Two of Corbin’s bodyguards came out to meet him when he pulled Marc’s car into the driveway of the address his uncle had given him. He stared at the massive house as real worry bled into his chest. Had Corbin rented this place? He hoped like hell that his uncle hadn’t purchased the house, because the last thing he wanted was the Karras family to start moving their operations there. The house was fucking ridiculous with a grand entry and a service entrance—both at the front. A wraparound porch covered the entire first floor.

He got out and eyed the two silent men. The chill that had settled in overnight had dissipated some, but it could be found in each man’s expression.

Neither was happy to see him.

He pulled the boxed painting from the trunk of the car, then walked toward the house, ignoring them as they walked in on either side.

“Don’t need bookends,” Royce said. “Not feeling wobbly at all.”

“Shut up, Alesandro. You lost your right to speak when you walked out on family.”

He stopped on the porch and set the box safely against the brick wall before facing the one who’d spoken. The man had to live on carbs and fat, because his over-six-foot frame took up a hell of a lot of space. “Never tell me to shut up,” he said softly, staring into eyes that did look a little familiar. “And the name is Royce.”

He scowled and took a threatening step closer to Royce. “If I had my way, we’d make you disappear. Disloyalty should come with a price.”

“You do know my mother took me away when I was a child, right? Or are you just stupid?”

“You should have come back.”

“So I could be a walking doormat to Corbin like you? No thanks.”

“Just ignore him,” the other man said as he opened the front door. “Get inside, Alesandro.”

He really just wanted this over. He needed to see his mother because the worry over her being without her meds was killing him. The withdrawals alone probably had her so ill. And he fucking wanted her back and away from these criminals. Grabbing the painting, he left the two men then as he strode through a two-story foyer. He could see his uncle lounging on a white couch just beyond the stairs in the middle of the entry. More of his men stood in various places around the room. A quick count had nearly a dozen men on hand acting as security for Corbin.

Had he brought half the fucking family here?

That didn’t settle well in his gut. It would mean this overdecorated gold-and-white palace could be a purchase.

All eyes turned to him as he stepped into another two-story room. More of the white and gold decor filled the area. It made him feel a little like a bird caught in a gilded cage. The predatory expression on his uncle’s face didn’t help either.

With the two assholes behind him, there were eight men in the room. Nine with his uncle—and that didn’t cover the men he couldn’t see, likely roaming the property and watching over his mother. He knew he could take a few down, but not this many. Not unless he got to Corbin first…and the two deadliest men in the room stood between him and Corbin. They weren’t the biggest slabs of muscle in the room, no, but they were nonetheless the ones he needed to pay the most attention to. Their stances spoke of solid training. Their expressions were dead. These were the two who carried out the worst of Corbin’s work.

A young woman walked past him and held out a tumbler to Corbin. He took it and swirled ice in the amber liquid as he eyed Royce. Sunlight streamed in from the massive windows along the back wall, reflecting off the gold, glass, and white, making the room uncomfortably warm.

“Do you even know that the two men who walked you in are your cousins?”

“I don’t give a shit.” He stepped forward with the painting. “I got what you wanted. Where’s my mother?”

“All in good time. Nick, open that for me.”

That was a name Royce remembered. He watched as the man who’d spoken to him on the porch came forward. Corbin’s son. No wonder he felt comfortable running his mouth.

“Remember Nickolas, Alesandro?”

He didn’t answer, but he did. Remembered the hell his older cousin had put him through. Nick had a psychotic streak from birth. He was the dangerous sort of enforcer, and not the way Corbin probably thought. No, he was the type to go too far and bring trouble to the family. An idiot that liked to torture.

One who’d given him several bloody noses and killed one of his cats.

Corbin’s gasp was loud as Nick pulled the painting from the box. His uncle stood and hurried to stand in front of it, a flush in his cheeks. Everyone in the room seemed to be holding their breath.

“Raphael,” Corbin breathed.

The silence stretched on until Royce’s anger became a boiling pit in his center. “I can tell this one works for you, so where is my mother?”

“I did not expect a lost painting.” His uncle pulled out a white handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “I did not expect this kind of treasure. This is beyond my wildest expectations.” He turned to Royce. “And your boyfriend got this?”

“No. I got this.”

“But you knew about it because of Marc Foster.”

Royce didn’t respond because it was obvious.

“I’ve changed my mind.”

Everything in Royce came to a shuttering halt. His heart, his breaths. He narrowed his eyes even as he saw the two more dangerous thugs stiffen in his peripheral vision. “You got what you wanted. Give me my mother.”

“What did I tell you about respect, nephew?” He shook out his handkerchief, then folded it and held it out. One of his men took it and handed him a fresh one from a small table between the windows. There was a stack of them there, and Royce wondered if his uncle was ill and usually sweated this badly, or if this was just an odd quirk of his. He looked at the man closely, noting again his yellow pallor.

Corbin Karras was ill. Very ill.

“I did not expect a Raphael, Alesandro. Your Marc is too…how shall I say it? Valuable as an asset. I’ve decided to keep him. For more art. I even have another painting in mind.”

“It’s not happening, Corbin.”

“Call me by the correct name, or I will make you regret it.”

“I already regret, Corbin. I am not a thief, and neither is my client. You have no business even thinking of using the man. My client has nothing to do with you and me. With our business.”

“Client?” His uncle’s lip curled. “You fuck all your clients?”

“And what makes you think that?”

“I have had men on you your entire life. I know everything about you. I know how you caused the death of your Michael.”

That stab in the gut pissed him off. Yes, it was his fault Michael had been killed, but he didn’t want the man’s name on his uncle’s poison tongue. He took a menacing step forward, ignoring the two who watched him closely. “You are not to talk about him.”

“About the man you’d planned to marry? I was told the moment you purchased a ring.” He scowled.

“Got a problem with the fact that he was a man?”

“No, I did not.” He waved his hand, the handkerchief fluttering. “I know this isn’t something you chose, that it’s a part of nature. No, I had a problem with the man you chose.” His lip curled. “A weakling.”

Weakling. The same thing Corbin had called his mother. Royce’s hands curled into fists.

“You seem to attract men with heart conditions.”

This time, the stab was fear. Pure, bloodcurdling terror.

“Why do you fall for such weaklings, Alesandro? You are a strong man. Small like your mother, but so surprisingly powerful. I got videos of you in action when you were younger, and I was impressed. Like I said before, I could have used you working for me.” He looked back at the painting. “This is worth more than I expected. Possibly worth the loss of your talents. But now, I have a need for more. You or Marc Foster—I don’t care which one gets them. But I want more.” He unfolded his handkerchief and patted his upper lip while he aimed a hard stare at Royce. “I always get what I want.”

“I’d like to see my mother.”

“I don’t care what you’d like.”

Royce saw nothing but red. He took a step toward Corbin and two of the men on either side of him moved toward him. “Do it. Come at me.” He grinned.

One of them snapped and did just that. Royce had grown up on the streets. If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was fight. His years as a shylock had made him aware of every move his opponent could make. This one moved right for his face.

Royce stopped his forward momentum with a foot to his shin. Without hesitation, he slammed his fist into the man’s nose so hard, the pop of the bone reverberated throughout the room. Blood sprayed, some of it hitting Royce. The guy spit blood and stared for a moment. Everyone in the room was eerily silent.

He came back.

Royce used his momentum against him, grabbing the man under the arm and forcing him to bend over. Royce shoved his free hand into the side of the man’s neck, which kept him from being able to grab Royce around the middle. This freed him up to wrap his leg around the other man’s and bring him down.

He slammed his fist down on the guy’s nuts, then grabbed the gun in his waistband.

Seven other guns were instantly aimed at his head.

He knew then he wasn’t getting his mother away from this asshole that day. With a sick swirling in his gut, he set the gun down. “I’m not going to shoot anyone, so back off.”

“Do it,” Corbin ordered.

Royce stood and glared at his uncle. “You are going to regret not giving me my mother.”

Corbin threw his head back and laughed. When he got himself under control, the fondness in his expression twisted up Royce’s gut more. “Oh, how I wish you had been mine all these years. I always loved you and your brother, Alesandro. Loved you like my own boys. But I demand respect, and you have not given me this.”

“How many paintings is it going to take to get her? Is she even alive?” He hated the fear that showed in his voice with the last question, but he couldn’t help it.

Corbin nodded toward his son.

Nick came forward and held out his phone. “It’s a live feed.”

Royce stared at the small woman lying in a queen-sized bed. “How do I know that’s live?”

One of the other men turned and left the room. A few minutes later, he walked up beside the bed. Royce mother jumped out of the bed on the other side and picked up a lamp.

“I dare you to come closer,” she said.

Nick shut off the phone.

Corbin chuckled. “As you can see, she’s fine. She even stopped vomiting today, though I expect that will return. The cessation of her particular drug causes severe migraines, and she always did vomit with those migraines of hers.”

Royce didn’t know a person could be as angry as he felt right then. It felt like fury raced through his veins instead of blood. He stared at his uncle. He was not going to stand for this. He’d leave now, but he would not be caving to the man’s new demands. He’d be coming back.

With help this time.

“Nick is going to give you the address of the painting I want. If you do not get it for me, I will not hesitate to kill your mother. It’s what she deserves for what she did anyway.”

“You harm my mother and I will see all of you dead.”

Corbin’s grin held fondness again, and it sent shivers of disgust down Royce’s back.

“You probably could kill a few of my men. You are that good. It’s why I brought so many. That’s what you do, isn’t it? You kill? The man you killed in Virginia. The man you beat to death with your own hands. You think he’s the reason your Michael died? Your Michael, like your Marc, both with weak hearts. It will be so easy—to get rid of Marc. Just as it was when those men killed your boyfriend in retaliation. Instead of you.” He curled his lip. “Whether I am involved or not, you will be the death of Foster with his affliction. One way or another.”

Royce turned and strode out of the house. He didn’t stop until he reached Marc’s car. Nick and the other man followed him as before, but he ignored them as he got in and drove off the property.

He got five miles away before having to pull over. He stared through the windshield, seeing nothing but Michael that last day. His small, slender form on the floor of their townhouse. Blood in a pool beneath him and splattered over walls in more than one room.

Michael had fought. Had run.

It hadn’t done any good. They hadn’t known about his heart condition until it had been too late.

He got out of Marc’s car and paced, realizing he was in the parking lot of an old strip mall. The fury ripping through him felt too large to contain and his own heart beat a fast, hard rhythm in complaint. He sucked in a lungful of air and leaned against the trunk of the car as the world spun around him. If he stayed with him, that same bloody end would come to Marc. He couldn’t do that to him. Couldn’t risk his life.

Oh fuck…Marc…

When two feet appeared in his vision, he snapped straight, his mouth falling open when he saw Quinn, Dominic, and Garrett. “What the fuck?” He looked around, feeling like someone had pulled him from the world he knew. “How?”

Anger darkened Quinn’s face and he spoke through gritted teeth. “Sven called us. He was worried. So I tracked your phone.” He growled and walked right up to Royce and grabbed his arms.

He shook him. Fucking shook him.

“You just fucking walked into a nest of murderous criminals. All by your fucking self! What the fuck is wrong with you? I’m so fucking mad, I don’t know how to process it, you fucking fuck!”

Royce couldn’t help his laugh and it shocked him because inside, knowing what he had to do, he was dying. “ ‘Well, that certainly illustrates the diversity of the word.’ ”

Quinn balled his hands into fists. “You’re quoting a movie? Right fucking now?”

Royce bit his lip. He couldn’t believe anyone could make him feel humor right then, but a livid Quinn was really cute. He’d never seen him yell like this. He looked at Dominic and Garrett to find twin expressions of fury on their faces. Quinn grabbed him and shook him again, bringing his attention back.

“Did you really not think we knew who your family was, Royce?”

“All of you?”

Dominic shook his head, but he still looked mad enough to punch Royce.

“Gidget, Rowe, and me. That’s who knows. Rowe was sure they’d rear their ugly heads at some point.”

“You knew?” he asked again.

“You don’t think we do extensive background searches before hiring?”

He shoved Quinn off. “Then why the fuck would Rowe have hired me?”

“Because he could tell you’re a good person.”

“I’m really not.”

Garrett snorted. He wore the Ward Security black polo shirt and pants like they were formal wear. Royce liked his security deceptive, and Garrett was no exception. The tall, black man with faint freckles across his nose and cheeks could have been a model and instead, he was an expert marksman and highly trained in Savate—a French form of kickboxing. Deceptive, deadly, and pretty was what Noah had called him. And yeah, he still looked pretty, even with the fierce frown decorating his face then. “You stupid son of a bitch. You are taking on the Karras family on your own? Why didn’t you call us?”

“Because this is my problem.” Royce snapped. “I’m the reason they’re here and putting Marc in danger. It’s my fault.”

Quinn sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose with two fingers, sending his glasses up over his eyebrows. When they dropped, he just stared at Royce, and the hurt in his expression made him a little sick.

“We care about you. Don’t you understand that? You’re my best fucking friend, Royce.”

His heart just dropped to his feet. He cleared his throat, trying like hell to work out the lump lodged there. “I care about you, too. Don’t you see that’s why I couldn’t get you involved?”

“You’re not alone in this world. You have me and whether you like it or not, you have them.” He waved a hand at the other two. “And Sven and Rowe and the others. We may all work at Ward Security, but we’re also friends. Hell, we’re nearly family. I know I sure as hell like being around them more than any of my other friends.” He sighed again, his shoulders slumping. “Why didn’t you call me at least?”

“Or me, you stupid fucker.” Dominic crossed his arms. His shorts, tank, and hair were all wet with sweat like he’d come straight from a workout. He nodded at Garrett. “Or him? Hell, you wouldn’t even tell Sven where you were going, and you should have heard how worried he was. You’re lucky we didn’t blab to Rowe, or he’d have all his scary damn friends here, too.”

“Yeah,” Garrett said. “What the hell is going on right now, Royce? Why are they here? What kind of trouble are you in?”

Royce looked at each one of them for several long moments, his heart beating so hard it hurt. He rubbed his chest, then closed his eyes, because the emotions surging through him were a fucked-up mess of hard things, and the one taking the lead was pure and utter shock. Then, probably…affection. Quinn was really pissed. They all were. He didn’t know how to compute that. How to handle it. He looked at them again and took in their stubborn stances and realized he’d fucked up. Rowan Ward hired only the best, and what he included as best was not only depth of fighting skills or strength. Strength of character was his ace in the hole. He’d told Royce that after he’d hired him. At the time, Royce had brushed it off, but now, he let that sink in.

The other emotion killing him was regret. Sadness. The things his uncle had said about Michael’s heart had been true and though Corbin was a horrid person who didn’t deserve to live, he’d also been right about something else.

If Royce stayed with Marc, he’d end up being the cause of the man’s death. Between his family and Marc’s heart condition, he had no business falling in love with the man.

Because he had.

And now, he had to leave him.