by Linnea May
“Fourteen when I lost my father, nine when they killed my mother,” he clarifies. “It was my father’s own fault, really, because he was the one who got involved with the Covey in the first place. It started like it often does. He needed the money. My parents were dead poor when I was born, had to fight to keep themselves and their baby alive—the perfect desperate combination that leads a man to start a life of crime. My father was susceptible to the Covey’s promise. Just one small job, that’s how it started. Then came another, and another. And with every job, he told himself that it would be the last one. It’s a lie that a lot of people tell themselves when they get involved in that lifestyle.”
He pauses and takes a deep breath as he turns his face away, his dark eyes now resting on the sheets beneath us. His whole posture looks like that of a man carrying a heavy weight on his shoulders, a burden of guilt and sadness created by bad memories.
“Then one day he decided that he really wanted to get out,” he continues in a voice lower than before. “I don’t even know what exactly he did for them, but they wanted him for another job and he said no. Apparently they had told him that he could get out after the last job he’d done for them, but when he tried to make them hold up that agreement, they not only refused, but claimed they had never made him that promise. So my father—being naive as he was—thought he’d just quit on his own. He thought he could just hand in his notice and walk away like you could with any other job, any real job.”
He lets out a sinister laugh and I see his hands tightening around the handle of the basket. As I watch his knuckles turn white, a telltale sign of the agony that these memories provoke in him, I can’t help but consider this a chance for me. I know he’s telling me the truth. He’s opening up to me, he’s sharing something very personal and hurtful about his past.
He’s vulnerable.
I can use this. I should use this to my advantage. But how?
It’s simple psychology that people grow dependent on those who provide them with comfort and safety. He was playing the same game with me by sending that revolting thug into my room to scare me so he could emerge as my knight in shining armor a moment later. A hero who then turns up in my room with a picnic basket full of treats meant to warm me up to him.
I could do the same thing to him.
I could be his hero.
He looks surprised when I place my hand on top of his, but he doesn’t move away. His eyes rest on the back of my hand, watching while I gently curl my fingers around his, adding a calming squeeze.
“Your father tried to do the right thing,” I whisper, mildly impressed by my own acting skills.
“Emphasis on tried,” Cain responds briskly. “He couldn’t get out, and he should have known that before he ever got involved with those assholes. He tried to walk away despite their threats. That’s when they killed my mother.”
The shocked gasp that leaves my lips now is not part of my act. Because despite the very different circumstances that shaped our lives so far, I know very well what it’s like to lose your parents at a young age.
“It was meant as a warning, really,” Cain elaborates. “Killing my mother was meant to keep my father in place, the unspoken threat that he could also lose his son hanging over his head unless he continued working for them.”
“Then what happened?” I probe as Cain takes another deep breath to collect himself.
“We fled,” he goes on. “My father went home, packed a suitcase, drove up to my school, pulled me out of class and right into the car, and then we fled the state. We drove for days before he decided it was safer to leave the car behind. He drove it into a lake and then we found the nearest airport to book a flight up north.”
“Canada?”
He nods. “That was the idea at first, but it didn’t last long. I think he mostly wanted people to think we were in Canada, but we were actually hiding out in Montana. It was not the worst idea. It worked for almost five years.”
“That’s when they found you?”
Cain pauses again, and I can feel his hand twitching beneath mine.
“That’s when they found us,” he confirms. “They ambushed us at home on a Friday night. We were living in a small cabin out in the woods, and my dad stepped out into the back yard to get some firewood when they got him. They used silencers, but the sound was still loud enough for me to know immediately what was going on. I actually saw my father drop to the ground when the bullets hit him.”
My heart is racing as Cain is telling his story. I can’t imagine what he must have gone through. To have your mother killed when you’re still in elementary school, then hiding out in the middle of nowhere for years just to have the only person who can protect you shot right in front of you.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, and the compassion in my voice is real this time. “I can’t even imagine… You must have been so terrified.”
Much to my surprise, Cain shrugs in response to my consolation.
“At that very moment, I was angry more than anything,” he tells me. “My dad and I, we had just regained a sense of normalcy. I was going back to school, he had a regular job, our lives were no longer governed by fear and grief. It was as if those bastards had just waited for the perfect time to take it all away again. I was scared, yes, but first and foremost, I was fucking furious. So, after seeing my dad shot dead out in the back yard, instead of doing the smart thing and hiding or running away, I grabbed one of the guns we had stored around the house and ran outside to confront them—”
He pauses because I can’t suppress a shocked gasp at this part of his tale.
“You confronted them?” I ask with disbelief. “How are you still alive?”
“I’m still alive because—believe it or not—the Covey doesn’t kill children,” Cain reveals, adding a sinister chuckle. “It was only two guys, both of them standing so far away that I would have never hit them even if I did pull the trigger. They saw me standing there, pointing a gun at them with my shaking hands while shouting obscenities. One of them did raise his gun at me, on instinct, I assume. But the other yelled at him to stop, reasoning that I was ‘just a child’.”
He huffs with disgust, shaking his head as he repeats, “Just a child. Just a fucking child.”
“I’m so sor—”
“That’s when I swore,” he interrupts me. “That’s when I swore to get my revenge. I didn’t shoot at the guys, even when they turned their backs to me and disappeared into the dark. I knew it wouldn’t be enough, even if I managed to kill them. They were nothing but henchmen, men like my father. Men who got roped into something they couldn’t get out of, even if they wanted to. Killing them wouldn’t have done anything for me.”
He raises his gaze to meet mine now, deep-seated hate marking his expression in visible lines across his face.
“There’s only one thing that will ever give me any peace of mind, only one way to make sure that what happened to my family will not happen to others,” he hisses. “To bring the Covey down once and for all. I have dedicated my life to that mission, and I won’t rest until it’s done.”
Heavy silence cloaks us as he lets the words sink in, and I feel the weight of them even more when he places his other hand on top of mine.
“I have tried many approaches over the years, but none ever came as close to execution as this plan,” he reveals.
“Why is that?” I breathe.
“Because nothing was ever as promising as this idea. The Covey is used to violent assaults involving gunfire and combat. It’s their daily business, just like infiltration and backstabbing are,” he explains. “But they have never been attacked on this level. They never had the very basis of their shadowy existence threatened, not even by the police. I know it will work, I know it will bring them down, because they don’t expect it.”
He squeezes my hand between his, adding urgency to his words when he concludes.
“But I can’t do it without you, Riley,” he insists. “And it needs to happen soon.
”
Chapter 20
Cain
Despite his many flaws and bad decisions, my father was a book-smart and well-meaning man. He prided himself on his education, as he was the first and only one in his family to ever graduate from college. And he loved history, especially political history, which is why we always had a sizable library at home. Even during our time in hiding, my father made sure that we had the latest periodicals, newspapers and magazines on current events, since he was not able to bring his full library with him. I often sought refuge in these books and publications because no matter what I would pull from the shelves, it would definitely take me to a better place than reality. And by reading these stories of prominent men, men unafraid to fight and do what was right, to overthrow bad regimes and run for political office, to take down evil empires, I grew into the kind of man I wanted to be.
A leader. A doer. And not a fucking victim.
What I read and learned from those books gave me the courage to stand up to the cowards who shot my father. Those books shaped my way of thinking when I vowed to take revenge. And the men I met in their pages became idols of mine, even the ones who played on the wrong side of history. There was a lesson to be learned from every single one of them.
And now, as I sit on the bed next to Riley, holding her trembling hand in mine and seeing the terror on her face being replaced by deep and honest compassion as she listens to my story, I can’t help but remember one particular lesson. I think it was Niccolo Machiavelli, an Italian politician from the 15th century, who said that, as a leader, it’s always better to be feared than to be loved.
I’m not sure whether I agree with that assessment. I know that fear can make people do things they don’t want to do—I saw it with my father. My father was obedient, but he wasn’t loyal. Loyalty has to be earned. Loyalty isn’t something you can gain by force, by making people afraid of you. It didn’t work with my father, and it won’t work with Riley. I can see that now, as I watch the expression on her face changing. I tried to invoke fear. I tried threats and humiliation—and she didn’t even look at me then. She didn’t break, she didn’t waver, and she sure as hell did not want to help me.
But now looking at her, I think she does. Her eyes are teary again, but she is no longer tormented by fear. My story has moved her to the point of tears, and even though I never intended it to happen this way, I feel a strange sense of accomplishment. I never planned to tell her all of this, and I never wanted to use my story as a way to pull at her heartstrings just so she would comply with my demands.
Yet, I feel triumph at the way she looks at me now.
Because I know that I won.
I know she’s willing to help me, even before she parts her pretty lips to speak.
“Okay,” she says, her lower lip trembling. “I’ll do what you want me to do, under one condition.”
She glances at me with tension crossing her face.
“What makes you think you’re in a position to make demands?”
Her expression hardens even more and she presses her lips into a thin line. I can see her mind working behind that stony exterior, but it’s not clear whether she’s chewing on the right words to say or she’s merely hesitant to give voice to her thoughts.
“You said it yourself, Cain,” she says eventually, her chin lifting in a defiant motion. “You need me. You don’t have anyone else who could do this for you.”
She pins me down with a confident flicker in her eyes—and I hate it. I hate the fact that she’s right. I do need her, and I don’t have anyone else for the job.
But that doesn’t mean I’m solely dependent on her.
“I could always find someone else for the job,” I tell her in the best nonchalant tone I can muster. “Or change my plan. It’s not like I haven’t done that before.”
“Yes, but you said that this is the best approach you have ever come up with,” she reminds me. “And you’ll have to admit that finding a replacement for me wouldn’t be easy.”
That is true in more than one sense, but Riley doesn’t need to know that.
“So what is your condition?”
She’s hesitant for a moment, taking time to take a deep breath and clear her throat before she answers. I know she does it to keep me waiting and to relish the imbalance of power between us that seems to have shifted in her favor.
Better not get used to that feeling, little Miss Riley.
“I want... a cut,” she reveals eventually, unable to hide the shadow of insecurity in her voice.
“A cut?” I probe, raising an eyebrow at her.
I let go of her hand, a motion that visibly disappoints her. She doesn’t move her hand right away, but lets it rest between us for a moment, her eyes falling on it as if she’s regarding a strange object that is completely detached from her body.
“Money,” she clarifies in a low voice, and then she lifts her face up to look at mine. “I know you’re doing well with… whatever it is you’re doing. And I’m sure you’ll make bank on the Covey’s downfall, as well. Am I right?”
She regards me with a slight frown now, a bit too confident, if you ask me.
“What makes you think—”
“Come on, Cain,” she interrupts impatiently. “I saw you as Mr. Hewett, and I know how excited my boss was to land a business account with you. You were known as the super big investor that everybody was after—how could you possibly fake that?”
She’s right about that. I’ve lied my way through life in many ways, but the money in my bank accounts is real. It may not be clean money, but it’s mine. My father left me with a substantial amount when he was killed, and he didn’t do it the conventional way. He knew that there was a good chance that the Covey would get to him and he wanted to be sure that I was taken care of. Since the money was blood money, it wasn’t kept in a traditional bank account but in a sealed box buried in the woods about a mile from our house. I waited a few months before I retrieved the money, but once I did, I decided to be smart about using it to secure my future.
Smart and cunning. You’d be surprised how easy it is to grow wealth when you don’t play by the rules.
“You’re asking me to do something quite dangerous,” Riley goes on. “I think it’s only fair that I get paid for a job this risky. Especially if you want it done right.”
She raises an eyebrow at me, sass dancing across her features now.
“If you don’t do the job as asked, your sister will pay with her life,” I remind her. “Isn’t that enough motivation?”
She shakes her head. “It’s not about motivation, Cain. This will be my hush money. What you’re asking me to do to the Covey could easily be done to you in return.”
I can’t believe it. Is she fucking threatening me?
“You wouldn’t—”
“Yes, I would, and I can,” she interrupts me. “But I don’t want to.”
Our eyes lock, and I’m surprised to see something else in her gaze now. She’s silently pleading, but it’s not out of fear. She’s not begging for her release or for mercy, but for understanding. She’s ready to help me, but she wants to do it under the understanding that it’s not based on force and fear of punishment, but as equals.
How about that, Machiavelli? Is it really better to be feared than loved by those you want to govern? Or is it all about knowing how to push their buttons?
“Fine,” I relent. “Did you have a sum in mind?”
“Fifty thousand,” she blurts out right away. She edges up taller where she is sitting as she awaits my reaction.
How cute.
“Fifty thousand. You came up with that number rather fast.”
“It’s about what I would have earned in my first year at the job ‘Mr. Stanford’ was interviewing me for,” she explains. “Well, actually it is a bit more, considering that I’m not paying taxes on your ‘dirty money’.”
I ignore that little side blow and nod.
“Fifty thousand it is,” I say, extending my
hand for her to seal the deal with a handshake. She could have asked for double that amount. I know that Riley is not accustomed to the lifestyle I’m used to, and it shows in the fact that she’s asking for such a small amount.
She hesitates for a moment, casting one last suspicious glance at me before she reaches her hand out to shake mine.
“Okay,” she agrees solemnly. “We have a deal.”
Chapter 21
Riley
That was easier than I thought it would be.
I’ll admit, Cain’s story got to me. And while I don’t sympathize with the way he forced me into this whole scheme, I can’t deny the spark of excitement that’s kindling within my chest now. If this goes well, I will be out of debt and financially independent until I find another job. And all I have to do is flirt with a nerd and use his potential carelessness to hack into a database that’s meant to protect the identities of a bunch of ruthless criminals. Those bastards deserve to be destroyed—so, in a way, you could say that I’m working on the right side of the law here.
You could say that—if you ignored everything else. Of course, I can’t ignore the reality of my situation. Because I haven’t forgotten.
I haven’t forgotten what he did to me. I haven’t forgotten about the humiliation he subjected me to, and I haven’t forgotten about the fact that he made me his prisoner.
His naked prisoner.
He is using my attraction to him for his own gain. I know that. I understand the game he’s playing.
And I’m sure he doesn’t realize that I just turned this game into my own.
I feel empathy for him. I feel attracted to him. I felt the electric sparks between us the moment our hands touched in that handshake. I feel drawn to him, to his body, to his scent.
I want him. I want him to make me feel good, because I fucking deserve it.
He used me for his own pleasure, and now I’m going to do the same.
Of course, he doesn’t shy away when I lean forward to steal a kiss from him. I can sense his surprise, even as our lips connect and our tongues tangle with each other a moment later. He stays. He gives in to the temptation within moments—and he doesn’t question it.