Alfred Mac O’Connor, of the Asshole Clan. In the flesh. And this right after I faced his bastard brother and arranged for a private scene with him—and apparently fucked his date in the staff manager’s office.

In his late forties, tall and trim, and a fucking bastard, he doesn’t come here often, but he’s here tonight. Why the hell is Mia here with him, of all nights, of all goddamn men?

This sucks ass.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I mutter, glancing where Mia’s round ass has just vanished through the door. “I’ve got places to be.”

“Not so fast.”

Really? This guy who was involved in shooting Storm, and beating up Hawk, and even before that… The guy involved in the darkness that birthed me. Him and his asshole of a brother.

“You and your buddies,” he goes on, oblivious to my rising anger, “should keep your nose out of our affairs, and then you wouldn’t get hurt.”

So I step right up to him, all but pressing my chest to his, and enjoy the involuntary recoil. “I think your brother misinformed you,” I whisper and lean in more. “I don’t take orders, and I certainly don’t get orders from you.”

He steps back, clearly uneasy with whatever it is he sees in my eyes.

Good. If he lets me pass, he might avoid a black eye. Maybe.

“Stay away from me,” I mutter as I step past him, and then I’m out of there, looking around for Mia—but she isn’t anywhere to be seen.

I just want to talk to her before she disappears in smoke yet again, but the girl can pull a vanishing act with the best of them.

Fuck it. If Mia couldn’t hang around for the two minutes I needed to extract myself from that sticky mess, then I’m going home, gathering the tatters of my composure around me like rags.

Feeling like a little kid in a locked, dark room, wrapped up in fear and ghosts, a place I visit in my nightmares, and damn if I’ll allow myself to get lost inside my mind again.

I stomp through the club, a sick feeling in my stomach, the buzz from the sex—the thrill from touching Mia, from being inside her body—fading way too fast. The reality of my agreement with Robert, Alfred’s douchebag of a brother, has been percolating through my thoughts from the moment he loomed over my table earlier on.

I’m a crazy bastard for letting him anywhere near me, after what he did years ago to me, and then last year to my buddies. Motherfucker really is on my case, and it makes me worry. Maybe I should have thought up another way to get the info I need.

If Logan gets a whiff of this, he might never whip me again. That would suck.

Waving away the staff manager, knowing she will of course bill the bottle to my tab, I stride through the club and out the door, startling the bouncers. The valet comes running to me, face flushed.

“Mr. Carter, sir, I will go let your chauffeur know you need the limo.”

I nod, press some bills into his hand, and shoo him away. I need some space, and the seconds between exiting the club and waiting for George to bring the limo around are precious, necessary to untwist my mind and force my clenched-up muscles to relax.

I remember the comment Storm made about unbending and swallow a laugh as the limo approaches, and the valet scampers up to open the door for me.

Yeah. Let me unbend a little. After the shit Robert pulled and the goddamn consequences resting on me since then, I’m about to let him hurt me once more.

One last time. One last fucking time, and let’s hope that the only one left bleeding this once is me.

* * *

The ride back home is quiet. The house is silent. Alma steps into the library after me as I throw my coat on a sofa and rub my hand over my face.

She leaves without saying anything. She knows my moods, and yet…

And yet I’d hoped she’d say something.

Oh man up, Rook. You’re not a child anymore who needs Alma beside you. The dark room is now behind you. Look ahead.

You promised Storm and Hawk you got this under control. Why the doubts and hesitation? Why this fumbling like a blind man?

Too many bad memories, dammit. And this house… doesn’t feel like a home. No house ever has.

I take my glass of whiskey to the windows facing the back garden—then change my mind and return for the bottle. Got to finish the job I started at Red Thorn, get drunk so thoroughly I can’t remember anything, and can’t worry.

Only that wasn’t the only thing I started at Red Thorn. There was a red dress that I ripped, red panties, a red mouth that moaned my name.

Shit.

And then there was Alfred.

Robert and Alfred worked with Sandivar before that asshole was put behind bars. I’d bet my right nut that they belong to the Organization. Of course, they didn’t go after Storm and Hawk themselves. I mean, please. Billionaires normally don’t get their hands dirty. They have teams of trusted people working for them.

I recognized one of their trusted guys as he fled the scene on the night Hawk went after Sandivar to save his girl. Whether they have it in for us because of what went down between Robert and me, or because we’re trying to bring the Organization down, it all comes down to the same thing.

I’m about to strip and kneel naked, put myself at the mercy of my nemesis, the man who destroyed me when I was seventeen, and then tried to take away my two brothers in all but blood, the man who did his best to destroy what was left of me.

On the off chance he will tell me something that will be worth it.

Or maybe to settle something more. That thorn lodged in my chest, in my mind, every time I think of how he set out to harm me.

Back to thorns. Thorns, roses and secrets, red, and mistakes, and blood.

Fuck, this isn’t good. I’m sinking too fast into the void, and I’m alone here tonight. I’ve driven everyone who gives a damn away, and calling them back isn’t happening. I don’t want to see anyone. Nobody can know about this but myself.

And I want to sink. Drop so low I can’t breathe, can’t come up for air.

That’s the danger of it.

So I swallow the rest of my drink, set the bottle down and walk right back out of my house. I don’t call for George. I enter my garage and climb into my black Ferrari.

Work has saved me before. It’d better save me now.

* * *

“Mr. Carter.” Darcy, my secretary, gets up so fast he knocks off a few papers that flutter to the floor. His face goes white. “You weren’t expected in tonight.”

I narrow my eyes at him. I don’t keep normal office hours, since I’m pretty much my own boss. “What’s up, Dar?”

This isn’t like him. He’s normally very composed and restrained, organized and cool, which is why I like the guy. Stress comes in waves off him, feeding into my dark mood and natural paranoia.

“Sir, I’m—” He glances toward my office, and a shiver skitters down my spine. “I’m supposed to keep watch, but screw that, sir. They are in your office.”

Fuck. This is sick déjà vu from earlier today when Alma informed me that my friends were waiting for me.

And this time I don’t even need to ask who’s there. Even if I have many assholes coming after me, only two of them would have access to my office and would force my unflappable secretary to obey their demands.

Striding past the reception desk, I shove my door open and catch them in the act, going through my things, anger crossing their faces as they straighten instead of remorse.

My parents.

“Mother. Father. To what do I owe this unimaginable pleasure?”

My mother lifts her head, a brief flash of panic going through her eyes, replaced by annoyance. “That secretary of yours is useless. He was supposed to warn us if you appeared.”

“I guess he’s loyal to me. How strange. Some people still are.” I flash her a sharp smile.

“Beats me why,” my father says, not even bothering to stop going through my computer files, his face illuminated by the soft glow.

“Amen to that,” my mother mutters.

My chest tightens, and I shake my head. No idea why this surprises me. I mean, I did put them in jail, even for a while, for their involvement with the Organization. I knew then they wouldn’t forgive me, but knowing and seeing are two different things.

I nod at the documents she’s holding. “What do you think you’re doing?” I ask, even if I know full well. I just hadn’t expected them to do it in my face. At the very least, I thought they’d send someone in their stead so I wouldn’t have to see them rifling through my papers.

I also didn’t expect the gun my father lifts to point at me.

Just goes to show how off my game I am tonight.

“You gonna shoot me, old man?” Purposefully I lean against the doorjamb and fold my arms over my chest, not letting him see how rattled I am. Not going to give him that pleasure. He’s had enough of my fear in the past. “Looks to me as if you liked your time in jail too much.”

His face contorts with rage, but he grins at me, a savage twist of his lips. “Shut that smart mouth of yours, boy, and sit down until we’re done here.”

“Oh?” I don’t move from my spot. “Sorry, did I interrupt your going through my things? How rude of me.”

“That you are. Rude and ungrateful to the people who gave life to you. Life and everything you own.” He aims down the barrel of the gun at me, and ice spreads through me. He wouldn’t… Would he? And now is not the best moment to notice that the silver at his temples is more than it was a few weeks ago. “We need to make sure you haven’t got anything on us.”

I’d figured that out already, thank you so much. But then… “Is that why you left me in peace while you were in jail? Jesus. You think I’m so stupid I’d keep my evidence against you where you can easily access it?”

“You have no evidence, Roderick. You never did. You tricked us, but as you can see, the accusations didn’t stick.”

“Then why are you here?”

I did trick them—into confessing they are council members of the Organization, and it’s true, it didn’t stick.

Which is why I have to strike from the inside, strike straight to the heart and bring Ian Cronin down.

I eye my parents who’ve obviously decided I’m not a threat standing there and have gone back to tearing my office apart. Yeah, why are they here? And again, why haven’t they sent someone in their stead?

Mother slams a drawer of my desk closed, frowning, her chestnut hair pulled back tight from her face in a chignon. “Nothing. Got anything?”

“Nope.” Father looks like he’s forgotten about the gun in his hand as he clicks away on my computer. “Nothing here I can find.”

“What are you afraid of?” I lick my dry lips. “That I’m hiding more evidence on you? Did you really think I’d keep it here? I’d have uploaded a million copies to cloud drives across the entire planet. And wouldn’t I have given it to the police if I had it? Why would I wait?

He shoots me a glare. “Damn fine son you are. How would I know what’s on your mind?”

“I am what you made me.” I bare my teeth at him, but don’t dare move because he lifts the gun again. “So let’s talk about this—about you, here, in my office, going through my stuff like thieves. What are you afraid of so much you feel the need to do it yourselves? You’re looking for something nobody else is supposed to see. What would that be, huh?”

My father gets up from my office chair, and I swallow down the fury at the liberties he has taken—because if he created this company, he did it stepping on corpses, and I’ll be damned before I let this continue—as he clicks the safety on and puts the gun away in his jacket pocket.

“We need to keep our asses covered. Our family obviously doesn’t care if we rot in prison. You don’t care.” He flicks again that furious look at me. “You let me down, boy. I’d put so much trust in you. Made you a manager of this company, a major shareholder, answered your questions…”

“Yeah, I know, and let us not forget, you allowed me to live and grow up, although you weren’t sure that was a good idea when I was a kid. I mean, a couple of times there, I was sure you’d decided to get rid of me, and then it was like… oops, changed my mind! Let the boy live a bit longer.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Roderick.”

Really? I hadn’t fucking noticed. “I like to speak the truth, old man.”

“Time to go,” my mother says. She levels an icy glare at me. “And you’d better not double-cross us again.”

“Is that what you’re afraid of?” My father shoves at me as he passes by, and I lift my hands. “Is that why you’re here? You’re afraid Ian Cronin will double-cross you, too, and think to find proof of that here?”

They march out in silence, and I consider my words. I’d only meant them as a jab—that they’d be afraid of the guy they obviously worship, the one holding all the strings.

Holy shit, they’re afraid of that, aren’t they? Could it be because I made them confess they belong to the Organization, putting into motion a series of events that has led us here?

Here, where one by one the main players are ticked off the list, and the Organization is going down?

It must suck, being a minion of the Devil himself.

As much as it sucks having to take the Devil on and fling him into hell, hopefully what’s left of my soul will survive.

You never know, right? Miracles do happen.