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Chapter six
“Change of plans. Meet us at Lincoln’s place.” Grey’s voice echoed through the sound system in my Pagani.
Lincoln Huntington owned a restored theater off 42ndStreet. His sister, Tatum, used to hold ballets there. Now that she was gone, it was permanently set up for underground, amateur MMA fights—the kind that didn’t go by the rules of any organization other than Bro Code.
“What about my house guest?” Also known as the pain in my ass for the unforeseeable future.
“I have a feeling she’ll behave herself.”
Translation: He threatened her.
Great. I was a cunning fox going home to a scared rabbit. As if the situation wasn’t fucked up already.
I cut my eyes to Leo, who was smirking to himself, then ended the call without a goodbye. “The fuck is so cute?” I asked him.
“Just picturing you folding towels and making beds. You gonna feed her pancakes and bring her coffee?”
“I’m gonna feed you my dick if you don’t shut the fuck up.”
“I give it a week ‘til she’s got you burning scented candles and watchingBridgerton.”
I pulled up to the curb and unlocked the doors. “Out.”
He cut his eyes at me. “The fuck? My apartment is thirteen blocks away.”
“Hopefully you wore your Adidas and not those slip-on pussy shoes.”
“They’re Hey Dudes, and they’re cool as shit. And have I told you lately that you’re a dick?”
“It’s been a minute,” I said as I reached across and opened his door. “Out.”
Leo rolled his eyes, then climbed out of the car, flipping me the bird as he slammed the door shut. I wasn’t the guy who made empty threats, and he’d witnessed enough to know it. If I saidget the fuck out, it wasn’t up for debate.
The rest of the drive was quiet, just the way I liked it.
In the parking lot behind the theater, Grey was leaning against the side of a black SUV with Caspian motherfucking Donahue standing next to him.
According to every major media outlet around the world, Caspian and his now-wife, Tatum, died in a plane crash over six months ago. The reports weren’t entirely untrue. The plane did crash. They just weren’t on it. I’d provided two lookalike decoys—people who owed a very dangerous man a shit ton of money. If I hadn’t killed them, he would have, and my way was quicker and a lot less painful.
I climbed out of my car and tugged at the cuffs of my shirt. “Shit must be getting real if you’re showing your face.”
Caspian and Tatum lived on a remote island near Barbados. I’d just spent a week there for their wedding. Grey was there. Lincoln was, too. Other than us and Tatum’s best friend Lyric, no one knew he was alive.
“Shit’s been real.” Caspian grinned. “It’s time to clean it up. It’s starting to stink.”
Grey grabbed the handle on the back door of the theater. “Are we ready?”
“Fuck yeah,” I answered.
“Let’s do it,” Caspian followed.
We followed a long hallway to what looked like it used to be a backstage area. And then it all opened up, bringing the auditorium into view. The theater was dark for the most part. An eerie red light beamed down from the rafters over the empty rows of seats, and a single spotlight highlighted the octagon-shaped fight cage.
Inside the cage, Malcolm Huntington, Lincoln’s father, held a knife to Lyric’s chest. Her skin was covered in blood and her tanned face was pale.
I wasn’t Linc, and Lyric wasn’t my girl, but even my black heart was filled with second-hand rage at seeing what that piece of shit did to her.
Lincoln was doubled over a few feet away with spit flying from his mouth as he seethed. His eyes narrowed in on his father.
