Fiery Surrender

by Mari Carr

  “My tablet was on the counter,” she said quietly. “He saw it there.”

  “And you think he waited for you to go pee and then stole it?” Oscar asked. “That’s a lot of risk for a tablet.”

  “True, if all he was after was a tablet.”

  “Instead of?” Langston asked.

  “My tablet.” Mina sighed. “Langston, I’m so sorry.”

  “Why?”

  “I think the break-in may not have been about you at all. It may have been about me.”

  Oscar stiffened. “They were looking for your tablet?”

  Mina tapped a button on her phone. “I think this might be about a case I’m working.”

  “Who are you calling?”

  “The Grand Master. The case I’m working on is the Morrison indictment.”

  Rich frowned. “Are we supposed to know what that is?”

  “You wouldn’t, but the Grand Master will. It’s Trinity Masters’ business, and if those case files are what he was after, we’re in trouble.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Juliette ended the call, then very carefully set down the cordless receiver.

  “The Morrison indictment,” she said softly.

  “Shit.” Sebastian rubbed his jaw wearily.

  Franco looked up. “Did he sell something else? Say something to someone?”

  “No. It looks like he might be trying to get the case dismissed. Mina Edwards’ tablet was just stolen. Someone walked into a restaurant bathroom and took her whole bag.”

  “Maybe it was random?” Franco was ever the optimist.

  “No, Langston Hayden’s home was broken into. They thought it was someone looking for something in his workshop—”

  Sebastian straightened. “Doesn’t he build bombs?”

  “—but there was nothing missing.”

  “If someone was looking for bomb parts—”

  “Mina considered that,” Juliette said, cutting Sebastian off. “It was after they catalogued the damage that Mina’s tablet was stolen.”

  “So someone broke into Langston’s place looking for the tablet and didn’t find it,” Sebastian said.

  “The trinity was at the Charleston safe house at the time.”

  Sebastian shook his head. “That place is now a fort. No one is getting in there.”

  Juliette nodded. “I know. So they waited for her to be out in public, but alone, and took it.”

  “Any proof it’s Morrison?” Franco asked. “Or is it his family?”

  “The restaurant video just shows a man in a hoodie. Gloves on.”

  Sebastian stood and started pacing beside her desk. “It wouldn’t be him anyway. He’s on house arrest in Chicago.”

  “Maybe it’s time his bail was revoked,” Juliette said quietly. “I know it’s not him, but if it’s someone in his family, seeing him in prison might scare them straight.”

  “I was listening to a podcast on those scared-straight programs, and they don’t work,” Franco said.

  Sebastian stopped pacing. “It might be time to send an even stronger message.”

  Franco scrambled to his feet, his chair tipping over. “No, you can’t kill him.”

  Sebastian and Juliette exchanged a grim glance.

  “Juliette, no.” Franco rushed around, dropping to his knees beside her and taking her hands in his. “It will kill something inside of you if you have him murdered.”

  “You’re right,” she said softly, turning her hands to lace her fingers with his. “And that doesn’t change what I might need to do. We’re not there yet. Don’t worry.”

  Sebastian mouthed, “We’re headed there.”

  Charles Riley Morrison was a fifty-seven-year-old legacy member of the Trinity Masters. His blood wasn’t quite as blue as hers—she was an Adams, after all—but the Morrisons came close. They’d helped build Chicago since it was first incorporated in the 1830s. In the last century and a half, they’d been instrumental in most of the city’s profitable industries and were also patrons of the arts. One branch of the family, headed by Charles, had become art dealers. At any given time, ten to twenty pieces in the Art Institute were on loan from the Morrison collection.

  And Charles Morrison had been selling stolen art for the purists.

  A radical, ethnocentric, anti-immigrant faction within the Trinity Masters, the purists had committed a war crime during WWII in order to steal a boatload full of art from Europe. It was while they unraveled that mystery that Juliette learned about the Masters’ Admiralty, who just happened to be the owners of all the art the purists had stolen.

  Though the crime was decades old, once it came to light who was at fault, the Masters’ Admiralty had nearly declared war on them.

  It was only one of the many crises she’d faced since taking over leadership of the Trinity Masters.

  After an exhaustive investigation eliminated Charles as a purist, Juliette had approached him. She’d informed him that the art the Andersons—confirmed purists—had been selling was stolen, and that despite what his contracts said about buyer and seller confidentiality, he needed to tell her where those pieces had ended up. She’d intended to buy or steal the pieces and return them to the Masters’ Admiralty.

  Charles Morrison had hemmed and hawed. She’d channeled a lineage of authority and leadership to put Charles in his place, forcing him to agree to turn over everything he had on the pieces he had been asked to sell.

  He’d walked into the meeting arrogant and faux solicitous, and by the end, he’d been visibly irritated. Just as Sebastian had been about to escort him out of the small meeting room, he’d said the words that changed everything.

  He’d been pissed, tugging his vest down over his slight paunch as he walked toward the door. “Well, I guess I know why the Andersons asked me not to mention to the Grand Master that they were selling art. The Grand Master before you, I mean.”

  Sebastian had reached out, putting a hand on Charles’s shoulder to stop him, his gaze fixed on her. In that moment, Juliette had wanted to cry, but she’d gathered herself, forced her voice to remain steady.

  “You deliberately and knowingly withheld information from this office?” she’d asked coolly.

  Charles had known he’d made a mistake. He’d tried to walk it back, tried to amend what he’d said, but it was too late. The Andersons had asked him to keep information from the Grand Master, and he’d done it.

  That simply couldn’t be allowed.

  Charles Morrison had deliberately withheld information, and she had to make an example of him.

  She’d decided to use the courts to punish him.

  Three months ago, he’d been indicted on charges of wire fraud and tax evasion. The judge presiding over the case was new-to-the-bench federal judge Damon Corso. The prosecutor was Mina Edwards, assigned as special counsel.

  To the outside world, he looked like a white-collar criminal who finally got caught.

  Once the trial started, she would make sure the members knew that everything happening was orchestrated by her, a punishment for withholding information.

  Charles was going to lose his business, reputation, a substantial chunk of his wealth, and possibly spend a year in a minimum-security prison.

  Excessive punishment for the crime of not saying something?

  Maybe, but she needed Charles, and those like him, to fear her. Their society was protected by, and shrouded in, secrets, but no one was allowed to keep secrets from her.

  “I have to make an example of him,” Juliette told Franco.

  “I know, but don’t kill him.”

  “If he hired someone to steal Mina’s tablet in an effort to stop the trial, then what went from a mild punishment—a year in minimum-security prison and forced retirement—will now become a severe punishment.”

  Franco stroked her cheek, murmuring softly to her in Spanish. Damn it, he was going to make her cry.

  “Setting aside the issue of who you want to kill him, if it comes to that,” Sebastian mused,
causing Franco to look ill, “what’s the point of stealing her tablet? It’s not like deleting the files will do much good. They’re just digital copies.”

  “I’ve ordered Mina and her trinity back to Boston. I want her to sit down with Harper Sommerset and talk through the legal ramifications.” Harper was a powerhouse lawyer who lived in Boston and a member. Juliette had consulted with her several times in the past on society business.

  “What about the rest of the legal team working with Mina?” Franco asked.

  “They aren’t members. She had to let her office know the tablet was taken, but they’ll look at her whole caseload. We’ll focus on the Morrison indictment.”

  Franco stood. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Juliette looked up at him. “It’s not even lunchtime yet.”

  “I know, but we can take an afternoon off. We need to go outside. See the sun.”

  “It’s probably cloudy. This is Boston,” Sebastian pointed out.

  “I know that, but we are becoming mole people,” Franco declared dramatically. “Mina and her trinity will not get here until what, late afternoon? We have time. Come on, querida. All this work will be here later,” Franco said softly. “Let’s go upstairs, sit on a bench in Copley Square. We’ll call Devon and enjoy the fresh air.”

  Juliette glanced once more at the stacks of files waiting for her, then turned and followed Franco out.

  The stolen treasures and lost legacies could wait. At least for now.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Rich dumped his suitcase and Mina’s by the door of the hotel suite, not even bothering to carry them back to the bedroom.

  God.

  What would he give to sleep in his own goddamn bed just one night? They’d bounced from Boston to Italy to Charleston and back to Boston in less than a week. He was no stranger to travel—his work required him to spend time on the road, well, in the air. But if his personal assistant had ever set him up with a schedule like this, he would have fired him on the spot.

  Mina followed him in, walking over to the couch to sit down, then drumming her fingers on her knee in a way that betrayed her anxiety. She was pissed about losing the tablet and concerned about what this would do to her case. She had given them a succinct summary of the Morrison indictment, and Langston’s eyes widened when he realized just how stiff the penalty was for even lying by omission. Rich suspected Langston was suddenly viewing his behavior at the binding ceremony in a different light.

  They’d all catnapped on the flight to Boston. Sheer exhaustion had finally won, and the three of them had crashed hard before the plane had even taken off. While that two-hour nap had left him groggy, it appeared to have worked wonders on Langston and Mina, both of whom were fairly buzzing with nervous energy.

  A car had been waiting for them at Logan International, driving them straight to the Boston Public Library. Deep under the library, the Grand Master had been waiting for Mina. He and Langston had been included in the meeting, meaning they’d been offered a place to sit in a small lounge-turned-conference room that Rich hadn’t known existed, then summarily excluded from the conversation as Mina, the Grand Master, and another lawyer, Harper, discussed the legal ramifications of the stolen tablet, and what—if anything—in Mina’s files about the Morrison indictment could potentially damage their case.

  Once the meeting was over, Mina and Harper walked together toward the elevator and continued discussing the case. Langston excused himself, and Rich had watched as the other man asked if he could speak to Juliette in private. This time, she granted his request.

  Rich had nearly called out, begged Langston to wait. He hadn’t had time to talk him through what he needed to say. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. He could have made time, but instead opted for sex and fun.

  Rich had waited in the entrance hall, his anxiety growing, as he wondered if this was it. If Langston was asking to dissolve their trinity.

  And how the Grand Master would take it.

  If Langston didn’t play it the right way…

  He’d glanced down the hall. Mina had been pointing to something in a file folder, she and Harper oblivious to the fact he and Langston hadn’t followed them.

  When the door opened, Rich had heard the Grand Master say, “It will all be okay.”

  Rich hated being in the dark. Hated that his future was so up in the air. He’d asked what Langston and the Grand Master had talked about.

  And Langston had lied.

  Rich had gotten to know the other man well enough over the past week that he’d known the instant Langston opened his mouth, the words weren’t true. He’d muttered something about checking on his sister, asking if the Grand Master had been in touch with the Masters’ Admiralty.

  Langston hadn’t stuck around for a follow-up question, instead quickly walking in the direction of the women.

  Sebastian had told them the suite at the Boston Park Plaza was still theirs, then he gave them an apologetic grin, muttering, “Quite the honeymoon.”

  Despite the fact that the hotel was walking distance from the library, they’d taken advantage of the chauffeured car to catch a ride.

  Langston drifted around the suite, peering into the bedrooms and whistling appreciatively at the decadence of the place. In addition to the comfortable living room—complete with a bar and baby grand—it boasted a fully-stocked kitchenette and three bedrooms with room-size beds and luxurious bathrooms.

  “Oh damn. Y’all need to check out that bathroom,” Langston said, walking back into the living room. “We are definitely going to christen the Jacuzzi. That tub is bigger than an Olympic-sized pool.”

  “Exaggerate much?” Rich joked.

  “I’m telling you, man, I could swim laps in the thing,” Langston insisted.

  It was times like these, when he saw the wonder and excitement in Langston’s eyes, that Rich was reminded exactly how privileged a life he’d led.

  Mina was still tapping her hand against her knee, which was now bouncing. She was a live wire.

  “Mina.” Rich sat next to her and placed a hand on her leg to still it.

  “Sorry. I’m usually better at dealing with stress, but God, this is all too much. I’m tired and wired and strung out.” She stood up, her hands balled into fists by her sides. “I sort of feel like…ugh…” Mina huffed out a strong sigh. “I don’t know what I feel like.”

  “Let’s get some sleep,” Rich said hopefully. He wanted actual sleep. He was going to claim one of the smaller bedrooms and lock the door from the inside.

  “I don’t think I can sleep,” Mina said.

  “Hey. Give me a second and I think…” Langston had his phone out, tapping on the screen fast and furious. “Hell yeah! Boston has one.”

  “One what?” Rich asked.

  “A rage room. It’s a great place to relieve stress. Come on. Y’all are gonna love this.”

  “Rage room?” Mina looked at Rich, who shrugged, even as he grabbed his jacket, resigned to the fact that no sleeping would happen.

  Together, they followed Langston out of the suite. Langston ordered a car, taking them to a place that was literally called “The Rage Room.” Once there, Langston gleefully explained they were going to destroy stuff—let out their rage. While Rich had his reservations, Mina was all in.

  Langston paid for something called the “Full Hardcore” package—and brushed him back when Rich tried to put down his black card. Then they were led to a dressing room where the three of them pulled on coveralls, gloves, and hard hats with face shields.

  “Sledgehammer or baseball bat?” Langston asked Mina, who took the ridiculous question way more seriously than Rich would have expected.

  “Sledgehammer.” She took the heavy tool—no, in this case, weapon—from Langston, who was clearly pleased by her choice.

  “Atta girl,” he praised.

  Langston offered Rich the baseball bat, but he shook his head, reaching instead for a pipe. “I’m using this.”

  “Cool.
I’ll swing the bat. Maybe one of you can take my picture so I can send it to my dad, show him all those trips to the RiverDogs games when we were kids weren’t a total waste.”

  An employee came back for them and led them into a large room that was decorated like a home office. There were several old computers, beat-up chairs, cheap furniture scattered around, covered with every imaginable glassware item there was—bottles, teacups, plates, wineglasses.

  “I’ll fire up the music you picked right now,” the employee said as he started to leave. “Knock yourselves out.”

  Langston looked like a kid in a candy store when loud heavy metal music filled the room. “Lined up a great rage list,” he yelled. “Limp Bizkit, Disturbed, Korn, Eminem.” Then he pointed to a computer. “That’s all mine.”

  Rich watched in amazement as Langston raised his bat to his shoulder, spread his feet, then swung with incredible force at the computer screen. It shattered on impact, but Langston wasn’t satisfied. He continued to pummel the machine, cracking the exterior casing, then rendering the inside machinery nothing but pieces of plastic, wiring, and glass.

  He and Mina watched Langston, Rich with stunned amusement, and Mina with an intensity that said she was assessing his technique.

  Mina heaved the heavy sledgehammer over her shoulder, then raised it and let it drop, cracking a cheap coffee table in half with one blow. She screamed over the music as she swung the hammer over and over, reducing the table to splinters.

  Rich watched his two lovers, equal parts amused and terrified, as they worked their way around the room, leaving a path of destruction in their wake.

  Langston caught his eye and raised his hands in the universal sign for “what the fuck?” when he realized Rich wasn’t smashing anything.

  Rich looked around, then grinned when his eyes landed on a row of bottles on a plywood bar counter. He eyed the glass, lined up his shot, then swung his pipe over the top, shattering five empty liquor bottles with one fell swoop.

  “Fuck yeah!” Langston yelled appreciatively.