Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 77171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
The marina.
The contractor.
The network of companies that doesn’t make sense until you stop treating it like coincidence.
I hover my fingers over the keys.
Samson didn’t answer me. But he didn’t deny it.
I replay it in my head.
You don’t want that answer.
Not I didn’t do it.
Not you’re wrong.
Not even it’s not what you think.
Just—
You don’t want that answer.
I begin to type, to pull threads together. The marina redevelopment. The contractor tied to high-end security installations. Shell entities layered just deep enough to blur ownership without hiding it completely.
It can’t be random. It can’t be. It was all deliberate.
Which means Halstead wasn’t in the wrong place.
He was in the right place at the wrong time.
I lean back slightly, staring at the screen.
The bartender said it escalated too fast. Like it was already going to happen.
My pulse steadies as the pieces start to align. This didn’t start when Halstead arrived. It didn’t start when anyone saw him. It was already in motion. And whatever he was looking at mattered.
It mattered enough to get him killed.
That changes everything.
Because if that’s true, then Halstead didn’t cause it. He interrupted it.
I go still.
And if he interrupted it…
Then whatever was supposed to happen that night was meant for someone else.
And if Halstead wasn’t supposed to be there…
Then who was?
I look at my notes again. At Samson’s name. At the timeline. And something colder settles in.
Because now I’m not just asking who killed him. I’m asking what was supposed to happen that night. And why it didn’t go that way.
My body still hasn’t fully calmed. I can still feel him. Still feel his lips on my flesh, on my most intimate parts.
I ignore it. Or try to, anyway. It’s not relevant or useful.
Because he didn’t stop me.
He warned me.
He pushed.
But he never shut it down.
Not when I asked.
Not when I pushed.
Not even after—
I stop that thought before it finishes.
It doesn’t matter why. Only that he didn’t. Which means one of two things.
He can’t. Or he won’t.
“Which one are you?” I whisper.
Then it dawns on me that I don’t need an answer. At least not yet.
Samson Vexley is a part of this, but he’s not the whole.
And if I follow him—really follow him—he will lead me somewhere bigger.
Good.
That’s exactly where I’m going.
23
SAMSON
I move down the hall deliberately, the way I’ve been trained to move since I was old enough to understand what it meant to be watched.
Because I am being watched. Always. I learned that a long time ago. Doesn’t mean I’ll do what I’m supposed to or what I’ve been told to, but I’m still being watched.
It’s brisk outside, and I welcome it. I need something that doesn’t feel like her because I can still feel her everywhere. On my hands. On my mouth. In the space between my ribs where things don’t usually land.
That’s the problem.
Not what happened. Hell, I fuck women all the time. That’s nothing new.
What’s sticking in my craw is that I don’t feel like I chose this. I wanted her. Still do. But that was hardly the first time I’ve wanted a woman and chose not to take her because it’s not good for the long term.
I know damned well Delaney Cross isn’t good for me in the long term.
I took her anyway. It happened. I let the wrong head do the thinking. Exactly what Nate warned me about.
That’s unacceptable.
I cross the street without looking, still unable to get her out of my mind.
Her hands.
Her voice.
Then show me.
I should have walked away.
I didn’t.
But it didn’t change anything.
She’s a problem, but the situation is still manageable.
I open the door and get in. For a moment, I just sit there, hands on the wheel, eyes forward.
I feel…unsettled.
I don’t like unsettled.
Unsettled leads to mistakes.
Mistakes are never an option.
I start the engine and drive to Vexley House.
Nate is already there when I walk into the office.
Of course he is.
He’s standing by the window, jacket on, tie perfect. He doesn’t turn when I enter.
I move past him, set my keys down, pour a drink I don’t need or want.
He speaks without looking at me. “You crossed the line.”
I take a sip. Let it burn. Like I said, I’m always being watched.
“I handled it.”
He turns, his green eyes sharp. “No,” he says. “You didn’t.”
I set the glass down. “I did.”
His jaw clenches. “I told you she was a weakness.”
“Say it again and I’ll put my fist through your face.”
Nate shakes his head. “Dad trained you well. He trained us all well. You’re the oldest, and he made sure you were the strongest. I don’t doubt you could slam me through a wall, but you’re forgetting that Dad gave me a purpose in this family as well.”
He doesn’t have to say more. “She’s contained.”
“Is she?”
I don’t answer. He watches me. That’s the problem with Nate. He doesn’t push harder. That’s my job.