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Royce didn’t know a person could be as angry as he felt right then. It felt like fury raced through his veins instead of blood. He stared at his uncle. He was not going to stand for this. He’d leave now, but he would not be caving to the man’s new demands. He’d be coming back.
With help this time.
“Nick is going to give you the address of the painting I want. If you do not get it for me, I will not hesitate to kill your mother. It’s what she deserves for what she did anyway.”
“You harm my mother and I will see all of you dead.”
Corbin’s grin held fondness again, and it sent shivers of disgust down Royce’s back.
“You probably could kill a few of my men. You are that good. It’s why I brought so many. That’s what you do, isn’t it? You kill? The man you killed in Virginia. The man you beat to death with your own hands. You think he’s the reason your Michael died? Your Michael, like your Marc, both with weak hearts. It will be so easy—to get rid of Marc. Just as it was when those men killed your boyfriend in retaliation. Instead of you.” He curled his lip. “Whether I am involved or not, you will be the death of Foster with his affliction. One way or another.”
Royce turned and strode out of the house. He didn’t stop until he reached Marc’s car. Nick and the other man followed him as before, but he ignored them as he got in and drove off the property.
He got five miles away before having to pull over. He stared through the windshield, seeing nothing but Michael that last day. His small, slender form on the floor of their townhouse. Blood in a pool beneath him and splattered over walls in more than one room.
Michael had fought. Had run.
It hadn’t done any good. They hadn’t known about his heart condition until it had been too late.
He got out of Marc’s car and paced, realizing he was in the parking lot of an old strip mall. The fury ripping through him felt too large to contain and his own heart beat a fast, hard rhythm in complaint. He sucked in a lungful of air and leaned against the trunk of the car as the world spun around him. If he stayed with him, that same bloody end would come to Marc. He couldn’t do that to him. Couldn’t risk his life.
Oh fuck…Marc…
When two feet appeared in his vision, he snapped straight, his mouth falling open when he saw Quinn, Dominic, and Garrett. “What the fuck?” He looked around, feeling like someone had pulled him from the world he knew. “How?”
Anger darkened Quinn’s face and he spoke through gritted teeth. “Sven called us. He was worried. So I tracked your phone.” He growled and walked right up to Royce and grabbed his arms.
He shook him. Fucking shook him.
“You just fucking walked into a nest of murderous criminals. All by your fucking self! What the fuck is wrong with you? I’m so fucking mad, I don’t know how to process it, you fucking fuck!”
Royce couldn’t help his laugh and it shocked him because inside, knowing what he had to do, he was dying. “ ‘Well, that certainly illustrates the diversity of the word.’ ”
Quinn balled his hands into fists. “You’re quoting a movie? Right fucking now?”
Royce bit his lip. He couldn’t believe anyone could make him feel humor right then, but a livid Quinn was really cute. He’d never seen him yell like this. He looked at Dominic and Garrett to find twin expressions of fury on their faces. Quinn grabbed him and shook him again, bringing his attention back.
“Did you really not think we knew who your family was, Royce?”
“All of you?”
Dominic shook his head, but he still looked mad enough to punch Royce.
“Gidget, Rowe, and me. That’s who knows. Rowe was sure they’d rear their ugly heads at some point.”
“You knew?” he asked again.
“You don’t think we do extensive background searches before hiring?”
He shoved Quinn off. “Then why the fuck would Rowe have hired me?”
“Because he could tell you’re a good person.”
“I’m really not.”
Garrett snorted. He wore the Ward Security black polo shirt and pants like they were formal wear. Royce liked his security deceptive, and Garrett was no exception. The tall, black man with faint freckles across his nose and cheeks could have been a model and instead, he was an expert marksman and highly trained in Savate—a French form of kickboxing. Deceptive, deadly, and pretty was what Noah had called him. And yeah, he still looked pretty, even with the fierce frown decorating his face then. “You stupid son of a bitch. You are taking on the Karras family on your own? Why didn’t you call us?”
