Page 54 of Revere: A Legacy Novel

A knock on the penthouse door made Cross lift his head from his hands. His phone rested on the couch beside him, unblinking with a missed message or call. Nothing to say someone would be coming over.

He was avoiding people as much as he could. It was possible that whoever was at his door wanted to check up on him. His step-father, maybe. Or Zeke. He kept his conversations with everyone stilted, short, and never too deep.

They knew something was wrong.

Cross wouldn’t let them pry.

The second knock came stronger—persistent. He pushed up from the couch with a sigh, ignoring the tiredness weighing down his body and mind.

Later, when asked, Cross would say his exhaustion was the only reason he didn’t check the peephole. He probably still would have opened the door even if he had looked.

Cross blinked out of the memory, and tried to loosen his grip on the steering wheel. His white-knuckled grip was the only true sign of his rage. Everything else was blank and cold. That was how he learned to deal with his rage, after all.

To shut off.

To go quiet.

Silence in screams.

Calm in chaos.

Indifference in restlessness.

It had taken him years to finally settle the wild boy he had once been. All the men around him growing up who told him rage and fast violence would make him weak had been right. It made him a target because he could be easily provoked, and quick to react.

Now, he could stare a man in the face while they erupted with their weaknesses, and smile. Their loss was his gain. They never saw his violence coming.

Calmly vicious. Silently seething. Indifferently cold.

For the most part, Cross took great pride in that. Today, however, he was struggling to keep it together.

His cell phone rang, and he didn’t even look down as he hit the Bluetooth button on his Range Rover. “Yeah, speak.”

“You called me first, man,” Zeke said through the speakers.

Cross took a sharp turn, not even checking his rearview mirror or turning on his blinker. He didn’t even know where he was going. All he knew was that he was heading back to the center of the city. “I need you to find out some information for me and fast.”

“How fast? I’m not a fucking miracle worker, Cross.”

“This shouldn’t be too hard,” Cross muttered.

“What is it?”

“Make some calls.”

“All right.”

“And find the Marcello Don for me,” Cross said. “Ten minutes, Zeke. I want a location in ten fucking minutes. Don’t test my patience today. It doesn’t even exist.”

He hung up before his friend could ask questions or refuse. He wasn’t explaining shit.

Cross stroked his bottom lip with his thumb, and he swore he was thrown back to that day in a blink all over again. Like he could taste the blood in his mouth from his busted lip.

A gun to the face hurt like hell.

Cross opened the penthouse door only to find a gun at his face. No, not pointing at him. Smashing into his face like a bag of fucking rocks. The hard, cold metal busted his lip open on impact, and loosened a few teeth. Blood bloomed in his mouth.

The shock of the attack sent Cross sprawling backward with a shout. His back hit the floor hard, and knocked the air right out of his lungs.