Chapter Eight

Sipping my morning brew, I eye the Nasdaq feed scrolling at the bottom of my third screen. Satisfied with our portfolio’s progress, I type in my last few commands on a new program I designed and fire it off. In seconds, a symphony of characters begins to populate in green across my second monitor. Grin spreading at the sight of it, I mentally pat myself on the back. In the last few hours—due to some digging on our crate discovery—I unintentionally ensnared a local fly whose vibration landed heavily on my web. This had me following him into a chatroom where he made an inquiry. From there, I located his IP address and sent an update for his VPN program. Within a minute, the fly clicked on the bait that I had disguised in the software he believes keeps his web activity hidden but, in reality, gives me access to every single fucking click and command he’s ever made.

Homeland Security is a myth. We aren’t protected, we’re wired, and our behaviors are observed and collected as data to help orchestrate the strategy on how best to manipulate the masses.

The scariest part? It’s fucking working.

It’s no longer necessary for the CIA to run government experiments using hallucinogens to practice mind control. All they have to do in the present is invent trapdoors within the global technology used by the masses in the day-to-day.

Ironically, the one thing we need protection from is any side of government we ourselves are electing to power.

Suspicions confirmed after a few minutes of digging and observation, I decide to monitor this fly closely in the coming weeks—which only adds to my growing task list of things to be dealt with sooner than later. Interference at this point isn’t possible due to the ever-increasing list I’m compiling by the day regarding the club and my plans for our future targets. But when the premonition hits hard again, I decide this particular fly will have to take priority at some point.

I log out after tapping into the fly’s bank account to alert me when any bulk purchases are made, or any large sums are withdrawn.

My main priority for the moment is to help Tyler uncover Roman’s motivation to lure Cecelia here.

A change of heart regarding the relationship with his only heir doesn’t seem likely, nor does his regard for her financial future since he’s allowed her to live impoverished her whole fucking life. Her forgiveness or desire for any relationship seems unlikely after so many years apart.

Then there’s the psychology on Roman’s side.

The first factor being his age. Aging men with icy hearts tend to start thawing when reminders of mortality begin to loom. His regret regarding his only child could be the key.

Tyler and I have hashed out this logic in the weeks Cecelia has been here and remain skeptical. Especially since Roman’s still relatively young and hasn’t had any recent health scares.

And for an arrogant, callous, selfish fuck like Roman, I’m not convinced his motive has anything at all to do with Cecelia. Neither is Tyler.

There’s more to this.

Something vital we’re missing and have been missing. This is why we’re hellbent on making sure the picture we’ve been painting by numbers over the years to reflect an accurate representation of Roman isn’t off by a single digit.

No doubt, Cecelia’s just as confused as we are on Roman’s motives—eight years too late—but money has always been the greatest of motivators.

The solution is in the problem—the why.

In order to get it, we need to tap that fucking house, especially if he’s going to be sleeping there on the regular. Though her presence is a serious interference—and after failing to come up with a definitive motive—Sean’s part ink, part cock-induced plan might have some merit to it.

My hopes are sitting on all my brothers at this point, both in ink and blood.

Both are disappointing me as of late, and I’m losing faith.

Though this plan can’t be rushed, I’ll be damned if I don’t figure out how to try to expedite the process to suit my timeline. As far as I can see, I’m the only fucking one it’s paining—on all fronts—to keep our current speed.

When my phone rumbles, my hopes are dashed that Tobias has returned my text when I see TATIE filling the screen, and I reluctantly answer.

Entering the lobby of the garage—after dealing with my aunt for the better part of my day—I’m thankful it’s well after close, which gives me the privacy I need without raising other birds’ suspicions. Heading toward my toolbox in the commercial bay, I stop when I spot Cecelia spread out on the couch, book lifted and obstructing her view of me. It’s clear she hadn’t heard my approach due to the earbuds she’s wearing and the way she’s sprawled out. Cheeks flushed, chest heaving, it’s then I get why. Whatever she’s reading has her fucking aroused, and I suspect seconds away from rubbing one out. Tempted to sit back and watch it happen for the ability to further fuck with her, my annoyance with her invasion wins and has me stalking toward her.

Cecelia catches sight of me as I near and jackknives, pulling her earbuds out as she sputters an explanation as to why she’s here. “I’m n-not alone. I mean, I am right now. S-Sean just went to grab a pack of cigarettes and beers with the guys.”

Eyeing the print size of the book to avoid looking at her, I realize the garage isn’t the only one of my safe havens she’s invaded recently.

“Where did you get that?” I ask, glowering at her from where I stand at the end of the couch. She nervously crosses her toned legs at the ankles, no longer at ease.

Good. She shouldn’t be so fucking comfortable in any of my spaces.

Glancing down at her book, a barely-there smile lifts her lips before she speaks. “The library. I checked it out the other day and snuck out another. It’s kind of a tradition.” I’m all too aware of her little tradition. She was taking part in it the first time I saw her—which was supposed to be the last. Right now, I fucking hate the fact that it wasn’t.

“Stupid fucking tradition considering the books are free . . . and the library is off limits,” I growl, knowing what a fucking idiot I sound like. “Also, this is not a community playground, despite what Sean might have told you. Find somewhere else to spreadout,” I spit, eyeing the scrap of fabric she’s excusing as a dress.

She scoffs. “You’re seriously saying the public library is yours?”

“The whole fucking town is mine, Cecelia.”

Her perfect features distort into anger, intensifying her beauty as she stands quickly, losing grip on the hardback, which lands with a thwack on the floor behind her. Turning to retrieve it, she bends at the waist, inadvertently giving me a show. Between tanned, toned thighs, I spot a strip of cobalt blue panties. The thin material shifts with her movement giving me a peek of her pussy as she painstakingly bends inch by inch to retain some modicum of modesty and fails. Inwardly groaning, I keep my gaze fixed where it shouldn’t be as she rethinks her strategy. Bending at the knees, she palms the couch to stay upright, back ramrod straight as I clear the other side of the coffee table and snatch it up before she reaches it.

Eyeing the title, The Bronze Horseman, I smirk and look up at her, making sure my exhale hits the gap between her thighs as I slowly stand, palming the couch and mimicking her ridiculous movement. “Might want to return the eight-year-olds dress you borrowed if you plan on spending time in a place filled with heavy machinery. Then again, don’t bother. This particular stop won’t be frequent for you.”

“You’re like a dark cloud. You know that? Can’t spot a single sun ray for shit with you hovering.”

“Just so long as we’re clear.”

“That you’re an entitled, raging prick,” she utters under her breath, “we’re crystal.”

Bending to eye level—the tips of our noses close to brushing—her deep blues dilate as I invade her space. “Assume what you will about me, or better yet,” I press the book into her heaving chest, and her glossy pink lips part. “Stick with your bullshit fantasies of virtuous heroes in a nonexistent reality. You’re much safer there.”

Turning, I grab what I need to fill my toolbox before stalking out the side door. Every hair on my body stands on end as I adjust the hard-on straining against my zipper. Once again, I’ve been forced away from my second home in order to avoid more exposure to her and the way she stares at me—too fucking much, for too fucking long. At first, it seemed innocent enough and served its purpose. Now it’s grating on me because no matter how many times I avoid her curious stare, I eventually look back at her. When I do, I’m reminded of why I’ve been avoiding her for the few weeks she’s been here—a reason my body no longer refuses to ignore.

The need to fuck her.

More than that, I want to do it in a way that punishes Sean’s prized new pet while making an example out of her, so he finally gets the goddamned memo.

Sean’s smitten, it’s obvious to everyone, and it’s just a matter of time before he fucks her—if he hasn’t already. But soon, he’ll be made aware of just how much he fucked up. No matter how perfect our enemy’s daughter is—and I can admit that much—she’s getting in the way of our agenda and, more importantly, our friendship.

Even if she’s nothing more than a defenseless mouse caught in a trap we didn’t set, she’s got Roman’s blood pumping in her veins. I’ll make it a point to make fucking sure Sean starts to see it that way because his assurances are getting weaker by the day.

Stalking through the graveyard of cars at the back of our shop, I spot the one I have in mind. I head over to it, pissed I didn’t drag a shop light out with me as the sun threatens to set—the need to keep my distance taking precedence.

With Cecelia, I don’t like who I am or the effect she has on me when we’re around each other.

She’s a rare type of flame far too close to my fuse—which is shortening by the day, some because of her invasion, most of it due to the constant nightmares looping in my mind.

Despite my actions, I take little pleasure in how I’ve treated her. Like Tobias, I see women as innocent bystanders of our cause. This makes them an inconvenience after we use them for our selfish purposes—which is why I don’t hook up often. My progression in that department is stunted because of what I have to offer—what I’ve always had to offer when it comes to women—nothing.

At this point, it’s about protection. Cecelia’s allure is just as fucking dangerous to us as it is to her. Opening the hood of the Buick, I add another task to my list—to prove it to Sean before she does.