Chapter Thirteen
~ Macon ~
I paced the living room, the boards groaning under every pass. My jaw ached from grinding, a dull white line of pain radiating up into my skull. I didn’t notice at first—too busy replaying every syllable from the video call, dissecting it for threats, leverage, tells.
Harrison Steele had made his position clear: he would scorch the earth before he let his son vanish into the Montana dust. He wasn’t a man to bluster. If he said he’d make a move, there would be follow-through. I respected that.
It also made him dangerous.
The house was still, Carter napping, exhaustion having finally clubbed him down after his own confrontation with the old man. Even asleep, he radiated a kind of alertness, that animal awareness of someone who’d learned early on to sleep with one eye open.
I would never let anyone touch him again—not his father, not the world, not even the fragments of his own past.
I ran a quick diagnostic on my phone, checking the signal bars. Two strong, one flickering at the margin. I toggled to Airplane Mode, counted to five, then back online. Clean. I’d spent too long around people who knew how to jam, trace, or patch into a line for me to ever take it for granted.
I thumbed up the contact for Barrett Steele. He picked up on the second ring. Not surprised; the Steeles had the attention span of a loaded gun.
“O’Reilly,” he said, not a question.
“Barrett.” My voice sounded even, but the taste of copper was back on my tongue. “I need five minutes. This isn’t a courtesy call.”
A rustle, then the sound of him moving from one room to another. I pictured him in a glass office, the view behind him all Houston skyline, the light making him look like a cardboard cutout of a proper son. “You’ve got it. Is Carter all right?”
“He’s sleeping.” I made sure the tone conveyed both information and possession. “Harrison made contact. Threatened to cut Carter off. Offered a repatriation option—bring him home, make it all go away.”
“He always does.” Barrett didn’t sound surprised. “But he usually waits until he’s got more leverage. What changed?”
“He saw us. He saw the baby. And he saw that Carter wasn’t going to cave.”
The silence at the other end was measured in microseconds. “He’s not going to let it go.”
“No. And I’m not going to let him win.”
Another pause, this one deeper. I waited for the game theory calculus to catch up. “What do you need from me?”
“Two things.” I ticked them off. “First, tell your father that if he tries to come through the courts, I will take this to the press. Every dirty family secret. Every off-ledger transaction. You know my background. You know I can make things ugly.”
He exhaled, the sound edged with something almost like relief. “I believe you.”
“Second, make him understand that Carter is not alone. We are married. Legally. There’s no play here where he gets to erase me or undo the paperwork.”
I could hear Barrett’s pen scratching as he jotted notes. “Does Carter know you’re talking to me?”
“No,” I said. “I want it that way. He doesn’t need this on his conscience.”
Barrett’s voice dropped, all the old-boys-club smarm replaced with a hard-edged sincerity. “Are you threatening my father, O’Reilly?”
“No,” I said, “I’m telling you what’s coming if he keeps pushing. I want to impress upon you the fact that I will protect what’s mine any way that I can. That includes you, if you stay out of his blast radius.”
He was silent. Then: “You really love him, don’t you?”
The words hung there. Except for Carter, I’d never said them to anyone who wasn’t dying or already dead. But they came easy, as if I’d been rehearsing for years.
“Yes,” I said. “He’s my whole goddamn world. And if your father tries to destroy him, there’s no limit to what I’ll do in response.”
Barrett let out a single, barked laugh—genuine, tired, almost respectful. “You sound just like Rawley. Maybe that’s why Carter picked you.”
I let the comment slide. “Are we clear?”
