MANIC
This is a dark stalker/mafia romance.
The triggers for these two chapters include, graphic violence, murder, torture, organized crime, stalking/obsessive behavior, mental instability, anti-social personality traits. Read at your own risk :)
CH ONE
SUTTON
The familiar tingle at my back from unseen eyes urged me forward, my steps sharp against the pavement.
Even as I glanced over my shoulder, even as I shoved the shop doors open and ordered a coffee, the knowledge of him watching me had my adrenaline surging. He was a constant shadow I could never quite outrun.
As soon as I thanked the barista and stepped away, my phone buzzed, and I knew exactly who it was.
Right on cue.
I lifted my phone and held back a smile.
It should have concerned me how much I enjoyed my secret admirer, but I couldn’t find it in me to care.
I didn’t know his name or what he looked like, so logically, it didn’t make sense. But as usual, my pulse betrayed me with a wild flutter any time his unknown number lit up my screen.
It was the same jittery excitement a child would experience while eating candy—the sugar overwhelming their logic to stop eating before a stomach ache.
Was that what I was? Too blinded by thrill and excitement to see the danger right in front of my face?
Brewed coffee filled my nostrils, and the growl of espresso machines cut through the haze of hushed guest chatter. A smile finally played on my lips as I stared at my phone like an infatuated idiot.
I stood in the middle of the room while people brushed past, forcing my pulse to steady. The same question plagued my thoughts like it usually did.
Who was he? I wish I had the answer.
Unknown: It’s forty degrees out, and you’re still drinking iced coffee. So predictable. Like that blush every time you pretend to not like my gifts.
Warmth flooded my face as I was confronted with what I’d found in my car this morning—a queen’s chess piece. It burned a hole in my coat pocket as if begging to be played with, or at least placed back with its original players.
My admirer made a habit of leaving me gifts when I least expected it. Perhaps they weren’t gifts, but warnings.
I couldn’t tell.
That alone should have frightened me, but I found it oddly endearing.
Someone, whoever it might be, had spent their time learning who I was, what I liked, and where I went on a daily basis.
A huff of amusement escaped my nose as I deciphered how to respond, the familiar thrill coursing through my veins. I wasn’t about to admit to my stalker how much I enjoyed his gift though.
I walked toward the open armchair near the window and sat to wait for Amelia. We had planned on shopping today, in search of a formal dress to wear for tonight’s gala. I would have skipped it if I could, but events like those weren’t optional since our fathers moved in the same professional circles.
Even after mine retired from architecture and began running several casinos, we still attended the annual event. And of course, I was required to go alongside him and my mother for formal appearances.
But as my admirer noted, I did in fact hold an iced coffee—a shaken espresso with a pump of vanilla, to be exact. It was my typical order.
Conversation mingled in the biting air of fall, thick with buzzed excitement for the cooler weather. Even in a charming, albeit warm, coffee shop, a brisk chill blanketed my skin as the doors continued to open. A cool breeze rushed past, and goosebumps prickled along my skin. We were roughly two months away from the harsh winter in Vancouver.
Setting my coffee aside, I typed a reply.
Me: Iced coffee doesn’t have a weather limit. Are you here?
I wasn’t sure if I’d get a response, but I asked anyway.
Sometimes I scanned my surroundings, eager to catch a glimpse of who had messaged me consistently day after day, wondering if my admirer shared the same space as me. I had asked what he looked like once, and he’d given me the silent treatment for three whole days.
I didn’t ask again after that.
But here’s what I did know: he was male, in his late twenties, liked classic rock, and knew everything about coffee. We’d had brief conversations about interests here and there, but beyond that, I knew nothing about who he was—only slivers of what I’d observed. A detailed list of my observations sat in my phone, and I added to it when another one came up.
After a few minutes, my phone buzzed again.
Unknown: Define, here.
I hid my smile and casually sipped through my straw.
Cameras, then.
My eyes lifted, and I fixed my gaze on the security camera in the corner of the coffee shop, watching as its red dot blinked a few times before it slowly swept across the room.
It swiveled back and stopped.
Seeing it land on me sent the vein in my neck to drum, and I settled my breathing. He was toying with me.
The invasion of privacy should have definitely concerned me, but it didn’t. It intrigued me more than anything. It’d been years since the first message, and he still knew exactly where to find me. I even took the time to drive to the opposite side of town and venture into a new coffee shop. How the hell did he do that?
Stupid, Sutton, you’re utterly stupid.
My hand dipped into my coat pocket, and I pulled out the chess piece. The white marbled queen sat cold in my palm, the black felt beneath it catching on my skin as I studied it.
It looked custom. Expensive.
Nothing like all the other worn chess pieces I’d played with in the past. I imagined it belonged to a frosted chess board with matching marbled players. Did my admirer like chess? Curiosity forced me to send another text. The response from him was immediate.
Me: Why the queen?
Unknown: It’s the most powerful piece on the board. Every other piece adjusts around her presence.
Me: Are you saying I’m the queen? If I’m the queen, what are you?
Unknown: The rook.
A shiver raced down the length of my spine, as I knew the rook patiently waited for openings until the pawns cleared a path. They didn’t dance around the board in chaos; they waited for it to settle before making their move. They claimed territory.
Was I the territory he was claiming? Or was he making way for me to claim my own? Were we even on the same team? More and more questions blazed through me. His gifts were always cryptic, leaving me more confused, and bitter annoyance simmered in my veins.
Just as I lifted my phone to send another text, Amelia walked in, and I shoved the queen back into my pocket.
“Sutton!” she squealed, then let out a groan. “Sorry I’m late. But thank God you’re here. I missed you.”
I stood and greeted her with a smile.
Where Amelia was nothing but old-money elegance, I contrasted her with dark waves of hair, hazel eyes, and a decidedly different wardrobe. Still refined, still expensive, I was just less… put together. Getting dressed up was a rare occurrence for me.
Her ash-brown hair flowed gracefully over her shoulders. She wore a tailored sweater and dark jeans beneath a long, cream colored trench coat. Her heels clicked softly against the floor, the scent of lilies and the faintest trace of amber wafting by when she leaned in for a hug. She smelled expensive.
“I’ve hardly seen you this summer,” she complained and threw that silken wave of hair back over her shoulder. “I wish you would have at least taken a couple of weeks off.”
I chuckled and shrugged. “I wanted to finish up those classes first. Plus, I have time off now, and since I completed my fall classes for this year, my next round won’t begin until spring.”
“Yes, well, I had to spend my summer with my mother at the law firm.” She sighed then scanned the room. Her face lit up when she spotted the person behind the counter taking orders. “I desperately need a coffee. I’ll order and we can leave. There’s a few shops I passed on the way here—not too far. Let’s go there first.”
I nodded and watched her walk off, admiring how pretty she was—so pretty that she could wield it as a weapon. She had a few times, without really knowing. I loved her, but she was absolutely oblivious to anyone that stared. Perhaps she was used to it.
Or perhaps Amelia was the queen my admirer spoke about—gracefully commanding a room without even trying while pawns scrambled to clear a path.
Even now, the man grinning behind the counter with stars in his eyes was probably thinking about waving the small cost of her coffee. Amelia laughed, animatedly talking with her hands as they spoke. After paying, she dropped a few dollars into the tip jar before making her way back to me.
The barista reached for a remote, turning up the volume on a nearby TV. Amelia and I swiveled our gazes, my heart racing at the news report.
“Today is the fifth anniversary of Noah Sterling’s murder after being found stabbed to death in a local park. Even today, the mysterious murder of the Vancouver native remains unsolved.”
“God, Sutton. I forgot all about today,” Amelia said quietly, touching my elbow with furrowed brows. “Are you… okay?”
I flattened my lips and gave a weak nod, fixed on the image of him—dark hair and warm eyes with a confident grin spread across his face like a morbid memorial.
My stomach turned.
Noah Sterling was my former boyfriend. The memories of us flooded me, and a dull ache throbbed beneath my ribs. A tinge of sorrow. Guilt. He was charming and intelligent, and someone who had a knack for holding engaging conversations which was what had pulled me to him in the first place.
To this day, Noah lingered in the cracks of my mind, in the places I visited, and the very walls of my father’s casinos. He was always there, tugging at my thoughts, and yet, seeing him on the news like I did every year sent a wave of frustration to grip me.
I was sick of hearing about him.
“I think I’ll feel better after some retail therapy,” I said, forcing a smile. “Plus, I can’t wait to see what scandalous dresses you find to irritate your mother.”
Our giggles rose as we exited, arm in arm, and the yellow leaves of fall coated the ground as we sauntered toward the luxurious downtown businesses, forgetting all about Noah Sterling.
……..
After hours of shopping with nothing to show for it, we stood in a local boutique outside the dressing room.
Boutique was pushing it though—more like a Maison—as the price of these dresses exceeded anything I wanted to pay, the lowest being two hundred dollars. Chump change was what my father had said once, as a few hundred dollars to him is nothing but pennies.
Father was a retired architect, but he owned a variety of businesses, including a few of the local casinos. He spent most of his time there.
He’d also complain if I didn’t show up in something exquisite, so this boutique was what we were settling on. The noise of the boutique drifted past the doorway: hushed conversations, the pinging of registers, the bell chiming as people entered.
“I like that one,” Amelia said, but her brows furrowed. “It hugs your curves, but I’m not sure I like the color. It washes you out.”
Placing my hand against the doorframe, I tried not to roll my eyes as it was the seventh dress I’d tried on. The dress swooped down, brushing the floor in a dark violet waterfall. She was right though; the color wasn’t ideal, and it was a bit scratchy.
“We’re running out of time,” I said with an unamused blink. “It’s one night. I’m just going to pick something from the stack and call it good. I’m not staying long anyway.”
“Don’t you dare,” she said sharply, walking over, and then skimmed through the variety of hangers in my dressing room. She pulled out a silky black dress with the bodice cut so deep, I was positive it would hit my navel. I definitely hadn’t picked that one. My eyes narrowed when she thrust the dress out with a devious grin on her face.
“Here, try this on,” she said.
This time, I did roll my eyes but took it anyway. Amelia walked out and I closed the curtains to slip it on, glancing in the mirror once I did. I blinked in surprise. Damn, it did look good.
But it was too… revealing.
Tiny straps curved over my shoulders and the back of the dress dipped into a low swoop, sitting just above the dimples on my lower back. The top was held together by the thin strap across my shoulder blades.
When I stepped out, Amelia choked on the last bit of her coffee, her blue eyes as wide as saucers. They dragged over me in a slow once-over. “Holy shit, that’s hot. You have to wear it.”
“It’s too revealing for a business event—for my father,” I reminded her, now self conscious of how it clung to my skin. “After two drinks, I’ll be spilling out of it. That’s the last thing I need.”
The last time I wore something so revealing, I’d been scolded. Even though Father had approved my dress, I’d apparently attracted too much attention from the other attending families. I’d wanted to crawl beneath the tile and stay there for the remainder of the night. It might not matter now though, considering five years had passed and I wasn’t nineteen anymore.
Amelia lifted her brows. “Oh please, that’s what fabric tape is for. You should get that one—you have to get that one.”
I sighed, but just as I was about to tell Amelia that I wasn't purchasing it, my phone dinged behind me.
My heart lurched to my throat as I stepped back into the dressing room and closed the curtains. I reached for the phone, my heart racing as I knew exactly who it was from. Though a grin spread wide across my face when I read the three-word demand.
Unknown: Get that one.
I forced myself not to peek through the curtain and scan the room for cameras. Instead, I glanced in the mirror one last time, seeing the swell of my breasts and the smooth, tanned skin of my torso. I ran my hands over the curves of my hips, twisting to the side, fixed on how the silk felt beneath my palms.
Maybe they were right—I should get this one.
It looked great, and I could pair it with my own tailored trench coat on the ride there. Though the coat-check attendants would take it the moment I stepped foot in the building, leaving me no choice but to walk around in this tiny piece of fabric.
Against my better judgement, I sighed in defeat, placed all the dresses back on their hangers, and purchased the silk black dress.
CH TWO
MANIC
The pained groan from my captive pierced the air as I sat on a creaky wooden stool and stared at my phone. The warehouse lights reflected off the screen, reminding me of the many bulbs that needed to be replaced.
I ignored my captive’s panted breaths to watch Sutton through the boutique’s security cameras. Smug satisfaction ran through me the moment she swiped her card and walked out with the bag, Amelia Belmonte in tow beside her. But with that smugness was a sliver of annoyance that settled low in my stomach, twisting into knots. I liked that she’d listened, but I hated that I liked that fucking dress.
My teeth ground at the thought.
I should have never started following her.
No, scratch that. I should have never opened that door of conversation with her in the first place. But like the alluring creature she was, Sutton had her hooks in me the moment she took a hit off my cigarette, stealing my attention like a storm on a sunny day.
My curiosity won that day and all the days after. It was her fault, really—for being so damn appealing. Even with five years between then and now, I still couldn’t help but shoot her a quick message. It was an addiction at this point.
It was a shame she was incredibly naïve.
From what I’d learned, she had no idea of what her father did. Or used to do. Now the Hales lived in peace in an estate outside the city, refusing to involve themselves in the crimes they’d once committed alongside my father.
I’d never understood why my father allowed their departure from the mafia, but I knew he wanted Luka Hale back, he was just biding his time until the opportunity came up again.
My father, as cruel as he was, was a patient man.
Another ragged breath from the man in front of me had my eyes lifting and my impatience resurfacing. The air hung tainted with blood and the breath of decaying flesh.
He just wouldn’t die, would he?
A single bulb swayed above him, sending streaks of light over his dirty, blood-crusted clothes. With five days of limited food and water, he was frail, his remaining eye now hollowed. His hair stuck to his temples in a sweaty mess.
I’d already sliced his face from forehead to chin, broken a few fingers, and taken an eye with a spoon. That was for looking at her. I contemplated taking the other.
I took a drag from my cigarette and blew the smoke in his face with a grim smile. His head hung low, and blood slipped down his chin. I stood with a clenched jaw and shut off my phone, sliding it into my pocket.
“Are you going to tell me who hired you?” I asked casually, and he answered with a throaty cough.
I hummed, nodding as a violent wave of frustration tightened my chest. After days of interrogation, my patience had worn incredibly thin. Jokes on him, I enjoyed torturing people and stretching it out for days and days. Especially ones that I knew deserved it.
“Wrong answer,” I said, and sank my blade into his thigh. He screamed, throwing his head back with his eye screwed shut, breath ragged in his throat as he panted for air. He fought his restraints with a weak tug, his body tensing against the rope.
“I won’t ask again,” I reminded him, flicking my cigarette to the bloodied concrete and snuffing it out with my boot. “Which organization sent you to follow Sutton Hale?”
The bounty had been in our territory, and I’d quickly realized that he’d been following Sutton during her daily coffee shop routine below her flat. I’d been asked to look into him by Father, as he assumed the bounty came for one of the Crimson Crowes.
I crouched down and tilted my head to meet my captive’s blood-shot stare. His lip curled back before he spat all over my chest in a rain of red.
I looked down—I liked that shirt.
He had grit, I’d give him that. Regardless, my fist connected with his nose with a sickening crack, and I let out a low laugh.
“No one follows her but me. So, who is it?”
“Just me,” he croaked finally, and I twisted the blade until he sang in pain. “Ah! It’s—it’s just me following her I swear! There’s a price on her head.”
I blinked. If there was a price on her, my father knew about it and hadn’t mentioned anything yet. Not good.
“How much?”
“Two million. That’s all I know, I swear,” he said breathlessly, then groaned. “I’m a private contractor. The instructions were to have her dropped off in one of the underground networks, but no organization gave me a name of who wanted her. I didn’t know you…” He sucked in a breath. “...followed her. I wouldn’t have done it if I did.”
“Alive or dead?”
“Alive.”
The door creaked open behind me. I shot to my feet and whirled around with my pistol aimed right at my brother’s head.
Grave only stared, lingering in the doorway as if it were normal for him to have a gun in his face. Short pale-blonde hair—almost white—dusted his forehead, much like my own. His name was tattooed across his fingers, a common theme among the Crimson Crowes, matching the same style of ink that crawled up his arms.
I swallowed an annoyed growl at the interruption, dropped my arm, and turned my gaze back to my captive.
“Manic,” Grave said gruffly. “Father wants you.”
“Be right there.”
He shut the door with a sigh.
“Anything else?” I asked my captive.
The man choked out a wet laugh, remnants of his blood dribbling down the corner of his mouth. He groaned again, and his face twisted in pain, but he said nothing else.
“That’s what I thought.” I lifted my arm, pointing the barrel of my gun right at his head. “Have a good sleep.”
A single shot rang out, and he slumped in against his restraints. Blood dripped from his forehead and pooled in his lap until it seeped through his clothes. With a sigh, I turned on my heel to go meet my father, Ronan Mortaine—the leader of the Crimson Crowes.
……..
I ran a hand through my hair and strode past the two security guards posted outside my father’s office doors to the warehouse. I pushed them open.
He sat behind his desk, his arms resting on the polished wood as he leaned forward, eyes fixed on me. His blonde hair was slicked back, save for the single strand falling over his brow. He wore a fitted blue suit with an open white undershirt, and his thousand dollar watch glimmered in the warm light.
His office smelled of leather and luxury, built on the deaths and contracts from Vancouver’s darkest criminals. He could control everything from the inside without being directly in the public eye as Vancouver’s trusted city manager. Everything was at his disposal—the police, hiring and firing department heads, and the power to stall ongoing investigations. The perfect cover.
Mahogany bookshelves lined one wall, the other held an intricate gilded fireplace with its own luxurious leather seating. Two guest chairs sat on the other side of his desk with one pulled out as if waiting for my arrival.
Grave leaned against one of the many bookshelves, his arms folded and looking utterly bored. Olivia lit up at the sight of me and sat on a sofa wearing a tailored black dress, her blonde hair flowing down her back.
Olivia had clung to me after our mother died. Even though I still had a fondness for her, I couldn't bring myself to get close, so I pushed her away. No need to get close when someone else was bound to die here, and I wasn’t about to go down that path again. Not after the last time.
That didn’t stop Olivia from being overly affectionate though, and I knew just by her expression now that she was eager to hear whatever drama our father was about to reveal.
“You know where we have to be in three hours, don’t you?” Father asked, pinning me with a glare. He gave me a once-over then quickly said, “Nevermind. Sutton Hale will be at the party with her family. You are to keep an eye on her all night—she won’t be leaving the mansion. Well, not with her family.”
Father threw annual balls at our mansion—his way of keeping track of the families and departments in his grasp. The ones he’d let go of over the years as he waited for their usefulness to return. They showed their faces and remained accessible. A soft leash.
No one left the Crimson Crowes.
Not for long, anyway.
Curiosity drummed between my ears as I recalled what my captive had just told me. I sank into the leather chair across from him. “The bounty had come for Sutton, not for one of the Crowes. Is this about the price on her head?”
Olivia glided over and dropped into the chair beside mine. “Do we finally get the Hale girl? Oh this is going to be fun.”
Father glared at Olivia and she snapped her mouth shut. “Yes, actually. Which is why I wanted to talk to you all, but Manic specifically.” He lit a cigar and puffed on it, casually leaning back. “I know we’ve had an agreement with the Hale’s for them to lie low for a while, but the Russians placed a price on Sutton. I reached out to the Volkovs recently, and due to our aligned agreements, I accepted the contract.”
The fucking Volkovs. “Meaning?”
“You struck a deal with the Volkovs?” Grave scowled.
“Those Russian pricks are in our territory again?” Olivia asked, mirroring Grave’s disapproval.
“We want the Hales back in business,” Father explained, ignoring their comments, “and this is our chance to make it happen.”
“What was the deal if they put a price on Sutton?” Olivia asked.
Father sighed. “If we give the Russians port access and we take over the casinos, they’re willing to trade territory. Maybe even help take out those Irish buying up all the land. Luka is still wary, though. I need him to be compliant, so Manic is to take Sutton during the party tonight. Alive. Grave, I want you to help.”
The Irish had been a constant thorn in our sides for the last few months. Even though Father had done his best to prevent it, they’d been weaseling their way into the city council, buying up land and placing new businesses along the coast, affecting our trade. They’d even stolen a few of our shipments, causing a full-blown war among the mafia. The Russians and the Crowes had owned most of Vancouver until recently, and it was throwing everything off.
“And what am I to do?” Olivia huffed.
“Be there and look pretty,” Grave retorted. “And maybe keep your legs closed for once. If I have to kill one more person because of you, I’m going to force you to eat their fingers.”
“Says the one who can’t keep his dick away from that lawyer,” she threw back. Their voices rose as insults pinged between them.
I ground my teeth, my knuckles white along the arms of my chair, and masked my annoyance. Their bickering got on my fucking nerves, but I hated last minute plans more, and now I was ordered to kidnap the one person I’d been following for the last five years. The one person my family did not know I was following.
I was sure if Father did, he’d let the Russians have her, and knowing that pissed me off.
But the Crimson Crowes’ rules had always been simple: we go after active criminals, players within the system, or direct threats to our organization. We offer security to the elite willing to pay our price. We manipulate, coerce, and import weapons, but women and children were typically off limits. Until now.
Unfortunately, I was pretty sure I already knew which Russian had placed that price on Sutton, considering he’d gotten a good look at her a few years ago. Though any Russian who crossed into our territory without notice and tried to follow her got their hands shipped back to him.
“And what am I to do with her, hm?” I pointed out. “I can’t keep her tied up in our warehouse or in one of the clubs until they agree. That could take months.”
Luka would hold off, even if his daughter was taken and used for coercion, considering her capture was always on the table. He knew the risk—had known his family was in danger. He’d refused to inform Sutton like all the other families had done with theirs. Her mother even knew. Perhaps Luka’s fear of my father had kept him silent. Still, I wondered if he would comply with my father’s demands for Sutton’s safety.
“I don’t care what you do with her—fuck her, beat her, drug her.” Another careless wave of his hand. “Make her your whore if you want, but keep her alive. I have a feeling this will take awhile.”
Grave chuckled, and Olivia’s lip curled in disgust, though she remained silent. Mother would’ve disapproved of this, though I couldn’t bring myself to care at the moment.
I merely blinked at his blatant words. One thing was certain—Sutton was no whore. She was as simple as they got. Boring, even.
I’d only taken interest because she’d kept my mind off things, and watching her settled something restless in my chest. I’d met her at our mansion a few years ago and had quickly become obsessed with knowing what mundane tasks she had on her schedule day after day.
Would she get coffee or visit the library?
Most nights, she was in bed by eight, sinking into her sofa with a whiskey sour and a book. Yet her boring life intrigued me, and I found myself pulled into her web like a mindless insect.
But what did Father mean, awhile? Weeks or months? I’d never kept someone that long—she’d only get in the way. And if she was my long-term captive, I’d have to secure her in one of my spare rooms in the penthouse.
“You won’t be handing her over to the Volkovs?” Grave asked.
Father shook his head. “No. This plan is better than theirs, and I don’t trust them to keep her alive. We’re only keeping her until Luka agrees to open the ports and move their weapons from the cartel, then we’ll release her back to her parents.”
“And if Luka doesn’t comply?” I questioned, hating that I had to ask.
I’d followed her around for five years, learning everything. I knew her coffee order and how long her classes ran. What time her alarm was set for, and when she woke. Her hobbies. The size of her fucking underwear. And sometimes, when I had the chance to sneak into her flat, I’d breathe in her scent.
She smelled crisp and clean with a hint of jasmine and vanilla. It was intoxicating. My obsession was only a distraction, though—surveillance of my own personal interest, nothing more.
Mm, but would it bother me to snuff the light from her eyes? I couldn’t say. Perhaps training for my father since I was seven had finally had its repercussions. At least, that was what the Crimson Crowes’ therapist had told me.
“You have symptoms of ASPD,” she’d said once, pushing her glasses up her nose, “most likely from environmental trauma. We can’t know for sure unless we do an official evaluation. You have more sociopathic traits than psychopathic ones—a good thing. You still feel, it’s just different.”
I wasn’t sure why, but it was a relief hearing my diagnosis and understanding why I always felt the urge to stab someone. And why, when I did, it calmed the chaos inside me. Still, hearing it hadn’t prevented me from storming out and slamming the door behind me. I never scheduled the follow-up evaluation.
Either way, whatever job Father gave me, I’d get it done, even if it meant kidnapping Sutton Hale.
She’d be safer with me, anyway.
“We’ll discuss it later should it arise,” Father said and stood, rounding the corner of his desk. “But I have one more request—one that I know will interest you.”
“And what is that?” I rose, pulling out a crumpled pack of smokes.
I placed one between my lips, avoiding the half-smoked one Sutton’s mouth had wrapped around. Even after all these years, her scent and the faintest trace of her red lipstick still lingered on the paper.
“Keep her as your captive, but I want you to inform her of everything her father is doing. And if you can manage, I want her to know how to do everything he does. If you are successful, I’ll allow you to leave.”
Despite myself, I straightened, shifting on my feet.
“Leave?” Olivia breathed, dread settling in her face. “You’re going to allow him to leave us? No one leaves the Crowes.”
Grave scoffed. “The Russians and the Irish would kill him the moment he stepped out of our territory. That’s—”
“Get out,” Father snapped at them. “Both of you.”
They huffed, grumbling their grievances under their breath, and sauntered out the doors. My eyes met Father’s once more, and a heavy silence settled between us.
Freedom from the Crimson Crowes? It was Raven’s job to be heir, not mine. But after his death, I was ordered to take over the responsibility. I’d wanted to leave this hell hole for years, but I never imagined it would happen so soon.
If I managed to teach her.
I could show her what I knew, but I was no Luka Hale. I’d cleaned some money, but what Luka did was far beyond my skillset. Though I imagined Father only wanted her good enough to get the job done.
But if he wanted me to train her, that meant he’d be using Sutton as a failsafe in case Luka didn’t fall for the coercion. Or, in his case, die by the hands of my father. Sutton would be trapped in my father’s grasp, washing his numbers like a helpless slave in the casino walls.
Would Father actually let me leave, though?
“What’s the catch?” I asked.
Father sighed, his gaze shifting behind me. “Lana has mentioned that your condition is getting worse. Your… impulses.”
Hearing my therapist's name prickled my skin, sending my frustration rising. She was no typical therapist as she only worked for the Crowes, meaning she could and would discuss anything with my father. He was paying her, after all.
Though it was no secret that I struggled with the ruthlessness of his organization—no secret that I wanted out. It was getting to me, because I had no outlet to settle the chaos other than killing. The torturing. Sometimes, my anger led to violent outbursts, leaving me to kill more people than necessary.
He’d cleaned up far too many of the bodies I left behind, each one harder to cover up than the last.
“No catch,” Father said. “I just want my men to be levelheaded for this type of work. It’s the only reason I have Lana in the first place. But it appears that therapy isn’t helping you. So for now, you are to keep Sutton as your captive. Once you capture her, they’ll be wiring over half the money. The other half will come when Luka agrees, and you’re free to do as you please. You’ll see the money by tomorrow morning. Clean up and be at the mansion in three hours.”
His words were casual, but I knew what sat beneath them; I was a loose cannon, and he couldn’t risk me staying within his organization.
I stifled the hope rising in my chest—it would be pointless to have it. What was hope, anyway? Other than a massive disappointment, it was a waste of energy, and an emotion I didn’t dwell on.
“Should be an easy job,” I said on my way out.
