Chapter Thirty-One

New York City

October 19

S he was having dinner with her father. Reynard had spotted him—the old man missed nothing—but Miles had no misgivings. Reynard was the one who had requested Miles keep an eye on Clara, and he was taking the task seriously. In his profession, Miles had a front-row seat to the depravity that lived in plain sight.

None of that explained the red mist clouding his vision as he tailed Clara to the restaurant, his thoughts pinging through images of Clara on a romantic date. Where had she met him? Who the fuck was he? Was he touching the small of her back? Kissing her hello? Rationality flew out the window of the Lyft as the demons within pounded their chests.

The minute Miles saw Reynard’s gaunt face, he pivoted and left the restaurant. His relief that Clara wasn’t on a date was eclipsed by Miles’s shock at his mentor’s appearance. He had known Reynard was unwell, but seeing the man Miles had always thought of as invincible, so frail and gray, it was a punch in the gut.

Fifteen years ago, Fate had put Miles in Reynard’s path. In the blink of an eye, he had gone from teenage pickpocket to errand boy for a kingpin. Anything Reynard needed, Miles did with honesty and loyalty, and a month to the day after he had “bumped” into Reynard, Miles was living in a Paris apartment and earning heaps. Once a month, he would take the short flight to the estate in Dordogne, where he would spend the week studying with a tutor to finish his high school coursework (Reynard insisted) and reviewing job assignments. Miles may have only been sixteen, but he was a businessman through and through. Reynard had seen his potential and nurtured it.

Meanwhile, Clara had been a ten-year-old menace. If she wasn’t putting frogs in his bed, she was forcing him to help her build a catapult or rig a trap for the goblin who lived in the woods. Miles had hated doing these childish things—and if a small part of him enjoyed it, he certainly would never admit it—but Clara had been impossible to refuse, even then. If anything, his need to indulge her had only gotten worse.

On the quaint Little Italy side street, he took a moment to recalibrate. These feelings of frustration and obsession were nothing new when it came to Clara. Fucking her, taking her virginity had somehow upped the ante. Suddenly, he didn’t simply want to scare off men who sniffed around her; he wanted to rip them limb from limb. What was happening to him?

Rounding the corner, Miles scanned the street until he spotted the pub. He stopped at the bodega to buy a copy of the paper, then headed to the bar. A few patrons sat at sidewalk tables as a waiter delivered beer and food. Knowing right where to look when he entered the dark bar, Miles spotted his twin at the back. Tox and his SEAL buddies always sat where they had the best vantage point.

Tox stood when he spotted his brother and came around the table to embrace him. “Twice in one week, bro. Before long, we’ll have you moving to Beaufort.”

The other three men at the table, Steady, Chat, and Ren, stood and greeted him. Leo “Ren” Jameson had arrived this morning. Miles knew Ren the least, but his intelligence and keen perspective were impressive.

“Welcome to the team.” Ren shook his hand.

“News travels fast,” Miles replied with a smile.

Steady shook him by the shoulders. “Ready to join the good guys?”

Chat grabbed a chair from an empty table and spun it around. “Let the guy order a drink, would you?”

Steady scooted his chair over. Chat flagged the waiter, and Miles pointed to Steady’s mug.

Tox must have sensed Miles’s apprehension. His twin faced him fully with an angry growl. “What now?”

Miles placed the newspaper in front of his brother. The headline, in The Herald’s signature style, read: Ugentti Underage Undulations . Then, below it: Will anything put this guy in jail?

Tox nodded his approval. “You?”

“I was pissed about the… you know.” Yes, Miles was angry Chug’s men had attacked him, but that wasn’t the actual impetus for his actions. Miles was sick of corrupt politicians. God knows he had enough dirt on the D.C. power brokers to grind the wheels of government to a halt. Inside the Beltway, information was the gold standard, and Miles was the richest man in town.

Tox heard Miles’s unspoken words. “Good work, brother.”

“Felt good. But Ugentti’s not going to let this go unanswered.”

Steady tapped his chin and deadpanned, “If only we knew a highly trained team of security experts who could protect you.”

Tox rested a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Why don’t you come down to Beaufort for a while? Calliope and the gang would love to see you, and you can have a little vacation while things simmer down.”

Miles held up a hand. “Let’s not jump the gun. The guy is in Congress now. It’s not like he can send a hitman to shoot me on the street.”

Miles was content to watch these guys rib one another. He was here to have drinks with his new coworkers, not discuss threats and drive-bys. He and Tox had been separated for over twenty years, but it seemed some things were ingrained or maybe coded into their DNA. As children, he and Tox had developed a perfect synergy. Tox was the cameraman; Miles was the actor. Tox was the quiet one; Miles was the spokesman. And just like old times, his twin once again aimed the spotlight his way.

“So, Mi, where’s Clara tonight?”

“Having dinner with her father in Little Italy. Why?”

The words were still hanging in the air when Miles realized his brother’s intention. Tox had killed terrorists with his bare hands. He had carried a teammate on his back for ten kilometers to get to safety. He had jumped out of planes into the most dangerous places on Earth. But his twin was, and always had been, a true romantic. After everything they had been through, Tox’s heart had only grown. Miles’s had shriveled and died like an unwatered plant.

“No reason.” His brother shot Miles a familiar side-eye.

“What will it take to get that idea out of your head?” Miles asked.

“A wrecking ball.”