Soulless Knight

by Violet Paige

  Soulless Knight

  Sins of Knight Mafia Trilogy

  Violet Paige

  Head Over Heels Press

  Copyright © 2020 by Violet Paige

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Also by Violet Paige

  Part I

  1. Kennedy

  2. Knight

  3. Kennedy

  4. Knight

  5. Kennedy

  6. Knight

  7. Kennedy

  8. Knight

  9. Kennedy

  10. Knight

  11. Kennedy

  12. Knight

  13. Kennedy

  14. Knight

  Part II

  Five Years Later

  15. Knight

  16. Kennedy

  17. Knight

  18. Kennedy

  19. Knight

  20. Kennedy

  21. Knight

  22. Kennedy

  23. Knight

  Keep in touch with Violet

  Also by Violet Paige

  Hart Pursuit Trilogy

  Damaged Hart

  Shattered Hart

  Stolen Hart

  Cold Love Hockey Series

  Cold As Puck

  Cold As Hell

  Cold As Ice

  Football Romance

  Turn Over

  Sidelined

  Dirty Play

  Double Score

  Royal Romance

  Tempting the Crown

  Risking the Crown

  Loving the Crown

  Billionaire Romance

  Don’t Go

  Not Husband Material

  Not Daddy Material

  The Dirtiest Deal

  The Hottest Deal

  Military Romance

  Don’t Tell

  Don’t Lie

  Don’t Promise

  Ranger’s Baby Surprise

  Delta’s Baby Surprise

  Sweet Satisfaction

  Suspense

  Resist

  Surrender

  Part I

  1

  Kennedy

  I didn’t like new places. I pressed the tortoise glasses against my nose to block the light. It was invasive and unwanted. I scooted lower in the bistro chair, slouching under a palm frond. The shade was hit or miss on the outdoor patio, but it was too crowded inside. I wanted space. Quiet. I wanted to wallow in the feeling of isolation.

  “Thank you,” I acknowledged the waitress softly when she delivered my espresso.

  “Anything else?” she asked.

  “No.” I winced. My head hurt as I lifted it to take a sip. I was paying the price for the party I attended.

  I didn’t make good decisions in new places.

  I dug through my designer bag for ibuprofen and swallowed a few tablets with the coffee. My phone chirped, but I didn’t look at the screen. I couldn’t. There were probably pictures. In fact, if I closed my eyes long enough and remembered exactly what I had done, I could see the cell phones freely snapping shots of me.

  I didn’t care then. I only somewhat cared now.

  My phone chirped again. My eyes moved to the two men posted nearby. I couldn’t go to a damn coffee shop without my father’s detail. Their heads leaned closer together and one of them whispered.

  Shit.

  The taller one walked toward me. “It’s time to go,” he announced. His hands clasped in front of him. I saw the blunt edge of his weapon when his jacket was pulled to the side.

  “I haven’t finished my coffee,” I argued.

  “It’s your father,” he replied. “You can bring the coffee with you.”

  “I’d rather drink it here.” I didn’t want to acknowledge my hangover to him, even though he had noticed it. It was his job to notice everything about me.

  “That’s not an option.” His voice was flat without emotion.

  The second suit had already walked inside the bistro for a to-go cup. He returned, dumped my espresso in it, and handed it to me.

  I glanced to my right. The couple next to me stared. They must have been tourists. Surely, the locals were used to mob boss’s daughters being dragged through the city against their wills. I didn’t know New Orleans well. I didn’t know how to read people here yet. No one in Philadelphia would have flinched.

  I glared at the suits. “What is the emergency?”

  “We can’t discuss it. It’s time to go.” His answer was as vague and sterile as the first time he told me.

  “So, it is an emergency?” I pressed. Only for a second I let the possibility rattle around that my father might be not be feeling well. He had more and more episodes lately. He wouldn’t tell me what the brown bottle of pills was that he kept in his breast pocket. I had stopped asking.

  “I didn’t say that. Let’s go.”

  I had options. I could kick, scream, and make a scene in front of the tourists. Or I could leave with the suits, follow orders, obey and fulfill my duty. I hated myself for choosing the easier path.

  The cardboard cup was warm. I clutched it and marched past the tall men, pretending I left because I was bored with the coffee shop.

  “This way.” He extended his palm to shift me toward the sidewalk.

  “I remember where we parked,” I hissed.

  If he had been a family member, he would have spat back at me, but being on the payroll prevented him from stepping out of bounds. Instead, he held the door open to the backseat while the other suit started the ignition. I climbed in reluctantly and he slammed the door. He tested the handle from the inside to make sure it was locked. Both men were new. I didn’t even know their names.

  The leather seat stuck to the back of my legs. I reached overhead to adjust the vent. I needed cool air. Lots of it. I caught glimpses of ferns drooping in the stagnant heat. The driver took one turn after another. He wasn’t careful with the wheel. Maybe it was his way to teach me a subtle lesson. I was as lost as I had been when we left the house an hour ago. I didn’t have a great sense of direction. It was another reason not to like new places. It was easy to feel confused.

  My compass was off. The axis I relied on had been splintered and shredded. I stumbled through a new house, a new city, and a new life.

  The black Escalade pulled up under the portico. I heard the water splash in the outdoor fountain as soon as the handle was unlocked, and I stepped onto the paver stones.

  One of the new maids nodded as I strolled through the foyer. I thought I saw her curtsy. I’d say something about that another time. The house was built in the early 1900s. There were high ceilings and opulent hand-carved molding on the walls. It still contained the original pulley-system elevator and box of bells in the kitchen that was used to summon servants.

  It was incredible that in less than a week my father and I occupied the house without a trace of a box or piece of brown wrapping paper. He liked these things. The lead-glass windows. The history of the house. The thick columns out front and the gardens on the grounds. The elevator was a talking point over cigars and brandy. The history of the house was a way to establish prominence. A foothold into New Orleans social circles.

  I walked into my father’s study, flanked by my bodyguards. He was on the phone. I wasn’t sure he noticed I had entered until he held a finger up to warn me against speaking. I fiddled with my phone until he was finished.

  His eyes landed on me. I refused to squirm in the seat. My father wasn’t a large man, but he had the kind of gaze that was imposing. Threatening. Dark
. His light brown eyes were as menacing as any set of black coal irises. He had a thin frame that he dressed in expensive Italian suits. I’d never seen my father’s hair out of place, or a stain on his shirt.

  It wasn’t until the bodyguards exited that he broke the silence.

  I slurped from the coffee cup.

  “Kennedy.” His finger tapped on the oversized desk.

  “Yes?” My eyebrows rose. I realized my mistake when the headache pinched together at my temple. “You needed me for something? Are you okay? Are you feeling all right?”

  “You know exactly why you’re here.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t want to guess.”

  His scowl had cut down men three times my size. Yet, I still pushed boundaries. I tested him. I looked for way to press his buttons. I created these situations, and I hated them. Sometimes I thought I hated him. I hated my own father.

  “We’ve been in New Orleans exactly one week and you’ve already become cheap gossip.”

  I blinked. “I don’t like those words. Cheap gossip? What does that even mean?”

  His cheeks began to redden. “It means you have embarrassed me. You have no regard for who I am. Our family name.” His palms flattened into the mahogany desktop. “There are pictures of you dancing on a pool table. Do you even play pool?”

  I swallowed hard. “No.”

  “Then why were you on top of one?”

  I couldn’t stand the glare. I flinched for a second. But it was long enough that I lost the edge I had. I felt my stomach flip and my lungs strain for air. My palms became sweaty.

  “You told me to socialize. I socialized.” My defiance was cracking.

  “You were drunk, weren’t you?”

  I used the manicured point of my thumb nail to carve my initials into the coffee cup.

  “Answer me,” he growled.

  “Yes. I had too many glasses of champagne,” I lied. I’d had shots of Fireball and some other hideous mix of liquor in a shot glass. “Okay? Is that all?” I began to rise to my feet. “I didn’t even know anyone there.”

  “Sit,” he muttered between clenched teeth. “They know who you are now.”

  “Dad, I’m not sixteen. This seems dramatic, even for you.”

  “No, you’re not a teenager any longer. You’re acting like a spoiled princess,” he seethed. “Kennedy, we have uprooted the entire business. I am establishing myself in New Orleans. You are part of this venture. A crucial part. You can’t get drunk and dance on pool tables. There are pictures of your night out. I have clients who could see you. What in the hell were you thinking?”

  “Okay. So, this is about you.”

  “It’s always about me.” Our eyes met and I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold the posturing. My eyes stung and my mouth went dry. “I hold the keys to your future. I am the one to pass on your fortune. I keep you safe. I am the head of this family. Damn it. You have no respect. None. And there is a consequence.”

  I jerked my head to the side. I didn’t want to see when his fist pounded the table, knocking a teacup to the floor. My eyes closed and I held my breath. The china met the hardwoods and I heard the crack of fine porcelain.

  “Kimble and Joseph will be assigned to you twenty-four seven.”

  “Who?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Your new detail.”

  “Oh, right.”

  My father continued with the outline of my punishment. “The only social engagements you are allowed to attend are the ones I decide you attend.”

  I bit my lip.

  “Your social media accounts will be stripped tonight. I’ve already called in IT to handle it.”

  “You can’t do that,” I protested. “I didn’t post any of them on my pages.”

  “But you were tagged. You need to learn how to walk through this city like a ghost.”

  “A ghost or a prisoner?” I whispered.

  My father rounded his desk and leaned over me. He had never struck me, but I always wondered how close he had been to slapping me across the face. Just one comment. One rude question. I was always within a breath of being on the receiving end of his open palm.

  “You are the daughter of Lucien Martin. You will learn what that means. If I have to lock you in your room like a prisoner, I will do it. You are not a prisoner, yet.”

  The words made my skin break out with in cool perspiration. I could feel it on the back of my neck and on my stomach. I didn’t want him to know.

  “Is that all?” I dared to ask a question.

  “Tell Kimble you’re going to your room for the rest of the day. You look tired.”

  I nodded as I squeezed between my father and the chair, but not before his fingers dug into the upper part of my arm.

  “This is your only warning, Kennedy.”

  “I understand.”

  His fingers unwound and I knew there would be indentations in my skin.

  I tugged on the heavy door into the hallway. The maid was polishing a set of silver candlesticks.

  “Mr. Martin dropped a cup,” I informed her. “There’s broken glass on the floor.”

  “Oh, yes. I’ll get it.” She tucked the polishing cloth in the front of her apron and walked briskly to the supply closet.

  I absently turned to see one of the two suits only inches from me. “Which one are you? Kimble or Joseph?” I asked.

  “Kimble,” he answered.

  “I’m going to my room to rest,” I repeated the orders my father had given me.

  He took a step on the massive winding staircase. “Are you going to watch me sleep? You’re not really my type, Kimble. It could get awkward.”

  “I’ll be outside your door.” He pursed his lips together.

  “And what about your sidekick?”

  “He’ll be here as well.”

  I huffed and continued up the staircase. “Seems like a lot of security for one person.”

  “You’re not just anyone.” We stopped outside my bedroom door. My father’s personal attendant passed us in the hallway. Kimble’s hand moved to the latch. “You’re Lucien Martin’s daughter.”

  I was reminded often who my father was. I groaned, slipped into my room, and locked Kimble out.

  2

  Knight

  Assholes. All of them.

  I watched them dance and drink through the windows. The house was lit up like a damn Christmas tree. My eyes moved from the top floor to the bottom. There wasn’t a dark room in the old mansion. The street was lined with houses like this one. Wrought iron gates. Family crests hung over the entryway, meant to intimidate. Gas lamps flickering with false warmth.

  “Knight, you going in?”

  I turned when Parker Bastion appeared. I hadn’t thought about who was on the guest list. I took another drag on the cigarette.

  “I guess.” I shrugged.

  He stood next to me trying to figure out what I was doing outside when the party was on the other side of the door.

  “You kind of have to, don’t you?” I felt my friend’s eyes watching me instead of the house.

  I blew a puff of smoke in the air. “Seraphina would notice if I didn’t show for her engagement party.”

  “The in-laws have a nice place.” He straightened the tie on his tuxedo.

  I nodded. My sister was engaged to Brandon Castille. His family owned a steakhouse franchise that was well-established in the southern states. Brandon’s mother’s family was considered to be one of the founding families of New Orleans. My father approved of the match. I knew he had orchestrated it. My sister hadn’t had much say in the arrangement.

  “I hope Seraphina likes it. She’s moving in here.” I snuffed the cigarette under my shoe.

  “That’s rough.” Parker slid his hands in his pockets. “Married at twenty-one and moving in with her husband’s parents? Even if they do get their own floor, sounds like a shitty way to start a marriage.”

  I popped a piece of gum in my mouth. The mint immediately washed out the taste of tabaco. />
  “I need to get this over with.”

  Parker slapped me on the back. “They have free booze. It can’t be that bad.”

  I chuckled. Free anything didn’t have meaning to me. We climbed the front steps together. The marble gleamed. As the doors swung open the music from the band blared. Parker and I had been friends since we were kids. We grew up in the organization. Each of us the first-born son, poised to take over one day. Our families were allies. Always a plus.

  “Bar’s this way. I’ll be right back.” I lost Parker when he disappeared in the crowd.

  I strolled past the guests, looking for an easy exit. The fewer the people, the better. That was impossible with this kind of setting.

  “Knight, you made it!” Suddenly a blur of white hurdled toward me. It was Seraphina in a beaded gown. My younger sister wiggled past an older couple and threw herself at my chest.

  “This is some party.” I peeled her off me. Her blue eyes flickered. She looked terrified. The way she looked when I had once dared her to touch the drain in the deep end of the pool. She was only five then.

  Seraphina tugged on my elbow, dragging me to an empty hallway.

  “What’s going on?” I asked. “Aren’t you having a good time?”

  “Are you still smoking?” She scrunched her petite nose. “I can smell it on you.”

  I groaned. “I’m not up for a lecture on cigarettes.”

  “It’s gross. You should stop. And if Mother knew—””

  I exhaled. “What do you need? Did someone drop a platter of hors d’oeuvres?”

  “No,” she snapped. “I don’t care about the stupid food. It’s this. It’s Brandon and his parents. I don’t know if I can go through with this.” She picked at her nails. “It’s too much. This family is crazy. I don’t want to be a part of it.”