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My chest feels tight just thinking about Ma, and there’s no room for that here.
I select one of my favorite palette knives. A wooden eight-sided handle and a rounded point, it’s perfect for the small details on a canvas. And for navigating the intricate design of the human psyche.
“It’s a bold move, breaking into a man’s house,” I murmur as I slowly circle him.
“We didn’t go inside your house,” the man says, blood dripping from the cut on his lip.
I tap the end of my palette knife against my bottom lip before I stop and point it at him. “Except you did.”
He shakes his head, his greasy hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. “N-no, not me. I swear. I was outside the whole time.”
I nod a few times and continue my stroll around him. My footsteps echo with heavy thuds as I keep an easy pace. “Right. You stayed outside my house, unleashing a maelstrom of bullets at my woman and nephew.”
He grunts and looks away, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
“So tell me, Richard, how do you feel about nicknames?”
His head snaps toward me like he’s surprised by my question. “Nicknames are good?”
“I’ve got a few I think we should try out. Little Dicky. One-eyed Dick. Dicky No Hands.” I pause in front of him, tilting my head to the side and giving him a good once-over. I let the slumbering menace inside of me unfurl like a jungle cat, all lethal grace. “Now, I know they sound like dick jokes, and see, that’s intentional. Who doesn’t like a good dick pun, am I right, Richard?”
He nods, his head bobbing quickly in agreement. “Yeah, yeah. I love a good dick joke.”
I chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “And how do you feel about your dick?”
“I, uh, like it?” he stammers, his eyes wide as he looks around.
“Good because if you don’t start talking, I’m going to fucking cut it off.” I waggle the palette knife in front of him, letting the studio lights glint off the metal.
He flinches, his hips jerking back reflexively. But that won’t save him. Not when he’s tethered to the middle of my studio like a fish on a hook.
He licks his lips. “Fuck, okay, okay. Troy, he, uh, he made this deal with Masters.”
“Troy Moore, your president made a deal with Deran Masters, the old Savage Souls president?” I say it slowly, trying to puzzle out what the fuck kind of information ol’ Richard here will give me and if it’s valuable or not.
He nods too quickly. “Yeah. He approached our prez, cashed in on a favor. I don’t know what for. We just, uh, we just do what we’re told. You know how that goes.”
My phone rings, interrupting Richard’s rambling. I pull it out of my back pocket, my heart in my throat when I see an unfamiliar number. I’m across the room and into the lobby in a heartbeat.
“Hello?”
“Son?”
“Ma?” Relief takes my knees out, and I have to lock them at the sound of her familiar voice.
8
NOVA
“Jesus fucking Christ, Ma. You’ve given all of us a goddamn heart attack,” I rush out, feeling like I’m out of breath with relief.
“Is that any kind of way to talk to your mother, Asher St. James?”
I welcome the reproach in her voice with open fucking arms. I drag my hand down my face and let out an exhale that I feel in my soul.
“Where are you, Ma? Are you guys okay?”
“We’re at the safe house, the one on Lincoln. I know protocol says to wait another hour, but I couldn’t. I’ve been worried sick about you boys and Evangeline. Tell me what happened. Are you safe? Where is your brother? And Bane?”
