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“There it is,” Thomas says. “The edge of your lie. I would have thought ten years of training from Morgan would have made you better at telling stories.”
“But-”
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he bowls over me. “You failed to kill my sister when you were under her roof, and now you’re under mine. If Morgan wants to restart this fucking war so badly, I’ll oblige, but only when I’m sure I can crush him in one move. You’re going to tell me everything you can about his plans, his connections, his resources. And after I’ve destroyed him and everything he owns, I’ll spare your life. I’ll keep you where I can see you, but as long as you don’t do anything stupid, you’ll be able to live peacefully.”
Horror roils in my stomach. I betray my uncle to his death and live the rest of my life as a prisoner, or I refuse to cooperate and die? It won’t even save me to admit that I’m almost sure my uncle set fire to Raleigh’s house in an attempt to get me back. It wouldn’t matter to Thomas whose idea it was. The only thing that matters to him is that my last name is Speare, and that’s the name of the family that tried to destroy his.
Thomas finally releases my chin, and when he turns, I realize he’s going to leave me here alone to consider his threats. “Wait, no-” I stammer, searching for anything to get his attention, to make him stay. My mind catches on Raleigh, on the myriad ways she bends the people around her to her will, and blurt out, “Tommy, wait!”
The reaction is instantaneous and terrible. Thomas’s whole body freezes, like a cursed man turning to stone. His jaw flexes, but the rest of his face is empty of all feeling. Even his eyes are hollow. “Only Warwick people- my people- can call me that,” he says, his voice perfectly controlled- too controlled, like he’s holding the leash on his fury with white-knuckled hands. “You aren’t a Warwick, and you haven’t been for a long time. Pretend again, and there will be consequences.”
I swallow, but my mouth is so dry my words come out as a croak. “Please listen to me, Thomas. I want nothing to do with my uncle, I swear it. I swear it on my mother’s grave!”
Thomas doesn’t seem to hear me. He releases me and turns toward the door, and my whole body floods with cold. I have to fight to keep my feet under me. He’s already made up his mind.
“I’ll give you a night to consider your options. For old time’s sake,” he says, a hint of poison in his voice. “Please, make yourself at home. Or would ‘welcome home’ be more appropriate?”
That sends pain through me, and for the first time, anger sparks in my chest. He wasn’t the only one who lost a home ten years ago. I was happy here, happier than I’ve ever been in the Speare family since. The building may be a different one, but the same people walk through it. And he wants to use it against me?
“Don’t do this!” I beg, my hands clenching into helpless fists.
Thomas only turns back to face me once he’s reached the door. “Start talking to me about your uncle, and I won’t need to do anything.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” I press. “Don’t make me a prisoner! Don’t make me a pawn in a game I’m trying to quit!”
Thomas’s eyebrows furrow, just the tiniest crack in his facade. But he only says, “Be certain of your answer tomorrow.” Then he lets himself out and closes the door behind him.
I don’t bother testing the knob once he’s gone. It’s locked, which hasn’t always stopped me. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned growing up in the mafia, it’s that there are other ways of opening doors.
CHAPTER 4
Thomas
I wait in the darkness outside Clara’s door for a minute, listening. There’s no sound of the doorknob turning or being tampered with. I hear one low thump, like she’s punched weakly at the wall, but nothing else. After another minute, I go to the next door down the hall and slip into my own room.
My suite is a mirror of the guest room across the little courtyard from me, except mine has curtains to cover the two walls of windows. I press a button on my room’s control panel, and the curtains on the wall facing Clara’s room slide smoothly open, letting the moonlight in. Through two layers of glass, I peer into her room as I unbutton my suit jacket and kick off my brogues.
Because this special guest room located directly next to mine is the only one in the house that wasn’t given one-way windows. What looks at first glance like a very comfortable suite is actually a terrarium for humans, one that I can look into at any time from my own bed. And what I can’t see from here, I can see through half a dozen cameras whose feed is sent directly to my computer.
Clara is pacing. Her hands rub furiously over her face as she goes back and forth down the length of her own window wall. Only when she lowers them do I see she’s crying, her pouty lower lip twisted into an angry grimace. I pause on my cufflinks, remembering and immediately disregarding the secondary brush of my thumb over that lip when I’d gripped her chin.
Even as a teenager, she was pretty. Her red hair, vivid and unforgettable, was always the first thing that caught my eye, but her infectious smile—how could anyone be so happy? It made me want to get to know her, to be around her someday. Now, with those womanly curves and that sultry, breathy voice, she nearly drove me to the edge, and being up against her took every ounce of willpower not to fall over.
Finally, Clara’s legs seem to fail her, and she stumbles over to the bed and sits down heavily on the edge. Her hair flops over her face as she hides her face in her hands once again. I watch her shoulders tremble with sobs for a moment longer, then go to the computer at my desk.
With the press of a few keys, I’ve activated the cameras and microphones hidden in the room. Clara’s hoarse tears spill out of the speakers, and I grimace at the different angles I have of her slumped on the bed. For the first time, I notice that she’s been barefoot since I pulled her out of Raleigh’s house. I’ll have to see about getting her replacements.
There’s a beep from the control panel, and Iris’s voice from the speaker breaks through my thoughts.
“Let me in, I’ve got coffee.”
I glance at the computer’s clock. It’s creeping toward four in the morning, and I sigh. The two of us would be rolling out of our beds in an hour anyway, so Iris has the right idea. I open the door for her and she walks past me with two mugs in one hand and her phone in the other. With her thumb, she furiously taps out a message.
When I was young and my father was at the height of his power, Iris Agostinelli was her own brand of legend among his enforcers. She was twenty-five, four years younger than I am now, but she had more kills under her belt than men twice her age. Even better, she had a knack for keeping her crime scenes spotless and poking holes in the ones left by others. In my opinion, she deserved to be promoted to my father’s right hand long before it finally happened. Maybe Morgan Speare wouldn’t have gotten away with his treachery if Iris had been in charge.
When my father finally lost his battle with lung cancer, there were a number of his old generals who expected me to choose them for my right hand. Iris was my only candidate. I’d grown up watching her kill men with cold efficiency. She taught me how to determine a person’s weaknesses through their body language alone. She’s as meticulous and level-headed as I am. Even better, she isn’t afraid to tell me when she thinks I’m moving in the wrong direction. There isn’t a person on the planet whose hands I’d rather put my life in.
And right now, there’s no one whose read I want on this situation more.
