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“Scarlett,” he says, pausing for a second as if he’s debating his next words. “There’s been another threat. This man, is it… is it worth it? Will he really help us?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Yes. So did that kill the vibe? Do you like him now?”
“I’m just worried about you. There’s something I don’t like?—”
“Yes, you already said that. I don’t know, maybe it’s because he’s a criminal,” I bite out, a tiny part of me wondering if there is any shortage of criminals in my life at this point. “What’s to like?”
“As long as you believe he can help.” My father pauses. “Keep us all safe.”
It dawns on me right then that he’s worried about the business first, then himself and Grant and then me and Amelia.
Maybe I’m being unfair, but my gut says I’m a hundred percent right.
And it pisses me the fuck off.
“Thank you,” Dad says, “for doing your part for the family.”
I open my eyes, toss back the rest of my drink, and put down the glass, shaking with deep-rooted anger at my situation.
“Because…” He moves back toward his desk and pulls something out before handing it to me. “We got this. Someone wants something from us, something to do with the client list. It’s obviously a threat.”
“So give them the list and be done with it.”
He shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’ll be finished. It’s beyond confidential and… there’s nothing about it that would warrant threats like this, Scarlett.”
I open the note.
It’s a threat all right.
Against Amelia’s life.
I meet my father’s gaze.
“Dad,” I say, “Amelia’s only fifteen. Why would someone threaten her?”
Footsteps from behind me stop Dad’s next words.
“I’d like to know the answer to that, too,” Malone says, folding his arms over his chest.
THIRTEEN
malone
When we arrived at the party an hour ago, I finally met Dale Hanlon, aka motherfucker in the most literal sense, if you take fucking mothers down along the rape route.
Getting to him was easy enough.
Out there in the crowd of people who probably could not give a shit less about this sham union, I can’t do a fucking thing to him.
But in here?
The wild part of my brain says all bets are off when it’s basically one-on-one.
No Knight would ever put a fifteen-year-old’s life in jeopardy. We don’t play games with children or their lives, so whoever made the threat isn’t in on my plan. That means there’s someone else with an angle.
I concentrate on that.
It’s all I can do to keep myself somewhat calm with a carefully curated expression and to hold myself back from killing the fucker dead.
