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After years of chasing this fucker, it’s surreal knowing he’s in the same building as me. We’ll take him in, and his smartest move will be giving everybody up for an iota of leniency while in prison. There are too many people he’s already screwed over to risk going into general population once he’s behind bars, so he can either spend his life in the hole, or he can live somewhat comfortably in his own wing. It’ll piss me off that he gets any kind of comfort, but if we can take down even a small percentage of this empire, we’ll save thousands of lives.
This is why I do this. This is what makes losing years of my life worth it.
“Felton, when do we get a go on Sunday?” Christian calls from the far end of the table.
My muscles tense, and I slowly shift my murderous gaze to him. He’s still chewing on his steak, and I sate my rage by imagining how it would feel to ram the tapered end of a champagne bottle down his throat until his jaw cracked.
“Ew, don’t be disgusting,” Darcy says. “She’s my best friend.”
“Shut the fuck up, Darcy,” Christian bites back.
Felton slams his fist on the table. “Talk to her like that again and I’ll forget promises I’ve made, Christian.”
Darcy smirks, blowing a kiss to a furious Christian before finishing her drink and pouring herself another.
Sunday kisses behind my ear. “Drop the knife, C.”
I hadn’t even realized I’d picked it up, but my steak knife is in my fist, the wooden handle biting into my palm.
“Look at this bullshit,” Christian says, gesturing at Sunday. “It’s—” His oncoming rant is cut short, his attention snapping to the doorway. Sunday sits up, and the way she tenses tells me all I need to know about who has arrived.
Darcy grins, her eyes lighting up. “Daddy’s home.”
No one else dares to speak. Even Felton is quiet as he watches his father approach, dress shoes loud against the stone floor.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Michael says, reaching his son. “You’re in my seat, Felton.” Felton’s cheeks blaze, and he turns his face away as he stands, indicating for Darcy to move down. “She stays there. You can sit next to her.”
The disrespect almost has me feeling sorry for Felton, because the rest of the men are clearly amused by it.
Felton takes his seat as directed, watching as his father kisses Darcy’s wrist and she giggles. “You look beautiful, D.”
“It’s all for you, Daddy,” she whispers, snapping her teeth at him. “Do you remember my bestie from earlier? Sunday?”
Michael focuses on Sunday, green eyes drifting down her neck where his bruises remain. “I remember. And this must be Cage. My son won’t stop talking about you.”
“Singing your praises,” Felton says, clearly trying his best to insert himself into the conversation. He takes Darcy’s hand, lacing their fingers together, but she’s staring at Michael.
“It’s embarrassing that you kiss the ass of men not worthy to be seated at our table.” Michael’s words are cutting, and Felton’s cheeks redden further.
“Cage has been good to us,” he says, and luckily for him, the conversation between the other guests has continued, so no one is witnessing him scrambling to save face. “His deliveries were impeccable. We would’ve lost an entire shipment if he hadn’t taken charge in Jacksonville.”
The reminder has a chill gripping my spine, but I remain stoic, never losing eye contact with Michael.
Michael fucking Maddox. A monster is within arm’s reach of me, and I have to wait before I destroy him.
“Ah, yes. That mess.” Michael leans back in his chair, his fingertips dancing over Darcy’s open palm, clearly not giving a shit about being intimate with his future daughter-in-law. “Massacred twelve people.”
Sunday stills in my arms, and I pray she’ll let me explain once we get out of this mess.
“Beat twelve men to death!” Felton says, his smile fading as Darcy pulls her hand free of his in favor of turning her body toward Michael.
Michael looks less than impressed. “A good soldier would’ve made it go away quietly.”
“Dead people are quiet.” My voice brings an icy silence to the room, and the men at the end of the table are now fixed on our conversation. Darcy looks delighted, her eyes sparkling.
Michael smirks. “So, he speaks. This should make dinner interesting. Sunday, unless you plan on testing my patience, sit in your own chair. You’re not a child.”
She doesn’t move. Instead, she looks at me, and I give her a curt nod. With that, she climbs from my lap and into her seat, but I make a point of dragging her chair closer to me. Michael watches as I do it but doesn’t comment.
