It’s an order. One I know better than to disobey.
Despite the years he didn’t know I existed, the years I spent with my aunt, and those I spent working for Dante, Rhett Willard introduces a sense of danger into my world.
It doesn’t matter that at this point I’ve killed and tortured more men than he ever has.
Heis the boss in Ohio. Always has been, always will be until the day he heaves his last breath.
No one threatens the man. He’s an entity in himself. While Dante sits on top of the food chain, his allies spanning across multiple states and most of Europe, Rhett is the lone ranger no one bothers.
You don’t poke a bear without losing an arm.
He’s as ruthless as they come. Unpredictable. Void of any moral compass. He only cares about himself, and that attitude appeals to the worst of the worst. Rhett has no allies, officially, but there are men who’d stand by his side for personal gain. Men who admire and follow him blindly.
“I said,sit,” he denotes.
I move. On autopilot, on weak, shaky legs, I cross the living room, sinking into the faded-yellow wingback chair, a cloud of dust swirling in the air. Silently, I marshal the misery tearing me apart as I fill the crystal glass to the brim.
My hands shake so hard I spill some over my jeans.
Fuck. My heart’s shattered, the pieces morphing into tiny shards of glass that make sieves out of my lungs.
I take a hefty swig. The amber liquid burns my throat and numbs my tongue but doesn’t ease the pain.
My little sister.
Dead.
Gone.
Suicide.
“Why?” I rasp. “When? What the fuck happened?”
Rhett pins me with a cool, calculated stare. He’s composed. Too fucking composed even for him.
It isn’t the reaction I’d expect from a man who’s lost his daughter. There’s sadness in his eyes, but it’s dimmed. Dull, processed...accepted.
“Almost two weeks ago.”
I jump to my feet. “Two weeks?”
I’m pacing. It’s either that or shooting everything in sight. Back and forth, my heavy boots mark the pink carpet. The room sways, spins, and Rhett’s silence drives me wild.
“She’s been dead for twofucking weeks and you’re only telling me now?!” I whirl to face him, my true, dark colors—closely matching his—on full display as my grief morphs into rage. “Start.Talking!”
“Carter.” Apollo’s voice breaches the silence, calm and steady, but his gun, aimed between my eyes, tells me he’s not as composed as he sounds. “Put it down, son.”
My eyebrows knot in the middle, confusion twisting my gut. Why the fuck—?
I trail his line of sight, finding my gun grasped in my right hand, safety flipped, my index finger grazing the trigger. I’m not aiming anywhere in particular, but I am holding it.
Shoving the cold steel back into the holster, I snatch the half-empty glass, chugging until there’s not one drop left. Then, I refill, gulping more until the burn fills my stomach. Until I trust myself to sit and listen without murdering Rhett for keeping my sister’s death a secret.
“Did she tell you about her boyfriend?” he asks, his assessing eyes narrowed.
“Boyfriend? She had aboyfriend? She was a fucking child, Rhett! Why—”
“I’ll take that as ano,” he cuts in, letting my anger fly over his head.
