The Red Roots
Text copyright © 2015 Andrea Johnson Beck
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lophan Publishing, North Carolina
www.andreajohnsonbeck.com
Formatted by Champagne Formats
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Quote
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
19 months later . . .
Acknowledgements
About The Author
Releasing in late 2015 . . .
THE SKYLINE PUNCTURED the wide-open sky, not a single cloud drifted above Manhattan. The city bloomed into a fresh season, but Isla stood outside and inhaled the whiff of karma. People weaved around her along the sidewalk as she tipped her head back and followed the tower of granite and glass. Straight from the airport, her leather tote was packed for a quick jaunt to Sutton territory.
Isla pushed through the revolving door, entering into a lobby with the modern sophistication of white walls with abstract art and hand blown colored sconces. Behind a stainless steel desk was stationed a uniformed guard. He backed up against an encased wall of cascading vibrant turquoise water.
She approached the man who looked like a retired bodybuilder. “I’m here to see, Martin Sutton.”
“Name?”
“Really?”
“Name?”
“Isla Pierce. What happened to Donovan?”
He handed her a small key, ignored her question, and instructed her to enter the elevator on the left then insert the key above the number pad in the elevator. Not her first rodeo, she thought, though the penthouse visit was new.
“No funny business. I’ll be watching you. Give the key back to Mr. Sutton.”
Isla winked. “Got it, Mr. T.”
He scowled.
“You know, the A-Team . . . I pity the fool. You have the mohawk, and—and the chains.”
With a grunt he pointed over his shoulder.
“All right, I’m going.” She turned her back. “Donovan had a sense of humor,” Isla spoke under her breath.
The glass lobby swarmed with suits. A handful of men and women stepped on and off the elevators. In the corner, a tall brunette spit obscenities into her phone while her heel tapped against the marble.
Midtown was all business, as was she.
Isla stepped onto the elevator, along with two others. She cleared her throat and inserted the key. A bell chimed but a number never lit up. Isla removed the key, held it tight in her fist, and glanced at the man and lady.
Their eyes adverted hers. Isla gathered her curtain of thick dark golden brown hair and twisted it up on the top of her head. It was lovingly named the “bitch bun” by her friends. She checked out the perfectly put together woman. Isla was never a pencil skirt, silk blouse type of girl. Only when forced would she slip on heels and her mother’s diamond earrings.
The gears whined and grinded after each floor; the woman was the first to scurry out. The man remained silent and stared at his shoes until the elevator slowed and stopped on his floor. Gripping his briefcase against his chest like a shield, he sidestepped off. The corners of her lips lifted. She punched a guy in the gut for accidentally touching her ass in the elevator and now the entire building was afraid of her.
Awesome.
The cables tugged higher, a dash flashed on the panel. Martin had been holed up in his office for weeks, or so he had city officials believe. His family was in shambles, and he was stirring the family pot, upsetting investors and shareholders. Martin—the loose cannon—needed to stop taking pages from his spoiled daughter’s book.
The elevator dipped and halted. With a loud clang, the doors slid open. Isla cringed and stood transfixed on the row of buck, elk, and wolf heads mounted above a gathering of rich leather club chairs. The soles of her boots left the confines of the elevator and stepped into an urban hunting lodge. The woodsy aroma flowed about the room with notes of patchouli and cedar as the masculine bouquet clung to Isla’s skin.
Typically when she met Martin it was in his office fourteen floors below. It was sparse in contrast. A filing cabinet here and there, it was filled with standard office furniture, dark rugs, and a coffee maker in the corner near the receptionist desk. How many knew of his secret penthouse lodge? Probably not many, including the officials who would love nothing more than to toss him in prison for numerous allegations the State’s attorney couldn’t back up.
The windows were covered with sliding wood panels. The room of stone and varnish was illuminated by a chandelier of antlers and shaded lamps. Isla stepped closer to his animal trophies; she saw her distorted reflection in their black eyes.
“Breathtaking, are they not?”
She whirled around. “Not the word I would choose.”
“I hunted each one of these beauties.”
“Not an honorary member of PETA?”
Martin took the key from her. “No, but I’m sensing you must be.”
Isla looked over at the stuffed and displayed animals. “I enjoy a juicy ribeye like any other carnivore. I’m just not particular to mounting the cast of The Jungle Book up on my walls.”
Martin laughed, his tenor deep and hearty. If Isla closed her eyes, she’d envision a man with a heftier waist and trousers nestled just below his man boobs, not the man before her. Well-groomed in a black suit, Martin’s crown of ash was combed to perfection. He flashed his gleaming veneers at her and motioned to the closest chair. Isla sunk into the cool leather cushion and lowered her tote beside her feet. Martin unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat down across from her.
“What happened to Donovan?”
“Fired after your little altercation in the elevator. He smashed in Mr. Gibbs’ rear window with a fire extinguisher.”
“Too bad, I liked him.”
“How rude of me. Would you care for coffee or water, Isla?”
“No, thank you. Why are making threats against the families?”
“Skipping the pleasantries? I like that.”
Isla raised her eyebrow. “You aren’t going to like this.”
“I’m not?”
“No. Why are you stirring up problems?”
Martin rose from his seat and crossed the room to an alcove of vintage booze and crystal. Ice cubes clanked inside the glass. “I attempted to contact you a few weeks ago but you were nowhere to be fo
und. I don’t even think Reed knew your whereabouts.”
“I didn’t realize you cared. I’m touched.”
Martin poured the liquor into his glass. “I care for my family, especially my daughter, and I found her arrest coincidental. I was struck by curiosity. Would Isla know anything about it and, if so, could she and I come to some type of an agreement?”
“She pleads the fifth.”
“Is that how we’re going to play this? You started this tit-for-tat game.”
Fire licked Isla’s veins. “Are you five? Do you need a timeout like Mia?”
Martin’s face flushed red and she didn’t care. His tantrums were annoying and they had been at each other for some time, but in the end, Isla would win. “I came here to discuss the territories—”
“Ellis sent you to do his bidding. How noble. Or perhaps you volunteered to impress your displeased husband. Is that it?”
She shot up from the chair ignoring his jab. “What do you want with the Jupiter territory?”
Martin tipped his drink back and lowered the empty glass. “I have every right to a piece. I’m an investor in multiple properties—”
“Properties which were foreclosed. Properties you were unable to unload. Properties you invested in without the vote. Sounds like a personal problem to me.”
“My name is just as important as Ellis’ or any of the families.” He said with a snarl.
“Maybe a decade ago, but the DA is on a mission to desecrate the Suttons and, at last check, you’re untrustworthy. Zagotta over in Detroit wants you dead as do a few others I’m sure.” Isla stuck her bottom lip out. “Sad for you.”
“You will make Ellis see. You will convince him of my loyalty and my justification. Besides, he’s incorporating a new city. I know the area. I can return to Florida.”
Martin’s voice shook a bit. Giovanni “Vinny” Zagotta’s name did that people. He wasn’t like the white collars; he was straight on street thug who was a phantom to police. Cross Vinny and a person’s days were numbered.
Isla barked out a laugh. “Why in the world would I help you? You got in bed with the wrong guy. The drug trade isn’t for everyone, and now your daughter is a coke head spending some quality time with Big Mavis.”
“I’ll expose you, your clientele, and the millions you’ve stolen. Do you know what torture techniques the Columbians would use on you? I know all about Ellis’ pet.”
Her pulse tightened. “Traipsing down the blackmail road, are we?” Isla knelt to pick up her bag, but was met by polished leather shoes. “Get off.” She yanked on the strap, tipping Martin off balance, and hoisted herself up. He intimidated most of humanity—or those without spines. Isla wasn’t one of them.
“You aren’t some badass hacker chick.”
“You’re right. I’m worse.” Her jaw tensed. “What pisses you off more? Ellis trusting me more than your incarcerated, cocaine-addicted daughter, or the possibility of Reed gaining a controlling interest within the company and being appointed over the Jupiter territory?”
Martin leaned closer to her with a smirk. “You’re damaged goods. I know it, and you know it. You’re out of your depth little girl. Your time is thinning within the family.”
Isla’s heart roared in her ears. She wanted more than anything to knock Martin’s teeth down his throat, but it wasn’t her purpose for visiting. Not this time, anyway. She walked away and pressed the metallic button. His threats didn’t scare her; they infused her blood with conviction.
“War and death will come to your city. I am not one to trifle with,” he yelled from behind her.
“Neither am I,” she said through her teeth.
Martin’s cold glare ground a hole into the back of her head, his evil, dark presence hovering around her. It was a presence she knew well. She had escaped Ronan Walker’s sick, radical lunacy with the taste of blood still in her mouth.
In a heap her clothes laid next to his feet.
Quivered limbs lifted Isla. Satin sheets slipped beneath her, and her elbows and knees sunk into the mattress. The snap of leather stole breath from Isla’s lungs. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Snap.
His warning reverberated the bedroom. Isla braced for the first lash.
Isla prayed for it to be over. Begged God to make it quick.
It never was.
The sting lasted for hours, sometimes days. Ronan preached to her about obedience; choking her with scripture and shouting Delilah as he disciplined her. Isla loathed herself.
How could she allow her grandmother’s husband to abuse her over and over again? It wasn’t her. She was strong and resilient, but Ronan had a perverse power over her.
“Lying whore.”
Leather sliced her flesh.
She bit down hard on her bottom lip. Tears and saliva dripped onto the sheets. Her punishment carried on. Isla’s muscles weakened with each lashing. Isla smelled blood thick within the air, and she tasted it in the back of her throat.
Snap.
She screamed. Her spine curved at the new wounds. The mattress dipped. Isla sobbed as he ran his stubble over the gashes. Her fingers dug into the sheets. Death, come to me.
SPASMS WOVE THROUGH Isla’s spine, pinching muscles and nerves. She dragged her mind from the torture. The plane’s tires screeched against the tarmac. Passenger’s heads jerked and swayed.
Isla was home.
Different city. Same vultures.
She dropped the extra cash for a non-stop flight. The faster she flew out of her enemy’s territory, the better. Martin never warmed up to Isla. He yapped on about blood relation all day long even though he wasn’t biologically connected to the Pierces. Only by marriage did they share similar interests.
The Pierce family was a clockwork maze of liars and schemers, and Isla was one of them.
She turned on her phone and reached under the seat for her bag. As the plane taxied to its gate, she was thankful to return to balmy Florida. Though it had been a temperamental spring, snow never touched the coastal cities. An occasional bite of frost didn’t bother Isla, but blizzards and ice storms were out of the question.
She stood and waited as the stream of people flowed down the aisle. Isla maneuvered around a man mining around in an overhead compartment.
An infant cried. A woman sneezed.
Even when the possibility of someone watching her was slim, Isla remained alert. It wasn’t paranoia but fact.
A text message chimed from her phone. She pulled down the screen.
Carys: Waiting out front.
Her closeness with Carys spanned many years and had been developed with great care. Isla focused her efforts repairing her marred reputation. It was a delicate dance of poise and skill. To align with the Pierce family, Isla had to renounce her own.
With pleasure, she did so with blood vows.
Isla strolled through the terminal. She dodged a near luggage/stroller collision and stepped onto the descending escalator. Her dark, knowing eyes stared straight ahead disregarding the commotion behind her.
She weaved through a sea of travelers to the glass doors. Isla spotted her convertible and a leggy brunette propped against the passenger door. Carys’ green polka dotted dress fluttered against her knees.
She didn’t notice Isla right away. Her focus was on the older gentleman standing next to her. Carys tipped her head back with a laugh, and slid her palm down the front of his suit coat. Isla shook her head and stepped through the automatic doors.
“Hello.”
Carys screamed and threw her arms around Isla’s neck. “Welcome home.”
“You saw me this morning.”
“I know silly, but I missed you.”
Carys unwound her arms and introduced Isla to the gentleman. His handshake was as firm as his attention that stayed on Carys.
“Jack and Father attended university together,” Carys said as she batted her eyelashes.
“During the dust bowl?”
Isla was playfully poked. “
Be nice.”
“Ellis was quite the football hero back in those days,” Jack said.
He ignored Isla’s jab and continued to talk about the good times, “before arthritis and gout.”
A police cruiser slowed next to them.
“We better go. Our husbands are expecting us,” Isla said and snatched her keys from Carys.
He slipped Carys his business card. “I’ll be in town for awhile. Give me a call, and tell your father hello from me.”
“Will do.”
Jack walked backward toward an idling limousine. Carys wiggled her fingers in a playful wave.
Isla shoved her shoulder. “Get in, Scarlett.”
Carys pouted but did what she was told. Isla opened the driver’s side door and tossed her bag into the back. She rearranged her seat and mirrors as Carys buckled herself in. When Isla started her car, the radio blared a whiny-pitched voice.
Isla fumbled with the station. “Damn it, Carys. When driving Monty you may not torture him with your twangy my-husband-set-fire-to-my-pickup-truck music.”
“Because your hippie ‘California Dreaming’ music is better?”
Isla pulled from the curb. “Don’t mock my Mama Cass, you’ll walk home.”
“You wouldn’t?”
“You know I would and I’m surprised you don’t love the oldies, Mr. Geriatric back there.”
Carys pulled the visor down and flipped open the mirror. She dabbed gloss on her puckered lips, titling her head from side to side. “I love Jack’s incredible stock portfolio, amongst other things.”
“You have issues. Like, electroshock therapy issues.”
“Gavin has fun. Why can’t I?” Carys’s voice slipped into a faux southern drawl.
“I know you believe that in your past life you were a Georgia belle who sipped sweet tea while Atlanta burned but—”
“And Gavin and Jack would dual for my hand in marriage.”
She glanced over at Carys. There was no point discussing the matter further since she had slipped away into her Gone with the Wind fantasy.
Arranged marriages were considered archaic; however, heiresses or debutantes were encouraged to seek husbands within their family’s financial bracket, illicit or not. Isla discovered that few wealthy and prosperous corporations operated on the straight and narrow. Specialists were hired to secure positive public opinion. Marriages were no different.
The Red Roots Page 1