by CJ Lyons
After the gala last night, Daniel had given the brownstone’s staff the long weekend off. Used the holiday as an excuse, but really he wanted privacy. He was due for chemo today and tomorrow, and it was easier to keep his secret without staff or visitors meddling about.
Flynn crept through the cavernous halls of the old house and up to Daniel’s quarters. He slept most of the day now, rousing only when absolutely necessary to deal with Kingston corporate affairs or to put on a brave face for Leo. Not that Leo cared or even noticed.
She didn’t understand why Daniel insisted on continuing the chemo. His doctors had told him it was fruitless, could only prolong his suffering without adding many days before the end. But he was a stubborn man, stubborn and full of pride. He’d decide when it was time to give up on life—he wasn’t about to allow life to give up on him first.
She admired that about him. Thought maybe he’d seen that same stubborn streak in her when they’d first met in Good Sam’s ICU three years ago. Two souls condemned to death and fighting back with everything they had.
With a soft knock, she entered his room. He was in bed, just as she’d expected, but not asleep. Instead, his eyes were wide open, so wide that it looked as if they’d been stretched to twice their size, the whites showing all around, pupils blazing with pain. His neck muscles strained as if he were screaming, but no sound came.
“I quite like the screaming, usually, but not from him. He’d ruin it all, begging or lecturing or wasting my time with useless words,” Leo said from where he lounged in a chair moved to the foot of the bed, facing his father’s agony like a moviegoer at the cinema. “Besides,” he smiled at Flynn, aiming a pistol at her, “Daniel always got the final word. About time someone else had a chance, don’t you think?”
Flynn rushed to Daniel’s side, assessing his vitals as the doctors had taught her. Heart rate much too high, neck veins swollen like they were ready to pop, a sign that his blood pressure was soaring, sending his heart into failure. “What have you done to him?”
“Relax. I added a tiny bit of succinylcholine, titrated it along with the PXA. It won’t last long—just long enough to fry some brain cells so the doctors will assume it’s a stroke. Man in his condition, end-stage testicular carcinoma, they probably won’t even bother with an autopsy. And if they do, they’ll never find any trace of my special formula—guaranteed to be metabolized and gone long before anyone can even think of testing for it.”
“PXA—you gave him Death Head? The man gave you everything. Why would you betray him like this?” She whirled on him, fingers sliding the knife concealed in her sleeve into her waiting hand. She could kill him—oh, how easy it would be. She glanced at Daniel, saw the pleading in his eyes, burning through the pain. After everything Leo had done, Daniel still had faith in him.
“Do something,” she pleaded. “He loves you, Leo. You mean everything to him.”
“Everything except the time of day. He’ll give me the money, the business, even hire you to protect me from the police so I’m free to do as I please. But he’ll never give me the one thing—the only thing—I ever wanted from him.” He stood, approached Daniel on the opposite side of the bed, near the IV pump. Flynn noticed a fresh bag of fluid and tubing running to the catheter in Daniel’s chest.
“You’ve never wanted for anything. What more could Daniel have possibly given you?” She leaned forward, one hand sliding below the duvet covering Daniel’s body, searching for the IV line. If she pulled it out—yes, there, a simple twist of her fingers and warm fluid began trickling harmlessly down the silk sheets instead of into Daniel’s veins.
Leo sat on the edge of the bed, his back to her. Such a tempting target, but Flynn restrained herself. “Tell her, Father. Better yet, tell me. What was the only thing I ever wanted from you? You gave it to others—even to this street whore bitch you dragged from the gutter.”
Daniel’s face twisted, whether with pain or an effort to speak, it was hard to say.
“Still can’t say it, can you, old man?” Leo chuckled. “Of course not. Because now I’m the one with the power. And you won’t be saying anything, not ever again.” He adjusted the IV, then glanced over his shoulder at Flynn. “Respect. That’s all I ever wanted from him. Simple respect.”
He blew out his breath and stood, pocketing the pistol and brushing his hands together as if he’d just finished a particularly tedious job. “We’re through here. He’s finished. You can call 911 if you like. No matter to me if he lives out his days a vegetable or dies here tonight. He’d choose the latter, I’m sure, so you’d be doing him no favors by saving him.”
He strode toward the door. Flynn took a step, ready to end him, but beneath the covers, Daniel’s hand grasped hers.
Leo paused at the door. “You work for me now, Flynn. I know it was you in the tunnels last night. I know you have the girl squirreled away in one of your bolt-holes. Bring her to me.”
“I don’t work for you,” she spat, shaking free of Daniel’s grasp. “I’ll never work for you.”
He looked back over his shoulder, a superior smirk creasing his face. “You do. You will. For the rest of your life—which is however long you keep me amused. Because if you don’t, that precious little sister of yours, the one you killed a man to protect, she becomes my next guest.” He nodded as if they’d sealed a deal. “I expect the girl delivered tonight.”
With that, he left. An icy chill filled Flynn’s veins, freezing her in place. Daniel grabbed her arm once more. He needed her.
“Hang on,” she urged him, pulling out her phone and calling 911. “Help is coming,” she told him once she’d hung up. “I’ll tell the police everything. You won’t have to worry about Leo hurting you ever again.”
He frowned, shaking his head weakly. “No.” The syllable was barely a scratch. But the fact that he was able to move, to speak, meant the drugs were already leaving his system. Was it enough to save him?
He opened his mouth again. She leaned down closer to him. “You do as he says.” He swallowed hard, a grimace of pain twisting his face. “Never forget. Omnes nominis defendere.” His voice grew stronger, his color less pale.
To hell with the family motto: Above all, defend the family name. There was only one Kingston she cared about defending. “But, Daniel, we can’t let him get away with—”
“Not we,” he said, contempt filling his eyes. “Me. You’re nothing compared to the Kingston name.”
Flynn jerked away, confusion and betrayal colliding.
“Protect my son,” he ordered, gripping her so hard his hand trembled. Sirens could be heard from outside his window.
“Daniel?” Her voice emerged sounding like the girl she used to be, the one who’d died in the river. The weak one, the victim.
He didn’t answer.
Flynn stared down at this man, this stranger who she’d thought cared for her, wanted to help her create her new life. Slowly, one finger at a time, she pried his hand away from her arm. He slumped back onto the pillows, face slack, barely breathing, but she did nothing to help him.
By the time the paramedics burst in, she was already gone.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Although Ryder was the one sitting facing the door, it was the dog who knew she was there first. While he and Voorsanger mulled over their conspiracy theory, Ozzie suddenly shook himself awake, crawled out from under the table, and turned to sit facing the bar’s entrance, tail thumping against the floor.
Ryder glanced up, then Voorsanger turned as well. The door opened, and Rossi entered. She looked even more wrecked than she had last night. Drained. Long day or bad news from her doctor friend?
Either way, she needed to take better care of herself. Ryder wished she’d let him be the one to do it. Her eyes met his. Despite the bad news he had for her, he forced a smile—it wasn’t very difficult, not when it was for Rossi—and her face became animated once more, the fatigue falling away. For a split second, he imagined being able to do that, making her feel
better with just a simple smile every day. Why was it that Rossi brought out the dreamer in him?
The rest of the bar’s clientele grew quiet. More frosty than even Ryder’s reception, most of the arctic chill coming from the direction of the blonde at the musicians’ table. Rossi’s mother. Without leaving her chair, Patsy Rossi created a gravitational pull her daughter couldn’t resist. Rossi gave Ryder a self-effacing shrug and, shoulders bowed, obeyed her mother’s silent summons.
Ryder was so intent on the family drama that he almost didn’t notice the door opening once more and Devon Price bounding through it.
“Had to park in the alley,” Price said to no one in particular as he spun to the bar as if he was a regular and ordered a Jack Daniel’s. “No ice, no water, none of that soda crap, just the way God intended it.”
The rest of the bar returned to its buzz of conversations, the musicians leaning away from Rossi and her mother. The two women sat together: a bright golden sun, all-seeing, all-knowing, commanding a moon into a dark eclipse.
Ryder turned to Voorsanger. “What’s with Rossi and her mother?”
Voorsanger made a sound like a sigh cut short. “Ancient family history. It’s no secret. Jimmy will fill you in if you like.” He held up his phone. “I’m still on hold with Daniel Kingston’s executive assistant, trying to schedule that meet-and-greet.”
“Good luck with that,” Price said, scraping up a chair and sinking into it. He sipped his whiskey with one hand and patted Ozzie on the head with the other, appearing totally at home. “Price, Devon Price.”
Ryder made introductions. “Jacob Voorsanger, assistant district attorney. Mr. Price here has—” What exactly was Price’s role in all this? He’d never managed to get a straight answer. “He’s been helping us with our inquiries.”
Voorsanger looked interested at that, then shook Price’s hand. Ryder strolled to the bar, trying to eavesdrop on the Rossi family drama. Jimmy poured him another beer without Ryder asking. Seemed he’d been accepted into the fold.
“Can I ask?” Ryder nodded to Rossi and her mother. Another blonde had joined them, a woman Rossi’s age adorned in expensive jewelry and wearing designer clothing. At breakfast this morning, Rossi had mentioned a sister, Eve, a year younger than she was, recently divorced. Eve sat on the mother’s other side, their shoulders touching, leaning toward each other, leaving Rossi in exile at the crowded table.
Watching them, Ryder remembered something his training officer had said after they’d responded to a particularly nasty domestic: No one knows how to hurt us better than the ones we love.
“Jacob didn’t tell you?” Jimmy swiped the bar with a rag even though it didn’t need it, regarding his niece once more. “Girl can’t seem to help bringing heartache and pain wherever she goes.”
Heartache and pain? A bizarre contrast to the laughing and dancing woman on the TV screen behind Jimmy as Rossi and the band threw themselves into a merry dance tune.
At the table, the musicians had finished their drinks and were collecting their instruments, several of the men trying to coax Rossi into playing. She shook her head without raising her eyes.
“She should play,” Jimmy said. “Least she could do for her mom. Not to mention helping us a bit. Folks always stay longer, drink and spend more when she’s on stage.” He shook his head. “She’s wasted in that hospital.”
Ryder kept his disdain from his face—if these people couldn’t see Rossi for what she was, they were idiots. “You said her father was a musician as well. He around?”
“No.” The barkeep pulled himself a beer—something dark and frothy that required him to pour slowly, tilting the glass just so. “We lost Angelo awhile back. Poor Eve was only eleven when it happened.”
Which would have made Rossi twelve. Tough age to lose a parent—not that any age was a good one. “What happened?”
Jimmy took a drink, wiped foam from his lip with the back of his sleeve. The music from the TV had died down to a low, lilting lullaby-like ballad. Perfect for telling sad tales. “No one blames the girl. She doted on her father. Two peas in a pod, the dark ones in the family, sharing their looks and their music. And their tempers.”
He gave a little shake of his head. “All Patsy needed was for Angela Joy to help out, look after her little sister until she got home from work. All Angela Joy wanted was to rebel, always had to have things her own way, that one.”
Ryder drank slowly, waiting for Jimmy to tell the story. Jimmy, who called Rossi only by her given name when speaking of her as a child. There must have been a powerful catalyst for that. You didn’t go around stealing a kid’s name for no good reason.
“No one blames her,” Jimmy repeated. “She’d had detention plenty of times before. So when Angela Joy was kept after school—again—her mom went home to take care of the baby instead of waiting for Angela Joy to be set loose by the nuns.”
Eve, “the baby,” would have been eleven, Ryder reminded himself.
“So,” Jimmy continued, “Angela Joy got to stew at school until her father got off work. The nuns locked up after detention, made her wait outside on the stoop in the rain. Teach her a lesson, they all thought. Let her see the consequences of her actions.”
“But it didn’t quite work out that way?”
“No. Guess not.” Jimmy’s sigh caved in his barrel chest as he spun a coaster with his fingers, not looking at Ryder. “Angela Joy figured if she was going to be in the rain, she might as well walk home herself. She almost made it, was less than a mile away when she spotted a car coming toward her in the rain. The road curves there. There’s no sidewalk, just trees on both sides, you know, so she was walking on the berm. She tried to jump out of the way, but…”
His voice trailed off, leaving Ryder to fill in the blanks. “It was her father. Did he die in the crash?”
“Not until two days later. Patsy was a mess but stayed at his side the whole time. The girls were at our place. Patsy never got over it. The kid looks just like Angelo. Every time Patsy lays eyes on her… Well, no one blames her.” An obvious lie, but Ryder kept his silence. “Anyway, the girl never went home again, stayed on with us from then on.”
The music from the TV slowed and died, fading away. Jimmy shook himself, turned away, but Ryder saw him swipe at his eyes. Taking his beer with him, Ryder slid from his stool.
“I wish you’d just once put your family before work,” Patsy Rossi was saying to her daughter as Ryder approached. She swiveled her diamond-glint of a glare in his direction.
Ryder gave her his best I-can’t-wait-to-bust-you smile and took Rossi’s hand. “Excuse us,” he said, tugging Rossi from her seat and steering her away from her mother without further explanation.
“Thanks,” she murmured.
“Rescuing fair maidens is part of the job description.” He nudged her toward the fire exit at the rear of the bar. The alley outside was crowded with two dumpsters and a collection of garbage cans, but it was private. “I called. Just like I promised.”
She nodded, her gaze focused on the broken glass at her feet. “I saw Louise.”
He swallowed hard, squeezed her hand. She didn’t squeeze back. After a long moment, she continued, “It will take a while for the tests to come back. Before she—we—know for sure.”
“What is it?”
She looked up but past him, her gaze scanning the sky visible between the buildings as if searching for a star to wish on. Her expression twisted into a grimace. This was hard for her, he knew. More than trusting him with her secret, relinquishing control over her future.
“Nothing you’ve ever heard of—nothing I’ve ever heard of. Louise is pretty sure, though. It’s called fatal insomnia. Guess the name says it all.”
Ryder took a step back. Not away from her, just enough space to find air to breathe.
She dropped his hand and turned toward the door. “Thanks for watching the Advocacy Center for me.”
He grabbed her arm, spun her to face him. “Right now I
don’t really give a shit about the Advocacy Center. I’m worried about you.”
“I don’t need rescuing, Ryder. I don’t need you. Forget about me. Just do your job so I don’t have to worry about what I’m leaving behind. Is that too much to ask?”
She stepped away, but he stopped her, placing both palms on her shoulders to hold her still for one precious moment while he tried to find the right words. Who was he fooling? There were no right words. Not for this.
“Yes,” he said.
She jerked her chin up, finally meeting his eyes, even if it was with a glare that would have sent most men running for cover.
Ryder stood, waited a beat, weighing his options. In battle he had been known for never hesitating. But that had been easy. He simply carried his fear with him, strapped it on along with his weapons. But this minefield was far more treacherous than anything he’d faced in Afghanistan. With far more at risk.
Rossi’s heart. And his own.
“Yes,” he repeated. “It is too much to ask. I’m not walking away.”
“Damn it, Ryder.” She sucked in her breath, her expression hardening. “I don’t need anyone to take care of me. I’m not a charity case. You did the honorable thing, offering, now get the hell out of my life.”
She was bluffing, he was certain. To protect him. Okay. Let her save face, deny there was anything between them. No problem. He knew better, could see it in her expression. And now that he had an objective, nothing was going to stop him from completing his mission.
“I can take care of myself, Rossi. How about if we take it one day at a time?” he suggested.
She relaxed at that. “No strings? No commitments?”
Right. The Rossi philosophy of intimacy, like her relationship with her ex. He’d watched the two of them with their little dance of “it’s only sex,” both protecting their hearts, and he wanted no part of it.