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“Well, ain’t that a fuckin’ problem? I’ve given you weeks.”
I squeeze the edge of my desk hard enough to snap it off in my fist. “I have checked into your guys. Every single one on the list. Everyone is doing exactly what they’re supposed to do, exactly when they’re supposed to do it. They’re collecting your money and breaking kneecaps. All the bullshit that goes along with being one of your fucking goons. The job is done. Now, leave me the fuck alone and find someone else to do your dirty work.”
It’s moments like this that make me so glad I found hockey. If I hadn’t, I’d be one of those goons. I’d have blood on my hands, not on my skates. There’s a world of difference there. I avoided that fate by the skin of my teeth.
“Youaremy dirty work, son. And I’m telling you, somebody is fucking stealing from me. Get off your ass and fuckin’ fix the problem.”
Aw, how nice. How very fucking fatherly.
“Or maybe they aren’t and maybe you should stop being so goddamn paranoid.”
“You don’t get to be a man in my position without having targets on your back. That makes a man paranoid.” I can hear him shaking his head. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
Now, I’m doing the head shaking. Vehemently. “Oh, the fuck I will. I’ll never be you. You better have a couple more kids to leave your criminal empire to. I don’t want it.”
He laughs. “Who says I don’t have a dozen more of you running around? But you’re my oldest. My heir. Pride and joy. You’ll want what I have. You’ll see.”
“I won’t see shit.”
I hang up because I’ve done what he’s asked. No way in hell will I ever want to be associated with any of his bullshit. I’m not a criminal; I’ve never aspired to be one.
I have everything I want right now. I’m not going to do anything to risk it.
He can bet onthat.
46
SLOAN
It’s been a long day. I worked with Monroe on a party plan for Cassie’s upcoming birthday. We booked a DJ, hired someone to make a balloon arch, and ordered flowers in every shade of pink known to the naked eye.
It’s so good to be home, off my feet. All I can think is that I want to run a bath and sit in it with Beck until the water gets cold. With that in mind, I climb out of the car near the garage door and walk inside.
“Beck!”
I walk into the house and drop my bag on the counter and listen. It’s quiet. Blissfully so. Weird that he’s not here, though. He didn’t mention going anywhere today. Not this morning when he woke me up by fluttering kisses along the line of my throat, and not this afternoon when he texted to tell me that he missed me.
I tiptoe up the stairs to the bedroom. Maybe he’s sleeping. But like the rest of the house, the bedroom is empty. The bed is made and Beck is nowhere to be seen.
When I pull the door closed behind me, I look across the hall. The nursery room door has been shut since I found the last letter in there. This one came with a full severed black rose pressed between the pages.
Now, though, the door is cracked open.
Apprehension bubbles in my stomach. It’s not panic. Or even fear. I know I’m safe here; Beck has made impossibly sure of it. But when I push the door open, I can’t escape the fear that I’m going to find another letter.
Or worse yet, the person delivering them.
It’s traumatizing to know someone can walk into the house and put a letter down, despite the armed security, despite knowing without a doubt that I could whisperHelpand ten guys would come running with weapons in hand.
I walk into the room and gasp.
It’s not terrifying.
It’sbeautiful.
The carnival mural has been done, but it’s now filled with furniture that matches flawlessly. A snow white crib and fluffy blankets with a shag rug to match, a mobile of circus animals to match the theme—the list goes on and on.
The most beautiful part of it all is in the middle of the space: Beck. Thoughtful, gorgeous, sweet Beck, standing there like he’s just been admiring his own work waiting for me to get here.
