Her eyes are troubled, though she doesn’t look particularly surprised. It’s as if I’m reminding her of something she already knew. Children are smart, even when they don’t know all the facts. They know what’s important. “That’s how you knew him? You were watching him?”
“Those were my orders, except he started getting too erratic.”
She’s quiet a moment. “So your team eliminated him?”
“No, sweetheart. I did that.”
A flinch. “You were just doing your job.”
Even now she wants to make excuses for me. “My orders were to continue to watch him. They wanted to see what happened next. I already knew, and I wasn’t going to wait around. So I slipped a little something into his special dark roast coffee beans, the ones he guarded so fucking religiously that no one else could drink it.”
Her eyes are wide. She knows what’s coming next. “The coffee.”
She never drank coffee with me, not once. Only tea. Some part of her recognized the danger, even if she couldn’t remember why. “I didn’t know that a twelve-year-old little girl liked to sneak a sip of the stuff. Not until I found out she was in the hospital.”
Tears fall down her cheeks. “That’s why I don’t remember.”
“They didn’t put it together at the time. An old man dying of a heart attack. A young girl who’d seen it, passed out with memory loss from seeing something tragic. By the time anyone thought to investigate, he was cremated.”
“Is that why you wanted custody of me?” she says, the words like venom, full of pain. “To make sure no one could run a blood test on me without your permission?”
“Christ. No, Samantha. Any trace would be gone from your system.”
“Then why?”
“Because you deserved a hell of a lot better than a traitor for a father and a bastard for a brother.” I give a humorless laugh, knocking my head back against the splintery wood. “Do you know what I regret the most? Not killing him. I’m sorry I didn’t do it sooner. I had to watch him forget to feed you, forget to clothe you. I saw him leave you at the square in Leningrad while it was snowing, and you weren’t even wearing boots—I couldn’t call anyone to get you because it would prove he was being surveilled.”
She listens to me speak and then gives a brief nod, as if our conversation is concluded. And I suppose it is. This is the only way it could end—with the truth.
SAMANTHA
In some ways the information about my father wasn’t a surprise. I may not have known the specifics, but I knew what kind of man he was. Loyalty wasn’t in his vocabulary. And if I had thought more about it—the money that would come and go. The way he’d buy me a new dress to attend a fancy dinner one week and then leave the pantry empty the next. Alistair Brooks was a desperate man. And I was his desperate daughter, so eager to believe that someone cared about me that I invented stories. If only I could play violin well enough, if I followed the rules hard enough. If I wanted it bad enough, there would be a father to love me.
Growing up isn’t about learning something new. It’s about unlearning the fairy tales you believe as a child. Elijah offered to take me away from here, but I won’t put that between the brothers. Instead I call a cab and pack a single carry-on suitcase. A flight leaves Austin in a few hours that will take me to Chicago, and then on to Tanglewood. I can start my new life there, a little earlier than I had planned. I’m ready.
I put my suitcase in the car and step into the back of the cab. The front door opens, and Liam strides toward me. Don’t ask me to stay, I beg him silently. I’m not sure I can say no. It’s not because I stopped loving him. I think I love him even more now, somehow, seeing him battered and broken against the obstacle course he built himself, beating himself against his own guilt. But he will never see me as a grown woman while I stay here. He will never accept me as an equal while I remain in his custody, if only in body and not spirit.
The only choice is to leave, which means it’s not really a choice at all.
His silhouette breaks from the house, and I realize he’s holding the violin. The Stradivarius. I hadn’t brought it with me. There are violins everywhere, and societies and museums would be happy to loan me a great one. It wouldn’t equal the Lady Tennant, but nothing would.
“Why did you leave it behind?” he asks, his voice hoarse.
“I wasn’t sure you’d want me to have it. After everything that happened.”
His green eyes are lighter than I’ve ever seen them, almost see-through. This is the most he’s ever shown me of him—his past, his emotion. All it took was for me to leave.
“Bullshit,” he says.
“Fine. Maybe I wasn’t sure I still wanted it. After everything that happened.”
“Take it. That is, if you want to play this violin, then I want you to have it.”
I swallow hard and take the case, my fingers brushing his on the wooden handle.
“And if you ever need me—” His voice breaks.
“I know where to find you,” I finish for him.
He shuts the door and slaps the top of the cab so we move forward. I watch my home disappear through my tears. Only when we get to the airport do I realize that it’s Josh driving the cab. “What the hell?” I say as he steps out to squint at a parking meter.
“Do you have a quarter?” he says, digging through his pocket.
With an exasperated sigh I reach into my jeans and find a dollar bill. He plucks it out of my hands. “Thanks. You have now officially hired North Security as your personal bodyguard.”
I cross my arms. “Pretty sure that’s not legally binding.”
“And I’m pretty sure Liam North would shit a brick before he ever let you leave without adequate protection. The guy in the Crown Vic may be dead, but someone else ordered the hit. You’re not safe until we neutralize them for good.”
A rush of emotion wells in my throat. I know I need to leave Liam, but it hurts worse than anything I can imagine. I could turn Lady Tennant into firewood, and it still wouldn’t break my heart as much as this. A sob escapes me, and Josh’s face blurs into a thousand pointillism dots. Through the tears, I see him open his arms. I let him hold me as I break apart. He has the same build as Liam, the same coloring, and I feel close to the man I love—and so far away I’m not sure we’ll ever be able to cross the distance.
LIAM
I sit in the armchair in my office, the fire blazing. It can’t penetrate the chill. Samantha took any warmth from the house, and I don’t expect it to return.
That doesn’t absolve me of my responsibility where she’s concerned.
I should probably feel guilty about defiling a priceless violin with a micro-tracking device, but there is nothing I won’t do to keep her safe.
Elijah enters the room, his face implacable. He wants to kick my ass, but it’s a testament to how terrible I look that he doesn’t bother.
“You’re a bastard,” he says instead, no heat in his voice.
“Are you more angry that I failed in protecting Samantha—or that I failed in protecting you?” I enlisted the day I turned eighteen, leaving my brothers behind. Josh was old enough to defend himself by then, at least. Elijah had no such power. It took years before I had the money and the strength to return home to get him out of there.
“You didn’t fail,” he says. “That’s not giving Samantha enough credit.”
No, she became a strong woman with fierce loyalty. No thanks to me. I don’t expect I’ll ever get to touch her again. Won’t get to see her except from afar. But I can damn well protect her. “A drug lord?”
A humorless smile. “That was an unexpected detour.”
“Christ, Elijah.”
“We found the target and confirmed his identity.”
I flip through the pages in a manila folder, proof that one Kimberly Cox never actually existed. She has a convincing portfolio of freelance articles, an apartment in Brooklyn, a 401K. She had a contract with Classical Notes to interview the performers on
tour.
Except that she’s not a real person.
The woman who came to our house that day was a fraud.
“Did he make you?” I ask.
“Negative, but he knows someone’s after him.”
A few months ago I heard whispers that Alistair Brooks survived the assassination.
I sent the Red Team to find out if the whispers were true. And then a reporter shows up asking questions about her background. Quite a coincidence. That had been enough to make me concerned. I stepped up her security detail quietly, making sure one of the men was always nearby.
Josh will keep her safe while I find the traitorous fucker and finish the job.
She’ll be safe once and for all—and she won’t ever have to know that the man who ordered the hit was her father.
Thank you so much for reading OVERTURE!
I hope you love Liam and Samantha. Find out what happens when Samantha goes on tour in CONCERTO, and Liam learns he can’t live without her.
The spotlight lands on Samantha Brooks. Years of practice build to the opening night of a global tour. She plays her heart out, but there are darker forces underneath the stage.
There are eyes watching from the wings.
Liam North fights to keep her safe with every weapon he owns. She’s his greatest pride—and his greatest weakness. The danger comes from somewhere no one expected. Betrayal threatens to destroy everything he’s built. His business. His family. His life.
When the curtain falls, only one of them will be left standing.
ONE CLICK CONCERTO NOW >
Violent Delights
By
Jessica Hawkins
Prologue
On my bedroom balcony, I danced to the upbeat mariachi music coming from the parade in town. Street fireworks popped and crackled to a soundtrack of trumpets and violins, but I couldn’t see much beyond the fortress of olive trees surrounding our compound. They’d been planted after my first birthday party, when my father had been shot at in the backyard while holding me. The sicario had hit an inflatable bouncy castle instead, trapping kids inside and inciting a mob of screaming parents. That was what my best friend had told me years later, anyway, and Diego would know, since his parents had ordered the hit.
I waved to one of the guards, who tipped his AK-47 to me. I was supposed to be at the Day of the Dead parade now, honoring the deceased. Diego had promised me two slices of sugar skull cake if I went early and got a good spot, but since Papá was out of town with half his security, my mother didn’t want me leaving the premises without her. And as important as every man around here acted, she was the neck that turned the head of the Cruz cartel.
I returned inside to see why she was taking so long, twirling through the maze of hallways so the colorful, floral embroidery of my floor-length skirt ran together. Almost an hour ago, my mother had been nearly ready in an off-the-shoulder, white, green, and yellow dress with a red ruffle along the bottom. She’d pulled her hair back with silk, orange marigolds, and I’d stood on a stepstool to clasp her necklace, a starburst with gilded chains heavy enough to sink a small ship.
“We’re missing the parade,” I called as I skipped down the corridor, my woven leather sandals clicking on the tile. I rounded the corner into my parents’ sunny bedroom, tripped, and landed in a puddle.
A pair of combat boots stopped in front of me. I raised my eyes to meet the cold, distant gaze of a man dressed in all black—Cristiano de la Rosa, a high-level member of my father’s security team.
“Get out of here,” he ordered. “Now.”
Cristiano was all brawn, beast, and towering height with opaque eyes to match his hair. Based on the stories Diego had told me, people feared his older brother, but I had no real reason to. Though their parents had been enemies of ours once, Cristiano and Diego had been on our side for eight of the nine years I’d been alive.
Plus, Mamá had always told me—go to Cristiano in an emergency. He would protect me.
But something was off. He didn’t like me being here.
In one of his large, powerful hands, he held an army-green duffel bag. In the other, a solid black gun. Then, there was the blood—on his pants, splattered on his shoes and hands.
And on mine. Warm and sticky between my fingers, soaking through my fancy skirt. Not even its metallic smell could mask my mother’s signature perfume.
I looked over my shoulder. I hadn’t tripped over my own two feet, but hers. Mamá was lying on her back. Sunlight glinted off the large, gold necklace she’d bought for the parade. Her gleaming black hair was coming loose from its bun after she’d spent all that time pinning flowers in it. She shouldn’t be on the ground in her expensive new dress—it was already ripped at the neckline. The vibrant design almost hid what seeped through its fabric, pooling on the terra-cotta tile underneath her body.
Blood.
Goose bumps started at my scalp and spread to my fingers and toes. No.
Gasping for air, I scrambled to her side. “Mamá.”
Her lids eased open as she struggled to focus. “Natalia,” she managed.
My chin wobbled as I fought back tears and grasped her still-warm hand. A bruise formed on her cheek.
“Mija.” She fought to keep her eyes open, but they went glassy as her gaze shifted over my head. “Please, Cristiano,” she begged, her voice strangled. “Please don’t . . .” She shuddered with the effort. “My daughter . . .”
“I’m here,” I whispered, but she wasn’t talking to me.
I looked up at Cristiano. His jaw sharpened as he clenched it and turned his face away. “Sueña con los angelitos.”
Dream with little angels. When I turned back, she’d gone still.
“No,” I whispered.
Cristiano tossed the bag and gun onto the cloud-like comforter and reached for me. On instinct, I dove under the bed, knowing he’d be too big to follow—and came face to face with la Monarca Blanca. I wrapped my hand around the cold, hard metal of my father’s two-tone silver-and-gold-plated 9mm. Time slowed as I ran my thumb over the pearl grip where the name was engraved into the side.
White Monarch.
I choked back a sob. This was the kind of emergency I was supposed to go to Cristiano for, but he was the one standing over my mother’s dead body as she begged him for mercy.
He grabbed my ankles and slid me out from under the bed. I screamed in a way I never had before, ear-splitting, throat-shredding, as I tried to kick him off.
He clamped a hand over my mouth as his other arm circled my body and pinned my arms to my sides. “Natalia, hush,” he said in his chillingly deep voice as he lifted me off the ground. “Let me handle this.”
I wailed against his hand, thrashing and trying to hit him with the gun, but my arms were trapped. I slammed my heels into his thigh and groin.
But Cristiano was the cartel’s most lethal soldier for a reason. It wouldn’t have mattered who I was—nobody could match his strength, which had to be that of two men. By the age of twenty-three, he had more kills under his belt than most in the cartel.
He’d been raised as a weapon.
His hands had taken the lives of our family’s enemies—but never any of our own.
Until now.
Footsteps sounded in the hall, and Diego rushed into the room with his gun drawn. He stopped short and sucked in a breath as he noticed the body. He shut his lids briefly. I tried to call for my best friend, but Cristiano’s hand muffled my words.
Diego’s eyes flew open and darted over Cristiano and me. He was dressed for the parade in a loose, white button-down and jeans. He scanned the room, his gaze shrewd as he tucked some loose strands of his brown hair behind his ear. “What the hell is this? What happened?”
“I don’t know,” Cristiano said. “I got here right before you did.”
Liar. I inhaled smoke and gunpowder as I squirmed against Cristiano’s hand, trying to convey to Diego what I’d seen.
Diego turned his attention on me, his
forehead wrinkling as if he was trying to read my mind. He did this, I tried to tell him. Cristiano shot her.
After a moment, Diego swallowed. “Put Natalia down.”
“Holster the gun, and I will,” Cristiano answered.
Diego looked at his pistol as if he hadn’t realized he’d been holding it. He was no saint, either—he’d done things I wasn’t supposed to hear about at my age, according to Papá—but that didn’t make Diego anything like his brother. Diego was a lover, not a fighter. He was only sixteen, and he still had a chance to make something of his life. His eyes drifted from the firearm to my mother, then across the room. His expression eased as realization seemed to dawn on him. He turned back to Cristiano.
“After everything they’ve done for us?” Diego asked and gestured the gun toward my parents’ walk-in closet. “This is how you repay them?”
The safe lay open and empty except for scattered paperwork. The White Monarch had been in there, along with cash and my mother’s jewels. I tried to nod at the duffel bag but couldn’t move my head.
“Careful what you say, Diego,” Cristiano said evenly. “You know I didn’t do this.”
“Then who?” Diego asked. “The house is surrounded by security. Who else could get in here? In the safe?”
“It was already open,” Cristiano said in an increasingly frustrated voice. “As I said, I walked in right before you.”
Diego shoved his fingers through his hair, then spotted the duffel. “What’s that?” Diego would never hurt me, but when he raised his gun at us, my heartbeat quickened. He kept the weapon and his eyes on Cristiano as he moved toward the bed. With his free hand, Diego slid the bag across the comforter and glanced inside. “Cash and jewelry from the safe, but not much.”
“I know.” Cristiano readjusted his grip around my torso. “I found it discarded by the bed.”
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