• ten •

“They see your cocky ass coming a mile away.”

King

Sitting across from the man who had been the cause of my name, I took a drink of the whiskey in my glass.

Barrett Kingston, Storm’s father, had made a bet with my father thirty-four years ago that my dad lost. Technically, my dad was supposed to name me Kingston because he’d lost to Barrett, but my mother had been furious, seeing as she had planned on naming me Bash. In the end, she had settled for King. It was one of those stories I’d heard a million times, and I couldn’t say I was mad about it. I liked my name. What kind of fucking name was Bash anyway?

“Where is Stellan?” my father asked as he stepped into Stellan Shephard’s office.

He seemed annoyed that we had all been called here, and Stellan not being here yet was going to be an issue.

“Pour yourself a drink and stop scowling, Ronan,” Barrett said to him. “Stellan is on his way. He went in the lead car that escorted Blaise back to the airstrip. Before you ask about their whereabouts, Thatcher and Storm are in the follow car, and Monte is in the library, downloading files that Wilder sent him.”

Dad sighed and shrugged out of his jacket, then made his way to the bar, only giving me a brief nod as he passed. I didn’t bother to respond. I just took another drink and cut my eyes over to Wells, who was arguing with his father, Roland, about the fact that his younger brother, Teller, wasn’t more involved yet in the family business. Teller was only nineteen, and, sure, we’d had to step up at that age, but why make Teller? He could actually enjoy college without the stress of the life he’d been born into just yet. Wells saw it differently though. He’d not gotten to finish his four years at the University of Alabama as QB one because of his responsibilities to the family. He was still fucking bitter about it too.

“Maeme tells me that the wife was abused regularly,” Dad said, taking the seat to my left.

I turned my attention to him. “Yeah, the X-ray is fucking brutal.”

Dad’s scowl deepened. “Should have let Thatcher kill the bastard.”

“He will, but first, we need to get the money,” Barrett pointed out.

“We got all his money and his wife. A week is more time than he should have been given,” Dad replied.

“We left him bleeding out, Dad. He can’t do much at the moment. He’s in the hospital,” I reminded him.

Dad took a drink, then put a cigar in his mouth to light it. “Pansy-ass,” Dad said, his teeth clenched around the cigar.

“We also need more information from him,” Barrett added. “We need names, other properties he sold and profited from that he didn’t own.”

“We can find that out while he’s strung up in the cellar,” Dad said.

Barrett shrugged like that was a given. Which it was. I myself was looking forward to getting my own revenge on Churchill Millroe. I wasn’t going to tell them that though. They’d get the wrong idea and assume I was planning on fucking Carmella Millroe—or Rumor, as she wanted to be called. It was her name before she changed it after all. But Beauregard wasn’t. She’d thrown that name out there, and I was curious as to where she’d gotten it from. I couldn’t exactly ask her that though.

“Maeme has her settled in the shotgun house then?” Roland asked, walking over to us and leaving Wells looking annoyed.

I nodded. “Yeah. She seems less like a flight risk now. She likes the place. Doesn’t mean she won’t try and run as soon as she’s healed.”

“She’s strung tight,” Wells said. “Even with Casanova over there.”

I smirked. “I got her here, didn’t I?”

Wells shrugged. “Yeah, but Maeme made her stay. You had nothing to do with that. Losing your touch with old age. I might have to step up and take your place as Prince Charming.”

Barrett chuckled. “You might have the looks, kid, but you don’t have the charm. They see your cocky ass coming a mile away. King here has the talent to hide it.”

The door opened, and Storm came inside, followed by Thatcher. They were laughing about something—well, Storm was, and Thatcher had a small tug on his lips, which was as close to amused as he got. Storm’s gaze met mine, and he grinned bigger.

“There’s Mr. Wonderful,” he said.

I raised my eyebrows. “Glad you finally realized it,” I replied.

He laughed and shook his head. “Not me. I know you’re an asshole, but it seems our hurt little sparrow is blinded by that pretty-boy face of yours.”

I straightened in my seat and studied him. “What are you talking about?”

He glanced over at Thatcher, who was headed to the bar, not at all interested in the conversation. He sank down on the seat to my right and sighed. “Well, Maeme sent me back to the cottage with an apple pie she had made for Rumor—that’s what we are supposed to call her, right?”

I nodded and narrowed my eyes, wanting him to finish whatever he was going to say.

“She wouldn’t open the door for me. Talked to me through the damn door. Asked where you were in fact. Told me to leave or she would call you. If we hadn’t been called here, I might have sat down on that rocking chair and let her call you. That would have been a fun little turn of events.”

“Don’t fuck around with her. She’s been abused, and she’s scared shitless.”

I glared at him. He knew this. We all did. Why didn’t he take it more seriously? She needed to be handled delicately.

“And you don’t fuck around with her either—even if she wants you to,” he replied, wagging his eyebrows at me.

“I don’t plan on it. She might be married to a goddamn narcissistic bastard, but she’s still married. I don’t do drama and baggage.”

“She’ll be a widow in about a week,” Thatcher said, leaning back against the edge of the desk and crossing his ankles.

I gave him a warning look. He would never take the time to even attempt to gain her trust. But I didn’t like the insinuation. That got a deep chuckle out of him.

“We have real shit to discuss. We aren’t here to talk about pussy,” Roland said just as the door opened, and Wilder’s father and Roland’s older brother, Monte, walked inside.

Monte held up some papers in his hands. “Got what we needed. His accounts have been drained, and all his money is sitting in one of our accounts in Switzerland. He’ll find out soon enough.”

“Guess we will be torturing and killing sooner rather than later,” Thatcher drawled, looking entirely too pleased.

“Bloodthirsty, brother? You just shot the man two days ago,” I pointed out, not that I wasn’t ready to hear Churchill beg for his life and wail in agony.

Thatcher cut his gaze to mine. “Don’t act like you aren’t ready for her to be a widow.”

I stood up. “I want her free of that piece of shit, and I want him to pay. But that’s it.”

He smirked. “Sure. That’s all you want.”

I wasn’t going to argue. He was trying to bait me. I knew him too well. Unlike the younger guys, who always fell for his shit and let him get them worked up, I was unphased. Instead, I just chuckled and shook my head before going to fill up my glass. Our meeting had just been extended.

“Boss made it clear—no one fucks her,” Monte said, his eyes leveled on me.

Fine. I hadn’t planned on it.