Dahlia’s mad as hell.

I can’t blame her. I’m the one who dragged her from my bed when I should have kept her tied up and finished the job. And she won’t make me forget it.

Because hell hath no fury.

At least Dylan scored the little blonde chef’s phone number over lunch. Somewhere in between tasting her cooking and eye-fucking her every time she stood at the stove, they have a connection. I don’t get it, but who am I to judge? After all, I’m stuck on the idea of owning Dahlia, now that I’ve fucked things up beyond repair.

Dylan and I leave Vivian’s place, and begin to make our way through midday traffic back to the office in his black Audi A6. It’s what he likes to call his beater car, because he owns way too many overpriced limited model luxury cars that he can’t fucking drive except in the summer months.

We’re close to the office when my brother’s number comes on over Dylan’s car on the Bluetooth speaker.

“How’s the negotiation going?” Dylan says as he takes the call.

“Gerald is on it today,” Jace explains. “And Foster’s sitting in to protect our interests. Is Jackson with you?”

I can tell right away that his voice is in a fucking panic.

“I’m here,” I tell him. “And you’re on speaker. What the fuck’s going on?”

“We’re walking from this deal with Mont Blanc.”

“What? Who decided that?”

“I just fucking did,” he shouts into the phone, anger clear in his tone. “And I don’t give a fuck about Gerald or even what Dad will do. We’re not closing.”

“Jace, dude,” Dylan interrupts. “Calm down and take a breath, man. What happened?”

“I’m fucking calm, all right?” he barks, but I know better. My brother can barely get a word in without panting hard as though he’s been in a fist fight.

“Can you meet us at the office?” I ask. “We’re close. Let’s talk about this in person.”

Jace starts to mumble something unintelligible, and I have to wonder if he’s been drinking. But he never touches alcohol during the day.

“Jace? Just tell us where you are, man. We’ll come get you.”

“They killed her, Jackson,” he blurts out.

Fuck, now I know he’s been drinking. “What? Who are you talking about?”

“Pantheon. Just come to Dad’s place,” he pants out, sounding exhausted. Then the line goes dead.

Dad?

What the fuck is going on? Who did Pantheon kill? I’m so fucking anxious that my skull is pounding. Dylan’s dainty driving will take us forever to get across town. And if Jace is phoning from Dad’s place, my gut tells me this may be more personal than business, even if he did mention Pantheon.

“Keep driving to the office,” I tell Dylan. “I’ll drop you off and borrow your car to pick him up. Something’s not right.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. Matter of fact, stop the car. You can walk the rest of the way. Now.”

Dylan has a look of disbelief on his face. “What the fuck has gotten into you and your brother?”

“I said stop the fucking car, dickhead. You heard how Jace sounded. The office is only a few blocks away. This is urgent.”

“Fine.” Shaking his head, Dylan flips on his indicator light and pulls up to the first available spot near the curb. He puts the stick shift in neutral and jumps out. “Let us know what’s going on as soon as you find out,” he tells me as he steps up on the sidewalk.

I hop out and quickly switch seats. “I will,” I confirm, and drive off like a bat out of hell.

Time to get some answers.

* * *

I arrive at Dad’s house in Long Island to find Jace outside. He’s slumped against the driver side front tire of his car, looking disheveled with half of the hem of his shirt sticking out of his slacks, and no spring jacket or blazer. Bolting out of Dylan’s car, I run up to him and help him to his feet.

This isn’t my brother. Jace is always the epitome of composure and self-control.

“Jesus, Jace. What happened? Where’s Dad?”

“He’s not home yet. I’m not leaving until I convince him this deal is off.”

“Get in Dylan’s car, and start from the beginning. I still don’t know what the fuck’s going on. Who did Pantheon kill?” I ask, painfully aware that the sentence makes absolutely no sense.

He sits in the passenger seat and takes a while to talk. Starting the engine, I put the heaters on full blast, turn on the seat warmers, and wait. Whatever is it that got him rattled, it has to be big.

“Is Dad’s housekeeper inside?” I ask. “Maybe you should warm up in there. Have a coffee or something.”

“I was just in there.”

“Will you just talk to me? You’re freaking me the fuck out, Jace. What happened?”

“Okay,” he says, taking a breath. “Pantheon’s chemo drug killed Mom.”

I don’t know if I just heard him right. “Come again?”

“That investigator we hired paid off someone on the inside. They dug up the company’s clinical trials. The side effects of their chemo drug caused Mom’s heart failure. They killed her, Jackson. Mom was one of the participants while the drug was still experimental. And the fucking company knew about the side effects even before that, but buried the results of their clinical trials to push the drug through FDA approvals.”

My mind goes numb with every new piece of information. I can’t think. I can barely speak, but I manage to ask him if Dad knows.

“No. That’s why I’m not leaving until he finds out.”

“Are you sure it’s not some mistake?” I mumble out. “Some strange coincidence? Mom was terminal, Jace. People don’t come back from stage four cancer. And we got a couple of extra years with her before that when she went into remission.”

He nods over at his car. “Go get the report and read it for yourself. It’s in the back seat.”

I honestly don’t know if I have the mental, emotional or intestinal fortitude to go over the report Jace wants me to look at. Not without ending up wanting to kill someone for real. What I do know is we can’t afford for both of us to be out of control if and when we break the news to Dad.

“I’m taking you back to your place,” I tell him, resolute. “Sterling can bring your car back later on this evening. For now, I’ll drop you off so you can get your shit together. Then I’ll go home, read the report, and if I agree with you, we’ll confront Dad together and quash this fucking Mont Blanc deal.”

He nods. That’s enough for me. With the report from his car now tucked away in Dylan’s back seat, I drive Jace to his Midtown condo, and return to my place.

It’s close to an hour before I drum up the courage to open the report, and when I finally do, I wish I fucking hadn’t read what I did.

Everything Jace said was right.

I’m mad enough to kill.

Then there’s unbelievably loud barking and whimpering of multiple dogs at my front door, followed by knocking.

If that’s Dahlia, her timing sucks, as usual.