Page 132 of The Fire We Make

Ace stayed there for close to an hour, tracing alight finger over her silhouette and placing kisses on scars he discovered. With each kiss, he silently vowed that she wouldn’t have to endure whatever had caused them any longer.

Around noon, he reluctantly decided that he needed to start his day, but not b before waking Joy up with his face between her legs.

“I’ve gotta go,” Ace mumbled, licking the remnants of her essence from his lips.

With half lidded eyes from remnants of sleep and the orgasm he’d pulled from her, Joy acknowledged his statement.

Before departing, they shared a final kiss.

It was slow and passionate.

Feverish yet tender.

Possessive yet submissive.

They pulled away breathless and Ace had half a mind to get back in bed for a second time.

Instead, he straightened, got dressed, and headed for the door. Joy watched him leave. The strong muscles in his back flexed under the suit and her core thumped with memories of how they’d felt beneath her fingers when she clung to him as he brought them both to release over and over again.

Once alone, Joy sighed looking around the room. She’d awakened that morning with more questions than she went to bed with.

With the haze of lust cleared from her brain, she finally took the time to put together everything she’d seen and heard the night before.

She’d always had suspicions of Ace’s involvement with organized crime. The clients they met with treated him differently than she’d ever seen, but she’d chalked it up to being a crooked lawyer who was good at their job.

The night at the club made her reconsider her original assessment and last night only deepened her suspicion.

After brushing her teeth with the toothbrush Ace left for her, she found her phone in her discarded purse downstairs and laid back under the covers. Once comfortable, she commenced some research.

She typed Ace’s name into the search bar. The results were clean with the only things coming up being articles about his cases, the socialite women he’d been seen with, and his fashion.

A search of April’s name wielded more of the same—photos from galas and parties, her arm looped through the elbows of rich and powerful men.

Zachariah’s name was no different at first. There were a lot of photos and articles detailing his founding of the firm and work in the community. Praising him for his long history of being one of the go-to’s in criminal defense for celebrities and high profile dealers before his retirement in the early 2000s.

On the 5th page of the search engine, things started to get interesting, starting with an aged mugshot from the 70s.

The suppressed article was published seven years ago criticizing the King family for their alleged involvement in organized crime, noting Zachariah and Senior’s multiple arrests and dropped charges related to accusations of their involvement with the Black Mafia.

The article detailed all of the evidence that had been brought against them, all of it circumstantial or thrown out completely along with the cases that left them without convictions.

At the bottom of the article was an edit made a month after the initial publishing retracting most of the statements made and clarifying that all of the claims made were simply speculation and hearsay.

Joy stared at the screen for a moment longer before locking her phone.

The weight of what she’d learned settled over her.

She laid back, stared up at the ceiling, replaying every interaction with the Kings through new eyes.

It was all starting to make sense. The pieces she hadn’t thought much of before began to paint a picture she wasn’t sure how she missed.

The way Ace carried himself.

The way his clients deferred to him—not just as their lawyer, but as something more.

The respect.

The fear.