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The target could be one of the gardeners who sometimes helps her take care of the plants. Who would kill him though, and why? If he’s done something wrong, this isn’t my father’s style.
No, he would have Graham take him to an abandoned field somewhere and shoot him while he begs for mercy. Then toss his body in the river. Whatever’s happening here, my father doesn’t know about it.
The main house seems kilometers away.
Fuck, I shouldn’t be here.
I find Graham’s contact and text him the details as quickly as I can. The footsteps stop right next to me. There’s a thick eight-foot tall row of shrubs between us, and their mess of branches and leaves make for as good a wall as any.
Do they know I’m in here?
Whoever’s come to kill my gardener wanted to make sure nobody heard the gunshot. They want no witnesses. I’m a witness. Granted, I’m a fucking Duke, so killing me would probably cause more problems for them.
Still, I’m not the heir.
I’m a second son. My father wouldn’t miss me much.
I hold my breath, trying to keep the thoughts at bay. Graham’s words ring out in my head at that moment. I need to be a man. Duke men don’t show weakness. We’re strong, fearless.
We’re powerful.
But I just lost a fucking fight at school.
I’m no match for someone with a gun if I couldn’t even protect myself from Liam. I stifle the wail threatening to leave my lips.
You’re such a fucking coward, Alexander.
It’s true. I am.
I hate myself for it.
The person with the gun stands on the other side of the wall of shrubs for an eternity. Long enough for me to drown in the depths of my cowardice. Long enough for me to wish I had more of a backbone. Then, almost abruptly, they start moving again.
The footsteps retreat.
They’re heading for the door.
Just then, my phone buzzes—a text from Graham. He’s on his way back home. He’s told the guards in the house that something’s happened. He’s asked if I’m safe and if I know what the shooter looks like.
No, I don’t, because I’m too fucking scared to look.
It’s the thought of having to admit that to Graham that makes me crawl toward the end of the row of shrubs. I’m a Duke. Dukes are strong.
I can be strong.
If the person kills me, Graham will avenge me.
When the door comes into view, I only catch a glimpse of their retreating frame. A man—tall, taller than even father—dressed in full black. His whole head is covered in some sort of wooly mask. I can’t even tell what color his hair is.
The only exposed part of his body are his hands.
He’s wearing motorcycle gloves, but the pale skin peeking out from underneath is heavily inked. I can’t make out the tattoos, but they’re shadowy and remind me of the kind of tattoos my father’s men get when they become a part of the Syndicate—the kind I will get when I turn 16.
This guy belongs to a gang of some kind.
Why would he want to kill our gardener?
When the shooter disappears through the doors of the greenhouse, he slides them shut. I’m frozen in place, watching his shadow as it slinks away. His steps are purposeful, sure. This isn’t the first time he’s killed, and it probably won’t be the last.
