I hesitate and then nod. “Correct.”
His blunt fingernails tap, tap, tap against his desk as he watches me. “Did it ever occur to you maybe I didn’twanthim to survive?” He shakes his head, his thick salt-and-pepper brows drawing together. “Now I have to sit here and worry about whether that idiot district attorney will be all over my ass.”
I snort. “Please, the district attorney couldn’t give a rat’s ass about the Atlantis Motorcycle Clubortheir extended family.”
Truthfully, the law around these parts is upheld by a bunch of do-gooders, ones who wear their golden halos like badges of honor, but most of them have a price—one that I suss out easily enough when I barter deals to keep them quiet and looking in the other direction.
Shoving a needle in the arm of the brother-in-law to the newest MC president was a message: either continue working with us or people get hurt. Besides, ifwedon’t keep them in line, then it’s up to the law to do so, and its enforcers do a shit job.
The DA should thank us, honestly.
But a drug overdose? Talk aboutuninspired.
“I should have given the job to someone else,” he murmurs.
I scoff. “Who?”
He lifts his hand in the air before dropping it back down. “Bas, probably.”
It’s a ridiculous suggestion to make. Bastien may be Uncle T’s second-in-command in name, but his art lies in the brutality of torture, which is the opposite of subtle. I love Bastien like a brother, but he wouldn’t have been the right choice for a job like this.
“Anyone else would have made more of a mess, and you know it.”
“Anyone else would havefollowed orders, or they’d be dead,” he snaps.
I open and close my mouth a few times because, technically, he’s right. You don’t disobey Trent Kingston and live to tell the tale. Being his niece has its advantages, but even the people who love you have their limits, and sometimes I wonder if one day I’ll break through his unintentionally.
The thought makes my stomach cramp. I live life constantly worried about falling too far out of his favor because I pushagainst him too hard, thus losing what little bits of him I’ve snagged.
“You always do this,” he continues, running his fingers through his coiffed white hair.
“Do what?”
“You…” He waves his hand in the air. “Play with your food.”
I cross my arms. “I do notplaywith my food, and frankly, I resent that analogy.”
He quirks a brow.
My perfectly arched one cocks in return.
“You were sloppy,” he states.
“I beg your pardon?” I’ve never been more offended in my life. “I’m impeccably precise. It’s not like I left a trail. The man had a stroke. If he survives?—”
My uncle scoffs.
“Ifhe survives,” I reiterate, “Johnston Miller will have to live every day staring at his wife’s brother, knowing he caused this to happen, and a living reminder is always better than one buried somewhere in the dirt.”
“That’s not your call to make.”
“What’s it matter anyway?” The second the words leave my mouth, I regret them. I know my temper only pisses him off more, but in the moment, I’m not the best at biting my tongue.
“It matters because I say it matters.” He picks up his bourbon, and his forefinger, weighed down by a thick golden ring, leaves the tumbler to point at me from around the glass. “One of these days, your luck will run out, little one, and you’ll bring down this entire family with you.”
My lips purse.
He’s being dramatic, considering our family is the most powerful name this side of the Mason–Dixon line. Uncle T not only owns the largest construction company in the South buthe’s a major player in freight shipping, with hubs stretching throughout South Carolina and the bordering states.
