by Tara Leigh
Los Muertos run a tight organization, with a clear chain of command and strong quality control. Overdoses are always a problem when it comes to drugs, but Los Muertos has never allowed a single bad batch to come into New York. They also don’t traffic women or children anywhere, which I find personally abhorrent but is all too common among my circle of business associates. As far as crime syndicates go, Los Muertos has been a good fit.
Clearly that is no longer the case.
In large part because of the name on my phone. Fucking Lytton.
I swipe my thumb over the screen.
“Why haven’t you answered my calls? We had an understanding. I allow—”
“Shut the fuck up. You don’t allow me shit. Our previous understanding has been to our mutual benefit. But you’ve been making life difficult lately, and I don’t like it.”
“You don’t like it? Tell me, do kings take hostages now?” The peevish tone of Lytton’s voice grates on my ears. “Because that’s the only reason I can think of for Aislinn disappearing in the middle of her father’s speech.”
Lytton is lucky we aren’t talking in person, as the temptation to strangle this asshole would be too high.
“Would you have rather had cameras find her dead in the ladies’ room?”
“What? You have some nerve—”
“You don’t fucking get it, do you? The people you’re stealing from—”
“Not people, King. Criminals. And I’m not stealing from them. Their contraband is being seized by the government on orders of the district attorney. At least, it would be if you stopped interfering.”
“Let me share a lesson you obviously never learned in your goddamned ivory tower. Crime bosses don’t bend over to get fucked in the ass for the sake of higher poll numbers.” My blood is pumping harder now than during my workout, my phone clutched so tightly in my hand my knuckles are white. I resist the urge to hang up and instead take a shaky breath. Aislinn’s life is at stake. I need Lytton to understand that, and back the fuck down. “If you take too much from them, they take everything from you.”
“That’s exactly why I’m calling. You’re supposed to deal with this for us. What are you doing about Cruz’s kid? Do you know he passed along his father’s regards to Granville?”
For a moment, I am speechless. Not only because Aislinn neglected to mention it to me, but also because Lytton barely reacted to the news that she was attacked under his goddamn nose. “I’m handling it. But as long as Cruz believes he’s been wronged by your boss, Aislinn will be in his crosshairs.”
“There will be no restitution, King. Cleaning up this city is Granville’s path to Gracie Mansion. And the thugs that operate here had better get used to it.”
I end the call before I completely lose my shit. Men like Hugo Cruz aren’t thugs. They are ruthless businessmen as willing to end disputes with death as with a handshake deal.
Just as I am.
But I need to figure out how Sebastián Cruz fits into his father’s plan. Until the awards dinner, I’d never heard even a whisper of his involvement with the cartel.
My skill at hacking grew out of a love for coding. Creating a simple series of commands to solve the most complex problems. Breaking down large functions into their smaller component parts.
Until I can get a handle on this equation, a solution is out of reach.
Also out of reach: Aislinn. I haven’t touched her since she told me what happened to her. Since I told her about my mother. Hell, I haven’t even been able to face her.
How can I?
Not after what I did. Using blackmail to lure her to my apartment, then locking her in a room. Blocking Wi-Fi access and cell service.
It wasn’t a dark closet but it may as well have been.
And then I’d announced that she was the target of a kidnapping plot.
Jesus Fucking Christ.
I don’t blame her for not wanting me to teach her self-defense moves. Why would she trust me to teach her something I haven’t proven myself capable of?
Not every defense tactic is physical. The most powerful weapon of all is information, and until recently, I prided myself on wielding it with exacting skill. To not know the most important part of Aislinn’s past is inexcusable.
It doesn’t matter that it was twenty years ago. I should have known.
How did I not know about Aislinn’s past?
James Granville pays all of his household employees on the books. A quick study of his financial records yields Marisol’s last name, and with that, I had the police records of her assault. Officers classified it as a domestic disturbance. Marisol Rodriguez was rushed to the hospital in an ambulance. Her husband’s body was sent to the morgue.
Aislinn wasn’t mentioned in the report, nor was there any reference to an unnamed minor.
Maybe if she had called 911, things would be different. But she hadn’t. She called her father, then a high-powered Manhattan lawyer who would one day become district attorney. Clearly, he pulled strings to negate her involvement.
I didn’t know about Aislinn’s past because there was no record of it anywhere.
Leaving the only proof of Aislinn’s trauma locked inside her mind.
I scratch at the back of my neck, finally understanding why I feel the penetration of Aislinn’s stare down to the marrow of my bones.
Aislinn Granville isn’t some politician’s pampered daughter. She is a victim, a survivor. And she’s a fighter. She crawled out of that closet to save a woman’s life, and she’s spent years as a crucial part of The Network.
The Network I founded.
There are only four people who know the full extent of it—the identities of the women and children we’ve saved, and everyone who has played a role in making that possible.
I’ve purposely created an operation that runs like the Underground Railroad did during the days of slavery. Individual conductors, like Aislinn, only know their own small part of the route. They receive instructions via call or text from an unknown number. Once their task is accomplished, for the safety of everyone involved, they have no further contact with the people they’ve saved.
To share more with Aislinn than what she already knows would put a huge responsibility on her shoulders. There are too many lives at stake.
I can’t tell her everything about The Network, even though I no longer feel the need to hide the extent of my involvement from her.
But Aislinn Granville is making me want things I’ve never wanted before, feel things I’ve never felt before, be someone I’ve never thought possible.
And that might be the greatest risk of all.
For both of us.
A risk I’m beginning to believe is worth taking.
38
Aislinn
“J esus Chr—”
The sight of Damon’s face in the bathroom mirror just as I lift my head has my heart tripping over itself. I drop my toothbrush to clutch at the edge of the sink. “You can’t sneak up on people like that!” I somehow manage to wheeze.
“I left my bell collar downstairs.”
His attempt at humor falls flat as I wipe my mouth with a hand towel and edge around his considerable bulk. “I guess that makes sense. You certainly seem to spend a lot of time down there.”
He pivots but doesn’t follow me farther into the bedroom. “I’ve been working.”
“You’ve done more than just work in the past twenty-four hours. You are mortal, you know. You do have to sleep and eat. You can’t do any of that with me?” I hate how needy I sound right now, but my emotions are too potent to stay trapped in my chest cavity. They seep into my voice, penetrating my expression.
I should probably shield them from a man who prides himself on exploiting the weaknesses of his enemies.
But I’m not Damon King’s enemy.
I’m sure of that, at least.
I’m also sure of something else.
When it comes to this man, I have zero control. None.
"
Is it the lights? Can you not sleep because I need you to leave a light on?”
His frown deepens. “No. Of course not.”
I search Damon’s face for signs that he is just humoring me. It’s embarrassing, being a twenty-eight-year-old woman who is scared of the dark. “When I woke up this morning, your side was immaculate. Either you sat in the chair or you spent a couple of hours lying on top of the covers.” I rub my arms, feeling chilled. “Is it such a hardship to have me here? To have a conversation with me?”
He doesn’t answer and I stumble toward the nearest window, staring out at the city below. “You know, I had lunch with Finley today. Not that I can really call it that. What is it with you two? Your only form of communication is issuing orders. For God’s sake—I had to teach Finley how to have a conversation. A two-person, back-and-forth dialogue. It was a foreign concept to her.”
My breaths are heaving, fogging up the glass. Damon comes up behind me. “I don’t do normal, princess. Never have, never will.”
I spin to face him. Damon’s face is lit mostly by the twinkling lights of Manhattan that shine through the window. He looks so regal. Like the king he is. But I can see the toll his reign has taken on him in the hardened planes and dark shadows of his face, in the lines and grooves of his skin. And in a stare that has seen so much. Too much.
The other day he looked death in the eye. And didn’t blink. As if nothing scares him. As if he’s invincible.
But he’s not. I know he’s not.
I lay my hands flat on Damon’s chest, then slide them inside his lapels to push his suit jacket from his broad shoulders. “I want to talk, but not while you look like a crime boss.”
Damon wears a suit as gracefully as the devil wields his pitchfork, but I want as few layers between us as possible. Maybe then I could finally uncover the truth.
With his jacket flung over a nearby chair, quickly followed by his tie, I watch as Damon rolls his shirtsleeves up, revealing the ink covering his tanned forearms. My mouth goes dry at the flex and pull of his muscles, the efficient movement of his long fingers. I want to drop to my knees before him, to touch and taste and lick each inch of exposed skin. Worship every bit of my king.
But what holds me back—the only thing that holds me back—is a fear that the intimacy of the other night has evaporated. That it was just a momentary aberration.
We shared more than just the basic facts of our mutually tragic pasts. People like Damon and I don’t trot out our sob stories like favors at a pity party. They are the roadmaps to our souls. Our darkest fears. Our most entrenched nightmares. Our most vulnerable weaknesses.
“Better?” Damon asks, the ironic arch of his brow proof that he knows exactly what I think of his more relaxed appearance.
I mumble something that sounds vaguely affirmative, and then I sink to my knees anyway. But I don’t stop there. I sit down on the plush carpet, crisscrossing my legs.
“What are you doing?” Damon asks, confusion wiping away some of his confidence.
“If we talk in bed, there won’t be much talking. Let’s sit down.”
He looks pointedly at the nearby chairs. Stiff and high-backed, they are hardly conducive to an intimate conversation. “There are other options to choose from.”
I shake my head. “I’m good here.” I tug on his hand. “Sit with me.” It’s not a question, but my voice ends on a higher note than I began so it sounds like one.
Damon does, lowering himself to the floor across from me. “So.”
“So,” I repeat, my lips lifting in an encouraging smile as we hold hands. “I’m sorry you felt like you had to walk away from me yesterday, but I’m grateful you told me about your mom. I know it wasn’t easy.”
Please trust me, Damon. Let me in.
39
Damon
A islinn’s soft voice sends anger sizzling along the back of my neck. Anger at my mother’s vicissitude. At my blindness. My inability to prevent her death.
Anger at the asshole who made her life a living hell … until he stole it from her.
No. It’s not easy talking about her.
“I wasn’t even allowed out of prison to attend her funeral,” I admit, my throat so tight I can barely force out the words.
Lost in the past, in the heat of my emotion, I startle at the gentle touch of Aislinn’s fingertips gliding along my jaw. “Damon.” My name on her lips is barely more than a rasp, but it softens the sting of my fury and brings me firmly back to the present.
When the haze clouding my vision clears, the stunning landscape of Aislinn’s face comes into focus. The high plane of her forehead, the gentle slope of her slim nose, the cupid’s bow upper lip perfectly proportioned over her full bottom one.
This moment feels raw and intimate, in a way that’s entirely foreign to me. Until the other day, I’ve never shared my past with anyone. It’s something I’ve shoved into the darkest recesses of my mind. But it is like heartburn—no matter how much I’ve tried to push it down, there is always just enough oxygen to keep it alive.
Aislinn’s mouth is slightly open now, and it’s an irresistible invitation.
Still sitting cross-legged, we both lean forward, no other part of our bodies meeting but our mouths and her palms that are curved over my cheeks.
A tug of satisfaction curls around my ribs as Aislinn sighs against my lips. She is so open, so trusting, so responsive. Her tongue laps at the bitterness coating my tongue, taking the burn of it away until all I taste is her. Us.
The pureness of her want. The pure possession of my need.
She may as well be living inside my skin because I feel her touch everywhere.
After a moment Aislinn pulls away to drop her head on my shoulder, breathing heavy. “Do you have the sense that we were supposed to find each other somehow? Like fate is the one really in charge? That maybe our wounds make us the perfect people to heal each other?”
My first instinct is to bristle at the suggestion that I have wounds.
Life hasn’t broken me.
And then I realize—Who am I kidding? The life I’ve known has come at me like a vicious fucking bully. But I’m here now, with Aislinn.
I may be bent, but I’m not broken.
I’ve survived. Hell, I’ve fucking conquered.
And there’s no shame in carrying around battle scars.
“I don’t know that I’m that deep, Aislinn.”
The warm gust of her laugh skates along my neck, past my collarbone to feather over my chest. Damn, even her breath feels good on my skin. I’m getting hard, and this isn’t the most comfortable position to be in. But I’m not ready to move yet either.
She pulls back slightly to look at me, her sapphire eyes glittering in the low light. Perfect jewels encircled by black velvet lashes. “Can I ask you something?”
“You can ask me anything.” No guarantee I’ll have an answer, but right now, I’m not sure I can deny Aislinn a damn thing.
“How did you get past the pain to where you could forgive yourself? I mean—logically, you have to know you couldn’t have done anything more, right? You couldn’t have stopped it.”
My gut twists, knowing no such thing. I tried. I failed.
And failure is unforgivable.
But Aislinn didn’t fail. Marisol survived.
The shallow furrow between Aislinn’s brows feels like a gaping chasm I’ll never be capable of crossing. But I have to try. “You didn’t cower in that closet. You fought back, and that’s how Marisol was able to grab the knife and use it.” I place my hands over her thighs, her skin smooth and warm against my calloused palms. “You did everything right, princess. I didn’t. And I’m still trying to make up for it. That’s why I created The N—” I clamp my mouth shut, but it’s too late.
Aislinn finishes what I can’t, understanding and approval pulling her lips into a soft smile. “You created The Network to help women like your mother.”
40
Damon
O ne mo
re secret, gone.
She opens her mouth, about to say more. But I press a finger to her lips, giving a subtle shake of my head. I won’t deny her statement, but I cannot confirm it.
When I am certain she understands, I remove my hand. Capturing a ribbon of gold, I twist it around my finger, rubbing the soft patch of skin tucked behind her ear with my thumb. A breath catches in the back of Aislinn’s throat, the fluttering pulse between her collarbone speeding up. I need something to grab onto, something to keep me here, with Aislinn, when all I want to do is walk away.
I’ve walked away from her enough. Avoided her enough.
No more.
I’m not sure what to say to her though. I don’t know what Aislinn needs from me in this moment. But before I can ask, or offer, she tells me herself. “I’d like you to help me tonight. What I went through, being tied up and left in the dark, forced to listen to …” She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t need to.
I nod; my only response a gruff grunt of acknowledgment. I don’t want to imagine her that way.
“I don’t want to be scared of the dark anymore. Scared that a man with a knife is lurking in the shadows. Will you …” Aislinn pauses for the briefest of moments. Long enough for me to realize that there is something different about her tonight. An added level of intensity, perhaps. “I want you to turn off the lights, Damon. Show me that I’m truly safe here with you. Even from monsters that only exist in my mind.”
Darkness is where I thrive. Dark minds. Dark rooms. Dark hearts.
Except that my heart doesn’t feel so dark anymore. Aislinn has brought light into my life.
Maybe it’s only fitting that I bring some darkness into hers.
I’m awed by Aislinn’s courage, her willingness to face down her demons. Until the other day, I believed Aislinn to be a pampered politician’s daughter. Untouched by real tragedy, unstained by assault. I believed her involvement in The Network was something she did to feel better about her cutthroat career.
But I was wrong. So wrong.
Aislinn is a victim.