own agenda regarding Mallor, but they wanted the same result as Nash.
Jonik walked into the room. “You don’t have to. If it’s too much. But Uncle needs someone who can get into exclusive clubs and blend in. There’s no one better than you. He doesn’t know of your personal vendetta. Unless you tell him.”
Nash turned to meet Jonik’s gaze. “You found him. For me.”
”Uncle wants him dead too. He hasn’t stopped. He’s just gotten better at hiding.”
Time felt like nothing at all. As though space existed between the teenage him who had watched his family die at a sociopath’s hand, and the person standing in his kitchen, agreeing to face down the monster who still haunted his nightmares.
“When do I leave?”
