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I graze my knuckles over her battering pulse point. That’s gotta mean something. “Tell me I’m not what you want. Forget your family or any other bullshit reason you’ve convinced yourself to become someone you aren’t or to believe we don’t make sense. Tell me you don’t want me.”
Her eyes caper all over my face, swarming with an unwavering resolution but also regret. I’m not fabricating the regret. It’s there as much as her face is blanching at my provocation.
“That’s the thing, Liam; I can’t, but it still doesn’t matter.”
She ducks away from me, twisting the doorknob to leave, and I let her. This is far from over, but now isn’t the time. She’s tenacious—I’ll give her that. I just wish it were for us.
The Noires arrive with a commotion. It feels good to show off Felicity though. They’re all instantly smitten with her. It’s one thing to see Rena fawn over her with Ivy, Celeste, and Natasha, but there’s nothing like seeing nine soulless men, who cut off extremities for sport, wrapped around the itty-bitty finger of our precious doll.
It makes our move to New Orleans that much better. She’ll have an army of protectors. But that reminds me of the threats on the Carvers, so after twenty minutes of visiting, I flick my eyes to Wells. He knows exactly where my head is and ushers everyone toward the food and drinks while we skulk away with Ryker and Axel. Not before I shoot Gage a warning to keep the three prowling Noires away from Celeste though. He chuckles with a shake of his head but kicks his chin up in agreement. At least I won’t have to worry about that.
We pile into a lounge we have set aside for these types of conversations—business with those we trust. Only our immediate circle enters our personal offices, but this is an inviting space. Decorated like an old-fashioned cigar and brandy room—stamped tin ceiling, mahogany liquor-and-wine racks, brick on two walls, and shelves lining the other two. Black-and-white prohibition photos pull it all together.
For today, we forgo the cigars because of Felicity. She’s too little for us to have her breathing that stench in, and Wells is already a nervous wreck. Axel and Ryker don’t mind, but their unease is notable, so we liquor them up with the James Bond 60th anniversary Macallan. It was Wells’s wedding gift from Axel, and he saved it for just such an occasion. The Chief is always tactical.
Small talk isn’t our strong suit though, so eventually, Wells plunges right in. “Don’t make us pull teeth, Axel. Tell us what Pruitt has on you.”
The phrasing of his demand is direct on purpose. At this point, we know Pruitt’s got them by the balls one way or another. If we simply led with relation inquiries, they’d dance for us. We’re not in the mood for any more vagueness in this tangled quest.
Axel sips the amber liquid, sapphire eyes scanning Wells, face impassive. But Ryker’s jaw clenches. He conceals nothing.
Finally, Axel sets his crystal tumbler down, index finger tapping the side. “It’s regarding our parents. My father was unfaithful, flaunting his women in front of my mother without remorse.” He sighs. “She endured it for years, raising us with a stoic nature that never revealed how painful it was. Until she snapped and found a sidepiece of her own.”
Wells and I share a half-second glance. I’m guessing we both see where this is headed, but we wait. Ryker is betraying enough with the death grip on his glass.
Axel doles out another sizable pour to himself and Ryker, urging his younger brother to relax before he continues. “It lasted several years, maybe five from what we can deduce. She was in love. Although the situation wasn’t much better. He was also married but refused to leave his wife. During that time, my mother birthed two children.”
“Jax and Rena,” I venture.
“Yes,” he confirms. “They don’t know. Nor should they.”
“Understood,” Wells says, and I nod my compliance.
“My mother wasn’t even certain. Not until Jax got sick when he was eight. In passing, the doctor mentioned that his blood type was extremely rare—AB negative. My mother’s blood type was A. My father’s was O, so AB wasn’t possible. I think he could’ve accepted the affair, but not the offspring. So, he tested all of us.”
“Long story short,” Ryker growls after slamming back the rest of his drink, “the asshole wanted to get rid of them. Our mother pleaded with both him and the dipshit she fooled around with. Neither wanted her or the babies.”
“Your parents died in a fire, right?” Wells asks.
“Yes. We were away.”
The curtness of Axel’s response suggests there’s more to that, but not something we’re getting today. I’m not sure it even matters, so I try something else.
“So, the guy is related to Pruitt somehow? His dad, Mark Lancaster?” Distant relation. Pruitt’s father would make Jax and Rena his half-siblings, so that’s not it. I keep taking shots in the dark. “Or a cousin or uncle?”
“No.” Ryker helps himself to another glass. “Turns out Pruitt’s grandmother had the information. He claims there’s documentation.”
Wells swirls his scotch, the ice clinking together. “What did he want for it?”
Axel barks a humorless laugh, tension finally seeping into his body. “He’ll let us know.”
“How’d his grandmother stumble across this information?” I ask, wondering if she was one of Axel’s father’s scorned lovers. Knowing the family connection to Oliver Jensen, that could be a gold mine to hand Ivy. So, I immediately follow up my question with what I really want to know. “Who did your mom have the affair with?”
“His grandma is the guy’s older stepsister,” Ryker answers.
And as the truth is illuminated, everyone in the room spits out the name, “Johnny Balzano.”
So many questions swirl from there, but I need time to digest them. As a knighted chair of KORT, having an affair is a huge no-no, let alone turning away the illegitimate kids. That documentation is a double-edged sword for us. It slaughters Balzano, a man we despise, but could unveil a devastating secret the Noires clearly don’t want out.
