There were two great evils in the world and both wanted a piece of her. The question as always was: which one was the lesser of the two?
She could stay with Arlo and be his punching bag or worse, his whore for the rest of her life or she could throw her hat in with Killian. While he was a criminal, he hadn’t hurt her and she had meant it when she said she would pick his side. If anything, he had gone out of his way to make sure he was gentle, something she knew he didn’t have to do. Arlo certainly wouldn’t have. Had Killian not taken her away that night … she couldn’t even think about it. The very idea made her want to curl up in a ball and sob.
Instead, she drew out the contract and followed the familiar lines through each page. She had already memorized most of it, but still she kept rereading until her pounding head reached its splitting point and she had to stop. She stuffed the agreement back into the envelope and tossed it down onto the nightstand to reread again in the morning.
Without looking at it, she rolled onto her side and drifted off into an immediate and dreamless sleep.
Chapter 9
Killian could never be mistaken for a patient man when it came to incompetence. People who went through life living on excuses of injustice and righteous indignation infuriated him beyond a reasonable measure of doubt. The man across from him was no exception.
Peter Jacoby was a minor nobody Killian had no time for. He ran some insignificant little group of marauders that peddled drugs from province to province. In the food chain of things, he was somewhere just above dirt. Most minor groups and gangs circled around a bigger organization. Each district had its monarchy and every monarchy had its ruler. Killian just so happened to be the monarchy for the north and that meant that, just because he would like nothing better than to shut it all down and take it all apart brick by brick, that wouldn’t happen overnight. It was a slow and agonizing process that required patience and the gentle snip of ties being cut. While toes were bound to be tread upon, when Killian finally threw off the final chain holding him to that life, it would be such a clean cut that he could live the rest of his life without ever looking over his shoulder. But before that could happen, first he needed to focus on the minor things, like Jacoby.
“As you can see, it’s a fairly large shipment,” Jacoby stated with a breathless sort of urgency.
Killian drew in a breath for what felt like the first time in ages and sat even further back into the soft leather of his chair. The hinges squeaked slightly and he made a mental note to get the joints greased.
“Mr. Jacoby, I honestly have no idea what you’re asking of me,” he stated simply, lifting his gaze to pin them on the man who looked like he was in desperate need of a shower, not to mention a shave.
Small and shriveled with skin sagging off bony limbs, Peter Jacoby reminded Killian of a grandfather biker. He wore dark shades, even though they were inside and a bandana over a receding hairline that had just enough straggly strands to be shoved into a greasy ponytail down the back of his leather vest. Underneath that was a white t-shirt and pale jeans that Killian had a feeling were his best attire. Unlike the goons he’d brought with him, Jacoby had six tattoos along his arms, though Killian could just make out the hint of more beneath the collar of his shirt. Most of them he recognized as prison ink.
Maybe he’d been more intimidating in his younger years, Killian mused.
“What exactly is it you want?”
Jacoby pursed dry, cracked lips, clearly annoyed by the lack of focus Killian was giving him. “I have a shipment coming in,” Jacoby repeated slowly, and Killian prayed to God he didn’t start his story over again. “All the main highways have upped their security after that incident a while back. I need a safe transpo and I was told you were the man to talk to.”
Normally he would be. Since the incident where a truck full of cocaine over turned right in the middle of Highway 1 between Alberta and Saskatchewan, the authorities had upped their security by about a hundred percent. People in Jacoby’s line of business were forced to find new and more creative ways to transport their cargo. Most turned to Killian. What with his family owning one of the largest port in the west plus several private cargo planes, there really was no one better.
“And what type of shipment are you looking to transport?” he countered.
There was a time in his ancestry that it didn’t really matter what was in the container so long as the money was green. Killian didn’t run his business like that. He needed to know exactly what was in each container, right down to the last straw, and something told him Peter Jacoby wasn’t transporting melons.
True enough, Jacoby shifted. “Just a few odds and ends.”
“What kind of odds and ends?” Killian pressed. “If you want to use my ships, I need to know just how hot the merchandise being moved actually is.”
“Just a few kilos of angel powder,” Jacoby said with a casual shrug.
“Cocaine.” Killian clarified and waited for the man to give a nod before rubbing the tips of his four fingers over his mouth. “Mr. Jacoby, I don’t—”
A movement from the open doorway caught his attention. His head jerked up just as a small, pale figure stepped onto the threshold. Brown eyes met his from a face that had been haunting his every waking hour and all his thoughts scattered. Everything faded, but how the sun from the wide windows seemed to halo her, turning her white dress nearly translucent and her hair a riot of spun gold. The silky strands were unbound, spilling in curls around bare shoulders to stop teasingly over firm breasts. She’d parted it differently, with half being tucked behind her ear while the rest hung deliberately over one side of her face. But it was her mere presence he noticed above all else and the purpose behind it.
She reached into her monstrous purse and pulled free the envelope he’d given her. Color worked into her cheeks as she held it in front of her for him to see. But the euphoric bliss that rushed over him was short lived by the off coloring on her face. How the one side hidden by hair was darker and how she seemed to be … smaller, like she had somehow shrunk into herself overnight. He didn’t for a second believe it was her decision to accept his terms that had her looking so shaken and defeated.
Jacoby started to rise from his seat. “Mr. McClary?”
“Leave.” he said without a shred of care as he shot out of his chair and marched to where Juliette stood. His hands found her face before it even registered that he was reaching. He tipped it up to the light behind him and swept back the hair.
There was no telling just how bad the injuries were when she had about ten pounds of makeup slapped down over it. But he could see enough of it to make his nostrils flare.
“Who did this?” Even to his own ears, the words hummed with barely suppressed fury. It vibrated with rage and a type of danger that he could feel crackling up his spine. “Who put their fucking hands on you?”
He saw the fear in her eyes, the tremor in her chin before she pushed it behind a shaky smile.
“I brought the agreement,” she whispered, putting the envelope between them. “I do have some questions—”
He ignored her pathetic attempts to misdirect his focus and dragged her into his private bathroom despite her protest. He shut the door behind them and reached for a clean washcloth.
“Killian—”
“Quiet!”
He dampened the cloth and reached for her once more. One hand cupped the base of her skull while the other swiped gingerly at her face, rubbing until every last bit of makeup was removed all the way down her throat where the smooth skin was a maze of red, purple, green and yellow welts the exact shape of a man’s violent hands. Every new mark filled him with a new color of red that was making it impossible to breathe. Every time she winced, every time he saw pain in her eyes, it was all he could do to keep the need for blood at bay.
“Take it off,” he bit out, giving her the option before he tore the clothes off her back with his bare hands.
“Killian, please—”
�
��Take it off, Juliette, or so help me I will.”
She was trembling and God help him, but he didn’t care if it was from fear of him. In that moment, all he cared about was seeing just how far her injuries went. From there, he was going to hunt the bastard down and kill him like a rabid dog.
Carefully, her clothes were removed and she stood before him in her plain bra and panties. Any other time, the sight of her body naked would have driven him mad with lust. But all he felt instead was a choking rage every time she removed an article and her breath caught with pain.
He turned her around, taking careful consideration not to hurt her further. His gaze roamed up the backs of her legs to the blossoming smear of hues splashed across her shoulder blades. Skin had been peeled away, leaving the spot jagged and scabbed. There was torn flesh along her right elbow and right knee, but nothing else.
“Who did this?” It took all his strength to keep his touch gentle when he made her face him once more. “Tell me.”
She shook her head. “I fell.”
“Bullshit!” His snarl made her jump. “I know a man’s hands, Juliette. Tell me his name.”
“Killian, please, don’t—”
He kissed her. There was nothing remotely gentle or warm about the vicious grind of his mouth over hers. It was brutal and merciless. But it was either that or shake her and he couldn’t trust himself with the latter.
“I will find him,” he vowed against her lips. “And I will end him!”
He kissed her one last time before throwing open the bathroom door. He shot her one last glance before closing it behind him and marching across the office.
Frank met him at the door as though summoned by the mere power of Killian’s mind. Jacoby, Killian noted absently and without much care, was gone.
“Sir?”
“Get the car,” he bit out, charging past the other man and storming down the corridor. “We’re going to pay the east a little visit.”
Frank didn’t ask. He fell into step alongside Killian while he dug out his phone and made the call. Killian knew Marco would already be outside, waiting.
“We need to make a stop first.” He told Marco before climbing into the back. He paused closing the door to peer up at Frank. “Make sure she doesn’t leave.”
Inclining his head, Frank pressed his phone to his ear again and muttered instructions quickly as he rounded the trunk of the car and climbed in next to Killian.
Killian preferred doing his business from home, but Juan Cruz did his from the front parlor of the Dragon’s Palace. The eight story hotel of ivory and gold had been gutted into a lavish palace equipped with gilded stairways, priceless art, and the entire Cruz family, blood related or not. Three of them patted Killian down upon entering the sprawling foyer. They weren’t exactly gentle about it, but Killian let it go as he was ushered through the entrance towards a room swept into one corner of the main floor.
Juan sat on a velvet settee with one leg reclined across the scarlet expense while a girl of sixteen knelt on the floor and rubbed the other. He looked up when Killian was brought in. The copper tone of his complexion seemed even darker beneath the black cap of wavy hair. It was swept back to expose deep lines on a face that could have once been considered handsome before time and prison took over. Six teardrops inked his right cheek just beneath the contours of his dark eyes. More tattoos colored his throat and disappeared beneath the buttoned collar of his shalwar kameez. It wasn’t traditionally something worn on the streets of Mexico, but Juan had a love for the loose trousers and baggy top and wore it everywhere.
“Killian.” He motioned for the girl to go away with a dismissive flick of his wrist. The girl ducked her head and scurried out of the room. “What brings you to the east?”
Killian moved to the matching seat on the other side of the gilded coffee table and sat.
“It seems we have some business to discuss,” he said evenly.
Dark eyebrows winging up, Juan lowered both feet to the worn carpet and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.
“Do we?”
Killian glanced over at Frank and motioned the man over with a curt nod. Frank stepped over and gingerly set the silver briefcase down on the coffee table. Juan gave it a fleeting glance before fixing his curious gaze on Killian once more.
“If this is the amount you obtained from Arlo for his idiotic indiscretions, I won’t lie, I am surprised.”
Killian shook his head. “It’s not, though I hope that has not soured our friendship.”
Juan waved a hand dismissively and sat back. “The boy must learn the business. We have all done foolish things in our youth and we paid the consequences. But I can assure you that it will not happen again.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask what kind of consequences Arlo was forced to endure, but that wasn’t his business.
“Thank you.”
Nodding, Juan flicked a glance down at the case between them. “So, what can I do for you?”
“I am here to pay the debt of Antonio Romero,” Killian said.
Frank unsnapped the locks and turned the briefcase over for Juan to look inside.
“It’s all there,” Killian assured him. “Plus a little something extra for your troubles.”
Juan never bothered even glancing at the briefcase. “And why does this matter to you?”
Killian folded one leg over the other and leaned into the firm back of the sofa. “The girl and her family are under my protection.”
The other man’s face immediately broke into a grin that created even more folds to appear around his eyes. “Ah, the girl. I have seen the girl. Very pretty. I can see why you would want her, but this…?” He waved a gold studded hand at the briefcase. “Surely she is not worth this much.”
Killian didn’t so much as bat an eyelash. “She’s mine.”
Both hands went up in a show of surrender. “Alexandro!”
One of the men stationed around the room hurried forward and bowed low.
“Antonio Romero,” Juan said evenly. “He’s done.”
Without batting an eye, Alexandro dug out his phone and found Antonio’s name. He crossed it out and typed in paid next to it. Then he presented the screen to Killian, who gave it a brief glance.
He turned back to Juan. “Appreciate it.”
Juan waved Alexandro away. “Now that we finish with business, you must stay for supper. Maria is always making too much.”
“There is something else,” Killian cut in. “A problem.”
All amusement faded from Juan’s face. “What sort of problem?”
“Arlo,” Killian said shortly. “He’s been giving Juliette a hard time.”
“It is the way of things,” Juan said instantly. “You don’t scare the people, they take your money and never pay.”
“No.” Killian let the full force of his anger shimmer to the surface. “Not like this. He put his hands on her. He hurt her.”
“I will talk to him,” the other man promised.
“See that you do.” He rose gracefully to his feet. “I don’t like my things touched, Juan. And I would hate for your wife to bury a son so early.”
There was warranted indignation in the older man’s eyes, but they both knew the laws of the streets. They knew how bloody a turf war could get and how dangerous. Juan was old enough and wise enough to recognize a friendly warning opposed to a threat.
“It will be done.”
Inclining his head in farewell, Killian started for the door.
“Killian.” Juan’s voice stopped him, had him turning around. “I do not take lightly the friendship we have between our homes, but I will not look favorably should something befall my family.”
“Nor will I,” Killian answered evenly. “Juliette and her family no longer owe the Dragons. I don’t ever want to hear that she was bothered. Please give Maria my best and tell her I will come another night to see her.”
With that, Killian walked out with Frank right on his heels.
The drive back was done in a silence that was broken by the occasional chirp of Frank’s phone. Killian watched the scenery zip past the window in a blur of buildings and people. His temples throbbed in a familiar drum of agony that made him close his eyes and shut off his thoughts. But images of Juliette’s bruised face, the marks on her body, rose up behind his eyelids and the scorching grip of rage returned with a vengeance. It made him want to throw friendship and years of careful planning into the wind, hunt Arlo down, and break every bone in his fucking body. It made him want to do all the things that had given him the nickname The Scarlet Wolf.
“Boss?” Frank’s booming voice pulled him from the brink.
“Home,” he mumbled without opening his eyes.
Marco veered the car north. In the distance, sirens blared and Killian reflexively winced. The sound grated on all his nerves with serrated claws. It gouged up memories he fought so hard to bury. But all it took was that sound, a sound meant to assure and calm. For him, it was a sound that had failed his father. The sound that carried his mother away to save only to fail in route. It was a bad sound. He loathed that sound.
At the manor, Killian opened his own door before Marco could even draw to a full stop at the base of the stone stairs. Frank followed. Together, they started up.
“Can you find out why Jacoby was here?” he told the other man. “I think he wants to bring a shipment into the city. Help him off the books then make sure the proper authorities stop him before he gets close. I don’t want his garbage running my streets,” Killian muttered, trudging over the threshold and into the foyer. “But be sure it doesn’t come back on the company.”
Head bent over his phone, Frank nodded. “Yes sir.”
Killian turned to the stairs.
“Kitchen,” Frank said without looking up or being asked.
Redirecting his steps, Killian made his way down the corridor towards the back of the house. Patches of sunlight trickled down the white walls and lay in a slump half across the marble floors like a drunk. It shone and flickered when he passed through. On the left, rows of high glass overlooked the garden his mother had practically lived in. After her death, he’d hired the best gardeners and landscapers to maintain the grounds, to keep everything exactly as she had. Truth be told, he had changed nothing in the entire house.
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