by Layla Reyne
He hit the floor, curled into a crouch, and Helena leaped over him. In the moonlight, she was a flash of black leather and blonde hair, practically walking on air as she took off from the middle rung, used him as a vault, and grabbed hold of the exposed overhead piping. She swung to the coffee table, landed graceful as a cat, then launched herself onto the couch, scampering up the cushions to the back frame.
Glass shattered from the direction of the kitchen. “Here!” Dante shouted over the music, confirming his position. “She’s got a—”
Gunfire cut short the warning.
Hawes flipped up the coffee table, sending remotes, cookbooks, and Dante’s paperbacks flying. Using the tabletop as a shield, he advanced, staying low, and Helena kept to higher ground, springing from couch arm, to barstool, to the kitchen island.
“Lights!” Hawes shouted to Holt at the controls.
The overhead track lighting blazed on, and the music dropped out. Hawes, at the end of the couch, dropped the table and grasped his knife. Helena stood on the island, knife in one hand, the other holding a gun trained on Amelia.
Their sister-in-law stood in the back corner of the kitchen, a swaying Dante in front of her, a gun pressed to his temple. “Sis,” Amelia hissed, her green-eyed gaze locked on Helena.
While they squared off, Hawes took stock of Dante. Glassy-eyed, unsteady, hands tied in front of him. Even with her torture skills, Amelia was hauling him around more easily than should have been possible, given their height and weight differences. Noticing his attention, Amelia used her free hand to grab something off the counter. She tossed it at Hawes’s feet. “You really shouldn’t leave your pets home alone.”
A syringe. She’d drugged Dante, on top of the sedative Hawes had given him.
Shit!
He glanced again at Dante, whose gaze kept wandering off him and toward the couch. Hawes thought it involuntary until Dante’s left hand also twitched. Was he pointing at the couch?
“You gonna shoot me, sis?” Amelia said to Helena, her focus redirected.
Hawes used the distraction to sneak a look to the right and spied the butt of Dante’s pistol peeking out from behind a pillow.
“You’d make an orphan of your niece?” Amelia taunted.
“She has a father.”
Amelia pitched a flash drive onto the island, the plastic clattering on the granite. “All his crimes and yours.” She cut her glare to Hawes. “All three of you. I send that to the FBI, and Lily won’t have a father—or aunt and uncle—much longer.”
“Why?” Hawes couldn’t stop from asking. It had to be about more than securing Lily’s legacy, if Amelia was willing to send Holt away too.
“Because we could be so much more, if you’d just take the fucking gloves off.”
“I have no desire to start a war in my city.”
“Our city. That’s what it could be, Hawes. Who the fuck’s going to beat the Madigans? Get your shit together, and the four of us can take what your grandfather built and make it even more powerful.”
Power.
Helena had been right. This was what power looked like when it corrupted, when the desire for it went too far. He fucking hated that it had to be his sister-in-law who taught them this lesson.
“It’s not about who we can beat,” Hawes said as he inched closer to Dante’s gun. He loathed the thought of using it, even for distraction. He hated the thought of turning it on Amelia even more. He’d promised Holt he wouldn’t, but if it came down to her or the other two people in this room, Hawes would do what he had to. The kill, God help him, was vetted, but he had to try and bring her around first.
“It’s about who we are, Amelia. Why we do what we do. For justice, not for money. That will make us more powerful,” he said, appealing to her driving motivation. And to the other one too. “That’s the legacy we want to leave Lily. Empires built on fear never last, nor do empires that kill the innocent, blindly or collaterally. That’s not the empire or the legacy we want to leave Lily.”
Amelia sneered. “Ever since that night—”
A flurry of movement erupted—Dante flinched, Amelia jerked him to the side, Helena stepped to the edge of the island—and for a split-second Hawes thought he was going to lose it all. “Wait!” he shouted, and everyone froze.
“Weapons down!” Amelia demanded.
Hawes dropped his knife and garrote at once. “Hena, stand down.” He waited for his sister to lay down the gun and knife, to straighten with her arms and legs loose, ready to spring, before addressing Amelia again. “That night did change us,” he said. “For the better.”
“Gonna have to disagree with you.” Amelia shoved the muzzle of her gun against Dante’s temple, hard enough to make him wince. “You didn’t handle it then, and now look what it’s brought to our doorstep.”
Dante clenched his tied hands. “Now, Hawes!”
Hawes lunged for the gun, ignored the bile rushing up his throat, and fired at the cabinet above Amelia’s head, distracting her. Dante twisted away, wobbling precariously until he got his feet under him and swung his clenched fist up. He connected with Amelia’s firing arm with enough force to knock her gun loose. He kicked it clear and shoved Amelia into Helena’s waiting chokehold. Amelia went limp in seconds, her unconscious body hitting the floor a second after that.
That fast, it was over. That fast, Hawes realized it could have all been over for him and his family instead. As Helena brought the butt of her gun down on the flash drive, shattering it in defense of their family, Hawes dropped Dante’s pistol, a wave of unsteadiness taking out his knees. Dante was there, as he had been all week, albeit a bit wobbly himself. He looped his bound hands over Hawes’s head and drew him into his arms, the two of them leaning on each other. “I’ve got you.”
If there were earthly portals to hell, Hawes was certain the SFPD headquarters was one of them. Not that there was anything particularly hellish about the place itself. The shiny new building was spacious and modern, quite nice compared to other station houses in the city. Not nice were the looks Hawes was catching, especially from old-timers. Thinly veiled fear, outright loathing, and wary caution from the officers and detectives who’d come up during Papa Cal’s heyday. They no doubt wondered how the Prince of Killers’s reign would compare, given its bang-up start.
Curiosity was likewise a popular look among the younger set, officers who cut Hawes a quick glance as they passed by, or who openly stared at him from their bullpen desks. Hawes counted and tagged each one and mentally shuffled them into one of three buckets—too new to know better, still trying to make sense of the rumors, or on board with the Madigans’ recent vigilante streak. He’d relay his observations to Holt next time they reviewed the SFPD’s roster. Reactions and perceptions could be useful in the future, but given the option, Hawes would’ve skipped this visit altogether.
That, however, was not an option. Not while Kane interrogated Amelia in the room across the hall. True to his word, the chief had given them a head start, which put the cavalry on scene shortly after they’d subdued Amelia. She’d come to in the back seat of a police cruiser, and other than to confirm her identity and to answer yes to the Miranda warning, hadn’t spoken. Hawes doubted she’d say anything more to Kane, but he had to wait to find out. Had to make sure his family was safe, even the one who’d betrayed them. He had to see this mess through to the end.
Helena appeared from around the corner with two coffees in hand. Hawes gladly accepted a cup, anything to battle back the cold chill and weariness creeping into his bones, a week’s worth of sleep deprivation catching up to him.
“Heebie-jeebies, Big H?” Helena leaned against the wall beside him, as comfortable as she could be. Why wouldn’t she be? Her day job required her to visit this and other station houses multiple times a week.
Hawes shivered at the thought and gulped more coffee. “I don’t know how you spend so much time here.”
“Not every accused criminal is guilty. Present case excluded”—
she tipped her cup toward the interrogation room—“I like to think I’m better equipped than most to judge.”
“Balancing out your karma?”
“You have your code, I have mine.”
Hawes’s chuckle was cut short by Kane emerging from the interrogation room. Through the open door, Hawes caught sight of Amelia, handcuffed to the metal table. Stone-faced and dead-eyed, she looked like a shell of her usual fiery self, even as she stared straight at him.
Kane closed the door, cutting off Hawes’s view. “She’s not talking.”
At least there was that. He couldn’t discount the risk of Amelia turning state’s evidence—it would be another way to take him down—but she couldn’t do that without taking the entire organization down, which had never been her goal. She’d wanted more power, but that was out of reach now. If she cared for her daughter, which Hawes truly believed she did, she’d want Holt free and clear to raise Lily with the family resources behind them.
Kane’s hazel eyes landed on Helena. “She did ask for an attorney.”
“Nope.” Helena shook her head sharply. “Conflict of interest and she doesn’t meet my criteria.”
Hawes did laugh then, as did Kane, though the chief’s amusement quickly turned grim. “Probably a wise decision. With her actions today and tonight, together with the evidence Holt and Dante collected and Amelia’s prints on the explosives, we’ve got her for conspiracy to commit murder, attempted murder, kidnapping, and numerous financial and firearms charges. I don’t see a convincing legal defense.”
“Get her someone good,” Hawes said to Helena, trusting she had the contacts to make it happen. “It’s what Holt would want.” It was what Lily deserved. Amelia was still her mother.
“You heard from him?” Kane said.
Helena laid a hand on his forearm. “He’s fine. Lily was fussy for a bit, but he got her down. He seemed pretty distracted when I talked to him last, like he was on the trail of something else.”
There was no shortage of disturbingly open threads: the whereabouts of the rest of the explosives, whether Amelia had more allies, how far back her treachery stretched, Dante.
“Where’s Perry?” Kane asked, as if hearing Hawes’s thoughts.
“Here.” Dante rounded the corner. “Was getting my vitals checked and an IV push to flush the sedatives.”
Something was off about him; Hawes noticed it immediately. The sedative was out of his system, but Dante’s shoulders were stiff and his gait was more rigid than his usual casual lope. Then again, it had been an off night for all of them, and Dante had taken the brunt of the hits.
“Everything okay?” Hawes asked.
“Fine.” Dante slid a hand over his lower back, and a measure of the steadiness Hawes had missed returned. “Except that part where I got drugged. Twice.”
Hawes cringed. He’d apologized on the ride over, but he understood if Dante was still angry, probably more so after giving his statement. “I’m sorry,” he tried again, and got a stern, dark-eyed look for his efforts.
“We’ll be discussing that later,” Dante said, voice lowered.
Necessary, as their growing number was attracting attention. Noticing the same, Kane ushered them into his office and closed the door. “I need a straight answer this time,” he said to Hawes. “Is this some sort of turf war that’s going to bleed into my streets?”
Hawes wanted to tell him no, but he also didn’t want to lie to Kane. That wouldn’t be fair after all the chief had done to help them. “Apparently my way of doing things, my alliances, are not universally accepted.”
Behind his desk, Kane ran a hand over his head. “Are you questioning those alliances?”
“Don’t be obtuse, Brax,” Helena said.
“Are you?” Kane pressed.
“You know where I stand,” Hawes replied. “I’m taking my family’s work in a different direction. There are bound to be detractors.”
“You think it runs deeper than Amelia?”
“She recruited Jodie, Ray, and Lucas to her side. Tricked Bailey into helping her. I can’t say for certain there aren’t others. I assume that’s what Holt is working on now. Assessing her reach.”
Dante leaned a hip against the side of Kane’s desk and filched a caramel candy out of the corner bowl. “What’ll you do to the traitors?”
“Has anyone heard from Lucas lately?”
“Fucking hell, Hawes,” Kane muttered. “I didn’t hear that.”
Hawes crossed his arms. “Hear what?”
Kane cursed and shooed them toward the door. “There’s nothing more to do here tonight. Go home before you make a bigger scene of my station.”
Dante pushed off the desk. “Keep us posted.”
“And you do the same if things—”
“Go tits-up. Got it.” Hawes waved a hand in the air as they filed out. “We’re in the shit now, Chief.”
Hawes shut the door on Kane’s half groan, half laugh. In the hallway, Helena hung back by his side. “Give us a minute,” she said to Dante.
Dante clicked the candy against his teeth. “I’ll be outside.”
Watching him go, Hawes worried again over his stiffer than usual gait. Was he hurt or just tired? Or angrier than he was letting on about Hawes drugging him? About going rogue? Hawes put money on the latter.
“Don’t think I have to ask where you’re staying tonight,” Helena said as they followed slowly after him toward the exit. “So tell me, is it a ten?”
“More like a twelve.”
“I hate you,” she hissed, but her small grin said good for you.
“I’ll be by the house in the morning.”
Hand on his arm, she stopped them by the stairs. Her grin vanished, all her typical catty bravado gone, weariness and concern dampening her eyes. “Please be careful. I can’t lose any more family this week.”
Hawes wrapped her in a crushing hug. “You’re not gonna lose me, Hena. Not as long as you’ve got my back. Thank you for that tonight.”
“Holt’s gonna need us to have his too. Now more than ever.”
“And we’ll be there, for him and Lily.”
“Good.” She squeezed him tight, then drew back with a sly smile. “Enjoy your night with Mr. Hair and be home in time for breakfast.” She kissed his cheek. “I’ll put a pillow on your chair.”
He rolled his eyes and started down the stairs, Helena’s laughter echoing after him. He couldn’t deny that the laughter and relatively normal, teasing exchange felt good.
Also welcome and good was the sight of Dante astride his Harley, waiting at the curb for him. “Your steed awaits.”
“Thanks for not killing me for stealing it.”
“We’ll talk about that too.”
Hawes had no doubt they would; he only hoped for other nontalking activities first. He climbed on behind Dante and wound his arms around his middle, reveling in his solid presence. In the steadiness Dante provided. Hawes wanted more of that, wanted it all night long. “Take me to the castle.”
Chapter Eighteen
Hawes got as far as flipping on the hallway lights before Dante spun him by the arm and trapped him between the foyer pillar and his big body. Hand palming one side of his jaw, Dante dragged his tongue up the other, on his way to nipping Hawes’s earlobe. Hawes failed to see the problem with being stuck between a rock and a hard place. Not a damn thing wrong with this. He tunneled his fingers through Dante’s hair and encouraged him to keep going.
Taking cues like a pro, Dante swirled his tongue in the divot behind Hawes’s ear. “You hurt anywhere?”
Hawes rolled his hips, dragging his aching cock, trapped behind layers of material, alongside Dante’s, similarly straining his zipper. “Only one thing hurts right now.” Fuck, he’d been hard the entire ride here. Cock pressed against Dante’s backside, Hawes had been too distracted to worry about death-by-bike. Distracted by the abs he’d traced under Dante’s tank, by the strands of windswept hair that had tickled his face, by the vibrati
on of the bike between his legs, all of it stoking his desire. Seemed Dante’s desire had been stoked too. Time to do something about that.
Hawes slid his hands under the collar of Dante’s jacket and pushed it off his shoulders. “How are you feeling?”
Well enough to spin Hawes again, shove him face-first against the wooden pole, and jerk his suit jacket off over his arms. A protest was on the tip of Hawes’s tongue, but it died with the thrust of Dante’s cock against his ass. Turned into a needy moan when Dante yanked aside his shirt collar and sucked at the sensitive crook of his neck.
“Yes.” Hand on the pole, Hawes canted his hips, and Dante’s dick nestled against his crack. Exactly where Hawes wanted him. He wrapped his other hand around Dante’s nape, keeping his face buried in his neck. The two points of contact were driving Hawes wild.
Then Dante added a third. Sneaking a hand around, he grasped Hawes’s erection, taking layers of material with him as he slid his fist from tip to root. Hawes’s braced arm gave way, and he collapsed onto his elbow.
Dante lifted his head in time to avoid a collision, but his hand around Hawes kept up the torture. “I’ll feel better once I fuck you.”
Now Hawes saw the problem. “Bed,” he gasped out.
“Can fuck you just fine here.” Proving his argument, Dante deftly unbuckled Hawes’s belt, lowered his zipper, and slipped a hand inside his boxers. Another few seconds and he’d have Hawes’s dick out and his ass bared, at which point Hawes would be a goner.
Summoning his last ounce of restraint, Hawes pushed off the pole and sent both of them stumbling backward. He rotated and clutched Dante’s shirt, counterbalancing to keep them upright, and also keeping Dante an arm’s length away. Steadier, he sucked in breaths while promising his dick and Dante, “Two minutes. I need to feed Iris and make sure everything out there”—he nodded toward the living area—“is secure. And since I’m going to pass out right after you fuck me, I’d rather it be in my bed than against the foyer pole.”