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Her pain makes my stomach sink. Her anguish makes my heart ache. But the car doors open, and guns glint in my peripherals.
These are our men, but I’ve been gone a long time, and the last time I was here, they were turning their weapons my way. That means I remain focused.
I lock my phone again and slide the device into my pocket, then I slip my handgun from its holster and merely hold it. Prepared. Unflinching.
My one and only warning.
Felix steps out of the car first, assuring them, I suppose, it’sjust us. Tim follows, so I slide to the right and step onto the concrete driveway I haven’t touched in half my life. My boots press down and my back straightens until I stand tall, then a guard who sank his foot into my ribs sixteen years ago looksupto meet my eyes.
I’m not a teen anymore, but a grown fucking man who won’t tolerate bullshit a second time.
I won’trunagain. I’ll merely walk out of here, and end the life of anyone who tries to stop me.
“Mr. Malone,” he swallows down the dread I know he feels in his stomach. The second he heard of my return, no doubt he was preparing for a bullet between his brows. “Long time, sir.”
“And yet,” I snarl in response, “my memory remains perfectly intact.”
I keep my gun in my right hand and my phone in my left pocket. I need to feel both. I need both touchstones to ground me and maintain my sanity.
I look to Felix when no one else says a word. “Where’s Tim?”
He knows I don’t speak of our brother, so with a small nod, he passes our guards and takes point as our trio climbs up the steps at the front of the house.
We pass through the doors, into the home that is, by and large, a mansion. Twelve bedrooms, a poolhouse, a gym, a sauna, an industrial kitchen, a block of security quarters, an armory, and whatever other shit a family on everyMost Wantedlist requires to survive.
The Malone family home has been modernized since I was last here. Rugs have been replaced, and paintings have been rotated throughout. Tapestries have been updated. But fireplaces roar the way they did my entire childhood.
Maybe my father thought fire indicated power. Or maybe he simply enjoyed brandy and a comfortable chair by the warmth each night when the world would go quiet.
I follow my brothers through the house, past the kitchen, and along deserted hallways. In the day, there would typically be maids and cooks bustling around, but tonight, there is nothing more than the echoes of our footsteps and the glint of lights bouncing off expensive glitters.
Not surprising, considering the late hour.
I keep my expression hard. My movements, robotic—but fluid enough to turn and fire if anyone wants to get noisy. I watch Tim’s back and make damn sure there’s no coup afoot, since he’s our oldest and the one who will inherit the family business when Timothy the Second passes.
Yet,myback itches, because no one watches it as we walk.
Still, Minka sits in my pocket, heavy and demanding. She calls me stupid, I’m sure, for coming back here when I swore I never would. She hates me for reneging on the rules I set down for myself, and justifies her own behavior—past and present.
If he can go there and step toward danger, then there isn’t a thing he can say about me defending the innocent and removing the scum from Copeland City’s streets.
“In here.” Felix comes to a stop outside a bedroom that wasn’t my father’s when I was young.
He used to occupy the largest room on the second floor, in the north-facing wing that emanated power and prestige. Now, he stays wherethe helponce did.
“He looks rough,” he murmurs. “Not like how you remember.”
“I’m not gonna cry about this shit,” I tell him.
Passing both my brothers, I set my free hand on the doorknob and twist it to release the latch, then I push through and enter the room, only to wrinkle my nose at the smell of… well,decay,I suppose.
Timothy the Second lies in the middle of a four-poster bed, his body small and his skin gaunt. My father was powerful once upon a time. Enjoyed the benefits of a body much like mine and the rest of his sons. Strong. Broad. Capable.
But cancer and age have eaten away at what was once great.
My gun remains in my hand, my heart hammering in my throat, but as I approach the bed, I can’t help but study his sunken chest as he breathes but struggles to pull air in.
His veiny arms, exposed above the covers, and his bony fingers, too thin to not already resemble a skeleton’s. His hair is patchy at best, missing in chunks, and the bits that remain are thin and straw-like.
