Page 69 of Grace

After we get through the first checkpoint, the guards stop our car, make Ortíz step out, take his service weapon, and search him. Seeing the arrogant cop reduced to scared prey puts a tight, cold smile on my face. He looks like a rabbit before it enters the den of a sly fox. Both sides of his pale face burn red, and even though he acts as if he was only trembling from nerves, he’s terrified—his pupils dilate and darken as he struggles for air, watching the guard dogs snap frothingly, their white teeth bared.

“You’ll get it back on the way out,” one of the guards tells him in a deep, measured voice. He’s dressed all in black, melting into the darkness.

Ortíz wipes his sweaty hands on his pants and grips the steering wheel. When we’re far enough from the guards, he starts swearing at them under his breath, his voice low. He’s as pale as a ghost.

“Everyone abuses their power. You cops ignore the law pretty often too.”

“Some of us do, yes.” He wipes his brow with a checked handkerchief. “But most of us are decent, honest people… son.”

“Then why do you serve Lucas?” I raise one eyebrow and cross my arms over my chest.

“It’s not just me.”

“I know. But that wasn’t the question.”

“Why do you want to hear my answer if you know so much?”

“There are two kinds of people who serve Lucas. And I’m curious which category you belong to.”

“At first, it was nice to have a bit of extra money. Back then, he only asked me for small things. Then the requests became more and more serious… and started to cross the line I had drawn. I said no—more than once.” Ortíz gazes into the emptiness, the bright light spilling from the mansion and illuminating his profile. His freckled skin is pale like a corpse, slick with a sheen of cold sweat.

“He kidnapped my son.”

“But he gave him back.”

“Only days later. Fortunately, he doesn’t remember much—he was only four years old. But his mother and I… those days were hell. I realized that if you don’t want anyone to get hurt, you shouldn’t say no to Lucas.”

He pauses. “What’s going to happen now? Will he get your ass out of trouble? Or will he let me put you behind bars again?”

My jaw clenches. I bite the inside of my mouth and taste blood on my tongue. I jump out of the run-down police car without a word. Lucas’s men move through the night like ghosts, two of them flanking me immediately and leading me to their boss.

The villa, adorned with enormous windows, boasts thirteen bedrooms, seventeen full bathrooms, and eight smaller ones. The largest communal space is dominated by an old-world fireplace, while coffered ceilings and vast arched passageways evoke the interior of a castle. We enter through double doors crafted from premium teak, and a grand foyer opens before us, leading into a four-thousand-square-foot formal living room.

At present, Lucas’s villa is the most expensive property—the most valuable home in all of Oklahoma.

The floors and surfaces are always so clean I can see my reflection in them.

The interiors have a refined, aristocratic style, defined by high-quality, handcrafted furniture—ornately carved and custom-made. Muted tones dominate the expansive spaces. Whites, light grays, soft neutrals, and creamy hues blend and alternate throughout. The chandelier hangers, as well as the cabinet and door handles, are finished in polished dark bronze. So much luxury.

Lucas is sitting in an armchair upholstered in white, wearing a suit—and a self-satisfied look on his face as he’s sipping whiskey and smoking a cigar. To his right sits the blonde whore—the cold-hearted bitch. Catherine.

I’m tense and bloody as I step into the room. My brother looks me up and down, smiling.

“You said you’d only watch her.”

“I was watching her,” I reply in a cool, calm voice.

Lucas tilts his head slightly and flashes me his charming smile. Arrogant prick. My brother is an arrogant prick—and a psychopath. It must run in the family.

His lips twist into a tight, self-satisfied smile. He wants me to lose control. I can feel my pulse in my fingertips. I let the knife slide down the sleeve of my hoodie. We both take a lightning-fast step toward each other. Lucas raises his hand and blocks my attack without spilling a drop of whiskey from his crystal glass.

He always kicked my ass when we were kids. He could probably kick my ass now too, if he wanted. Shitheads like that goddamn gang are easy to deal with. Lucas is a different beast entirely. He’s death made flesh.

He’s taller than me. Stronger. Leaner. And more vicious.

He inherited Dad’s features while I inherited Mom’s—my profile is mild, his is sharp and dangerous. His smile is malicious, his eyes radiate deceit.

He lets out an absent-minded laugh, then takes another sip of his whiskey.