“Yes, sir?”
“I need eyes on my son. I want to know what the bastard’s been doing while we’ve been blindsided.”
“I was already on that,” he says. “But Colt Carmichael, our inside informant, he’s gone. Missing. Last contact was over a month ago.”
“What do you meanmissing?”
“I think they found him out. They might’ve known he was posing as one of their own. If so… we need to find out what he told them. And if he’s dead.”
“Then do it. Quietly. I’m going to lay low for now. The others are circling like sharks… and I’m bleeding. If I don’t come up with what I owe, I’ll be dead before the week is out.”
I pause, a thought creeping in like mold through concrete.
“How the fuck are Wyck and the others pulling in so much money?”
“They’ve got clubs. Wineries. But I’ve heard rumors… of a new drug. Something synthetic. Clean. No overdoses. Highly addictive. Highly profitable. It’s moving faster than coke and more discreet than fentanyl.”
“And you let this shit go unchecked?” I hiss.
“I’ll look into distribution, routes, suppliers, see if there’s a way in.”
“There’d better be. I need cash flow until the marriage is verified. Once it is, her money becomesmine.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And have you found her?”
“No, sir. Aside from popping up on campus, she’s a ghost.”
“She’s not a ghost. She’s a fucking pest. And pests get exterminated.”
I hang up, breathing hard, sweat starting to pearl at my temples.
Nobody makes a fool of Bash Vaughn and lives to talk about it.
And that includes my own blood.
Chapter Nineteen
Wells
The night clings to me like a second skin as I slip through the trees behind Atkinson’s estate. I stick to the shadows, where I belong, unseen, unheard, a fucking phantom stitched into the fabric of dark deeds.
Flattening my body against the stone, I edge toward the back of the house. Light floods the windows, but I know where to step. I’ve cased this place enough times to walk it blind.
I scale the lattice like it’s muscle memory, slipping through the cracked window on the second floor without making a sound. Every movement is calculated. Precise. The way a Devil moves when he knows he’s walking into enemy territory.
I land on the hardwood like a whisper, crouched, silent. The house is empty, staff sent home hours ago. I watched them leave. Then I watched the monsters arrive.
Branson.
Desmond.
Vaughn.
Our fathers. Once legends. Now just shadows in suits, still clinging to power that doesn’t belong to them anymore. They don’t know it yet, but this is their funeral. They’re just waiting on someone to throw dirt.
I move through the upper floor, tracking their voices like blood on snow. I already know the layout, spent too many nights hiding in this house as a kid. Back when I still believed in bedtime stories and fathers who gave a fuck.
