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My smile widens.
“That’s enough,” I state, cutting him off mid-sentence. “You’ll have a visitor tomorrow to collect fifteen thousand dollars in cash, and Grayson will stop bothering your daughter.”
“Fifteen. Just to talk to him—"
“Yes. That’s a lot cheaper than my big bro would have asked for, mate. Trust me. The Youngs aren’t just any normal District residents. They are wealthy, influential, and well known, which means high risk.” I lean in and lower my voice, done with him. “And they could offer us double what I’m charging you and not bat an eye. Just take the deal.”
He looks at his hands. “Okay.”
“It’ll be alright, mate. Go home,” I say, standing up.
I see him out the front door, and despite wanting to escape, I dutifully walk back inside. As I head into Clay’s hall, I’m met with sober expressions. To be expected. After all, I’m her youngest. Brightest.
“I’m really sorry, Xander,” a lady says to me, her name a mystery, but she smells like my mum—Armani and blame.
I nod stiffly but don’t pause to chat, my stride remaining steady all the way to the bar. My mother’s favourite place. It eventually became her. And now she is dead, in a coffin, looking beautiful as always and no colder than when alive.
After I pour myself a drink, I stand behind the wooden counter and watch the spectacle. That is what this is, after all.
My heart beats hard.
My brother Max sits in the corner, his usual mask of displeasure suited to the occasion—he may even pass for a grieving son. Beside him, his wife and daughter talk politely with guests.
I rub at my chest, feeling restricted.
Across the other side of the room, Bronson hides his madness well for the event; his psychotic alter ego, though, screams in the vivid tattoos that lick up from beneath his black collar and stretch the length of each finger. His skin is a complete canvas. A manifestation of his madness.
He eyes the party like a hound, always watching us, studying Max and then Clay and then—me.
Lifting my chin at him, I acknowledge his green-blue gaze. His dark brows raise with a question—he knows I’m uncomfortable, offering me company in that simple gesture. And he’ll be over here any minute to shoulder me, hold me, make a joke, or insist on a bear hug. Basically, he’ll do anything I want or need apart from letting me go.
They think they know what’s best.
Before he can corner me—as pure as his intentions are—I walk from the room, using what small amount of time I have to jog down the steps to my car, a sense of urgency pulsing through my body.
I have one foot in my Jeep when the front door opens. I freeze. Looking over the hood, I see a sad brunette in all black hovering on the top steps. Elegant as fuck. Curves like a damn cartoon pin-up girl manifested in real life.
My best mate, Stacey, stares at me, tears swimming in her brown eyes. She’s not crying for my mother. She’s crying for us. For me and my brothers. And she knows what is happening inside me right now and how it won’t let me stay.
All I can offer her is a shrug and a careless, “Dunno, Stace, just gotta bolt.”
Reluctance weaves her brows, but she accepts with a nod and closes the double doors. The bullshit event is locked inside with her—she has my back. She’s had my back since the first year of high school. I don’t see her as much these days. I box. She works. But she’s family—a constant.
Wishing I could be the type of man to stand with his brothers and wear a sad, practised smile at his mother’s wake, I climb into the car.
I can’t be that man.
So, I drive over to Grayson Young’s house in the Connolly Hills.
CHAPTERTWO
xander
Without invitation,I stride through the front door. A sea of wild partygoers writhe against each other in front of me—college-aged students who are high, drunk, or both. Bloodshot eyes and red-faced, losing their inhibitions.
Same.
It’s been a while since I went to a party like this, years, in fact. Big modern house, too. Four-storeys of straight, arrogant lines adorned with pompous artwork and frivolous statues—pointless expressions of wealth.
