Chapter Nine

Tobias

Age Eighteen

T he heavy knock on my door followed by, "Come on, King, I know you're in there," has me closing my book with a groan. There's only one person who knows the address of my room in the hostel.

Opening the door an inch, I'm met with a mega-watt smile. As usual, he's impeccably dressed, as if he just stepped out of a men's magazine into the real world. Yet there's nothing real world about him, and I envy him that.

"Yep, just as I thought, it's our last night, and you're intent on fucking wasting it, let me guess, reading? You'd be worthless to me if every girl at school didn't want a piece of you. As it happens, I'm in need of my wingman tonight." It's a lie. He's notorious for his reputation with the coeds and the attention he draws with his personality and antics. Even I took an immediate liking to him, despite my best efforts to steer clear. He's the attention-seeking opposite of me. From beneath his expensive-looking trench, he produces a small bottle of gin and lifts it to my line of sight. "Just once, I'd love to wipe that scowl off your face. Get dressed, and I'll do my best."

"I'm busy. "

"Bullshit, you're just as bored as I am. You've got one minute before I start singing fucking Christmas carols in soprano, and if that doesn't work, I'll do much, much worse."

Annoyed, but knowing he'll back up his threat, I step away from the door, ignoring his smug victory smirk as he closes it behind him. Moving toward the rack sitting in the middle of the room, I pick through my clothes and pull off my best button-down. Due to the insanely tight budget I'm on from opting for a single room, I'm practically living on air at this point. New clothes are a luxury I can't afford for the foreseeable future, and the last time I switched a sales tag on the full-price sweater I wanted, I almost got caught. Paris is a city full of expert thieves, and since that day, I've been a keen observer of those I've come across. My higher learning extended beyond my studies to a more skilled sleight of hand.

Preston glances around the room and then back to me, and I'm thankful when I don't see an ounce of pity in his eyes. I would despise him for it.

"It's dreary." Honesty. It's one of the things I appreciate most about him, and I agree with him. There's nothing but a single bed in my room, the provided free-standing clothes rack, and a small desk with a built-in lamp I purchased and hauled ten blocks from a street sale. "A man of little means. I like it."

Buttoning the shirt, I move to grab my worn patent-leather shoes from beneath the bed as Preston sets the gin on my desk before walking over and thumbing through my clothes, looking for something better suited. When he inevitably comes up empty, he turns to me, his eyes looking me over as I tie my shoes. "It's freezing out, man. Grab your jacket. Better yet, I have a spare in the car. Take mine." He slides out of it and walks it over to me. Instead of arguing with him, which is fucking futile most of the time, I push my arms into it as he holds it out for me. The fit is perfect.

"Admit it. You're going to miss me, King."

"What is there to miss? You're a loud, obnoxious, overbearing, ridiculous person. "

"Ah, buddy, I feel the same way about you."

Grinning, he retrieves the gin from my desk, uncorks the bottle, and takes a sip before thrusting it toward me. I accept the offered bottle, gulping down a shot of the ice-cold liquor before posing the dreaded question.

"Where are we going?"

"To paint the town."

"I'm not feeling that idea."

"You're not feeling anything yet. Take another drink."

Gulping back another sip, I hand it back to him before leading him out of my room.

"Your lock broken or something?" He keeps his gaze on my fast-working fingers. It's then I realize I'm on my third turn, an overpowering need surging up to re-start my count. Instead, I pull my keys out and pocket them in his jacket. I can't help but run my fingers along the expensive lining. "Old habit." I shrug. "It was my lock back home that had issues."

Accepting my excuse, we start down the hall to make our way out of the hostel. Once outside, he leads me past the entrance to an idling blacked-out limousine just as his driver hops out to open the door for us.

"Why gin?" I ask him, sliding into the leather seat.

"Brown liquor brings out the worst in men." He takes the seat opposite me. "That's what my dad says—well, what he used to say."

Like me, Preston is an orphan. His dad was a congressman who died of a heart attack relatively young. His mother followed shortly after a double mastectomy couldn't save her. The difference between us is that he was fed from a platinum spoon and is the benefactor of not only his deceased parents' fortune but the generations before them. Old money in abundance. He'll never have to work a day in his life, which makes him aimless, and from what I've gathered, a little reckless. Newly nineteen, he embodies the realization of the American dream. Yet because he is the way he is, I can't hate him for it. He doesn't treat me like a charity case, but through small gestures and shared stories, I can feel his empathy, and it grates on me at times. Even when you do your best to mask poverty, it can be painfully obvious.

"I was shipped to France on the advice of my tutor and educational planner to broaden my horizons and get some world experience. My semester's over, man. I'm going home tomorrow completely unsatisfied with the size of my horizons." His grin indicates his intent before he puts words to it. "We're going to change that tonight."

"What could possibly go wrong?"

He taps his finger along the leather seat next to him, and I still my own fingers as he graces me with another smug smirk.

"Fuck off," I grumble.

"Let's get you relaxed." He grabs the spare trench on the seat next to him, leaving no doubt he brought the one I'm wearing for me. He pulls a silver case from one of the inside pockets, opens it, and plucks a joint from it before sparking it up.

"We'll start with dinner," he says on an exhale as we pull away from the curb, "a minimum of five courses. We're going to have a gentlemen's night." He pulls a tie from another pocket and tosses it on my lap. "There's a dress code."

Thumbing the silk, I nod and stare down at it as heat creeps up my neck.

"I—"

"Say no more, my friend." In seconds, Preston manipulates the necktie with sure hands into an adjustable noose before tossing it back to me.

Hooking it around my neck, I pull it tight at the base of my throat and glance over at him. He gives me a sharp nod of approval. It's both humbling and humiliating how much I presume to know and how much I'm reminded daily of just how much I have to learn. Spending time with guys like Preston reiterates that for me, which at times can be infuriating. Knowledge is power and key, but so is experience.

Preston has that advantage. He had a mentor in his father until he was sixteen. I wasn't so lucky. The idea that Roman Horner walks around freely, just as privileged, while I agonize over a necktie has my blood boiling. When the time comes, I don't ever want him to have any advantage. For now, while my resentment grows, I'm an observer, but one day, I won't be. That day is what keeps me aware, eager to learn as much as I can. Roman has the advantage of knowledge, age, and experience, and there's only so much I can gain from a book. But more than that, like Roman, Preston seems to already know who he is.

"For once, King, I want you to let me be in charge. I'm not letting you waste another second of our youth."

He's full of shit with that statement, and we both know it. Preston came in on a tidal wave, with his unavoidable personality, grabbed my hand and took me with him for most of his ride this semester at prep. We've been a force to be reckoned with for the last couple of months, mostly due to the attention of our skirted coeds, which only made us more noticeable and got us into a few fights, mostly his, because he loves a challenge.

For some reason, I trust him, and I trust myself with him. He doesn't have that edgy look in his eye; he's into this purely for sport, not self-destruction, and that appeals to me. Nothing pleases me more than pushing the limits of what I can get away with.

The few times I've turned down his invitations were to study to maintain my GPA or because I had to fly back home. But we more than made up for lost time with matching hangovers. His is the easiest and most low maintenance relationship I've ever had. With him, I've allowed myself a freedom I'll never have back home. And I know for a fact that once he's gone, I'll go back to my reclusive ways.

"Last night, King," he says, plucking two rocks glasses from the stocked bar and dividing the rest of the gin between them. "Let's make it count."

He extends one glass to me, and I clink with him.

For the last few weeks, I've been... off. Though my grades are stellar, my high GPA is no guarantee, and I'm going to have to push myself to be ready for the entrance exam to HEC next fall. It's all up in the air at this point as my efforts to find old contacts of my parents for help and guidance have proven to be fruitless. My birth father seems to have ruined my chances with his past behavior. No one wants to deal with Abijah Baran's son. My list is almost exhausted at this point. With each door that gets slammed in my face, the more I'm beginning to think my presence here is a mistake. An expensive mistake. I'm getting nowhere, and between the stress of worrying about my brother, his safety, and our dwindling finances, while making no progress here, I need all the escape I can get.

"I'm in."

Luniz raps "I Got 5 On It" as heavy bass thunders at my feet. Angelic-blonde hair blocks my vision, tickling my nose before a heart-shaped ass takes up the rest of my line of sight.

"Tu me vexes." You're hurting my feelings.

Attention fully drawn back where intended, I'm rewarded with the upturn of her full, bright-pink painted lips. "Te voilà." There you are.

"Pardonne-moi." Forgive me. Tracking her movements with appreciation, I tuck one of the bills into the string of her thong.

"On ne touche pas." No touching.

"Pardon." I lift my hands as the bouncer standing guard next to our booth steps forward with a look of warning. In my defense, her pole and elevated stage sit barely a foot from our table, making it prime real estate, and for me, a good excuse to take a closer look.

"Est-ce ta première fois dans un endroit comme celui-ci?" Is this your first time in a place like this?

Neck heating from transparency, I decide there's no point in lying. "Oui."

"Ah, mais un homme comme toi ne devrait pas avoir besoin d'être ici." Ah, but a man who looks like you shouldn't need to be at a place like this .

Her voice is pure sex, her body an offering, but I do my best to keep my wits about me, despite the quarter gallon mix of wine and gin coursing through my veins. But she's dead-on in her assessment. I've never been to a place like this, and even I know this club is as upscale and exclusive as they come. And since we strolled in just past midnight, bellies full of the finest French cuisine and expensive wine—that I immediately acquired a taste for—we've gained the attention of a majority of the dancers, especially since Preston has no shortage of money and has been so generous with it. The woman intent on breaking my concentration gently sways her hips in a deliberate taunt as I avert my gaze back to the man sitting in VIP. It's clear he's not a first-time patron. The section where he's taken up residence is just across from our booth, elevated just a few short steps above the main floor to make sure we know our place in the food chain.

What separates us is a velvet rope and an insane amount of influence and money. Though I'm sure if Preston flexed his bank account, he'd be a contender for the highest roller in here.

I'm not obsessed with money, I know the evils of it, but more than once tonight, I've been slapped by the reality of my standing due to lack of it. I think of Dom, still sleeping on the same fucking twin mattress he's had since he was five, the roof leak in the corner of his bedroom, and the black mold growing in his closet because of it. My lackluster room at the hostel is a palace in comparison.

"Je pourrais te permettre de me toucher. Mais pas si tu continues à m'insulter en détournant ton regard." I might allow you to touch me. But not if you keep insulting me by looking away.

Light-brown eyes scold me as she arches her back against the pole in another attempt to gain my interest. It's a tempting offer, but I'm too distracted, my reasons for staying in Paris dwindling by the second. I could hang it up now, let some of my aspirations go. I could attend an Ivy League university back home and find a way to pay for it. Four or five years from now, secure a job with a six-figure salary, enough to move Dom out of Delphine's shithole and secure his future.

But it's a gut feeling, combined with the hairs rising on the back of my neck, that has my thoughts shifting again. A tangible tension has been building since the three suited men walked in a half-hour ago. The staff scattered like rats. And from what I've witnessed, it's due to a mix of fear and respect, which leads me to believe they are someone important or work for someone important, and I'm determined to figure out which.

"Dis-moi sur quelle chanson danser. Tu vas voir, ?a en vaudra la peine." Tell me which song to dance to. You'll see, it will be worth it.

It's the man tucked in the corner booth who I'm most curious about. He hasn't paid a bit of attention to the dancers. Everything about his demeanor screams organizational man. He's a decade at most past his prime and very, very well paid, which I deduce from his dress, the high dollar bottles being delivered to his table every few minutes, and the cigar he's chewing on. It's cliché gangster 101, so obvious and obnoxious. Chances are, they're more drunk on their effect, on the attention they've gathered, than the liquor they're tossing down their throats.

"Arrête de regarder, si tu ne veux pas qu'il te remarque." Stop staring if you don't want him to notice you.

"Qui est-il?" Who is he?

"Un homme qui n'aime pas qu'on pose des questions à son sujet." A man who doesn't like people asking questions about him.

Placing one of the higher bills in my hand at her heels, she glances down and then back to me before subtly shaking her head.

"Je ne sais rien. Personne ne sait rien ici. Et personne ne te dira quoi que ce soit. Mais tout ce que je sais, c'est que si tu poses trop de questions, si tu suscites le moindre soup?on, tu disparaitras, ou tu le souhaiteras fortement." I don't know anything. No one here does. And no one will tell you anything, either. But what I do know is that if you ask, if you even so much as arouse suspicion, you'll disappear or wish you had.

I look down at the wad of cash Preston pressed into my hand in the car before we arrived and know if I pocket some of it, it will make life a bit easier for me. Both angered and shamed by the thought, I lay it all at her feet .

"Quelqu'un sait quelque chose. Et si ce quelqu'un c'est toi, je serai très reconnaissant." Someone knows something. And if that someone is you, I would be appreciative.

Just as the man's eyes lock onto mine, she blocks his view of me, brushing her nipples along my lips. Both her allure and the gin take over, and I do my best to keep from getting hard. This isn't the place, and though beautiful, she isn't the girl to indulge with.

She grips my shoulders and turns me to face Preston, who's sitting in our booth, two popped bottles open and sweating in buckets. A dark-brunette beauty bounces in his lap. At this point, he looks only half-conscious, the only sign of life a dopey smile on his face as she grinds against him. My dancer runs her palms from my shoulders to my chest, encasing me from behind. Her breath hits my ear a second before she digs her nails through the fabric. It's then my cock can't take no for an answer. Hissing through my teeth, I'm thankful for the cover of the jacket.

"Si tu ne croyais pas aux fant?mes avant de venir ici ce soir, il en est la preuve. Il a un intérêt dans ce club. Une danseuse. Elle ne parle à personne ici. Jamais. Elle est escortée partout où elle va. Un des videurs les a suivis une fois et a disparu. Ce ne sont pas les hommes avec qui plaisanter." If you didn't believe in ghosts before you came here tonight, he is proof. He has one interest in this club. A dancer. She doesn't talk to anyone here. Not ever. She's escorted everywhere she goes. One of the bouncers followed them once and disappeared. These are not the men to be messed with.

"Merci." Thank you.

Just after our exchange, I stop drinking, and after politely declining several appealing suggestions from my dancer, I pry Preston from the brunette. Wrapping his arm around my neck, I begin the task of hauling him out of the club while he struggles against me, whispering declarations to his abandoned dancer standing feet away.

"Je te retrouverai, mon amour." I will find you again, my love. Palm on his chest, he grins at her. "Finally, I have found true love in the city made for lovers. And now I have to leave. Au revoir, ma chérie. "

"I'm willing to bet she'll move on quickly," I huff as he struggles against me, slurring his sentimental goodbye.

He turns to face me, not at all pleased I've cut this part of our night short. "What do you know about love, man?"

"That it's distracting your feet; do me a favor and try to remember what they're for."

"That blonde was into you. Why didn't you pounce on that?"

"Not my type."

"What is your type? You like a whip cracker and rope, don't you? It's always the quiet ones. Tell me, King, am I right?"

"Use your feet," I grunt as I practically drag him across the room.

"I bet you like 'em mean," he says, stopping the two of us in the middle of the club. "I need to take a piss."

After waiting an eternity outside the bathroom, we make it to the entrance, which is now deserted, thanks to the lateness of the hour and the rapidly dropping temperature.

"Where's the car?"

"I called him while I was taking a leak. He's not far."

He leans back against the side of the building, his eyes closed. "I shouldn't have had that last drink. The air is helping. I'll be all right in a minute. Just need my second wind. The night is still young, King."

"You're done."

"I am, aren't I?" He slowly opens his eyes, not a trace of humor in his tone. "In more ways than one."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, even with my parents six feet under, I have expectations to meet. A family full of overachievers to impress back home. The minute I step off that plane, they'll be peering over my shoulder for the rest of my life." He exhales, his breath visible and glowing from the neon shed off the club lights. "For you, this was a Friday night, but for me... well, it's my last hurrah."

"You've got college."

"No, I don't." He nods over his shoulder toward the club. "No offense to working ladies, but I'm not interested in strippers, man. It was just something to check off my list. Another experience I can say I didn't miss out on. There are no strip clubs in my future. Hell, there's no fucking fun in my future."

"What's in your future?"

"Boredom. A shit ton of it, followed by more boredom. Rich boy problems, I know." He cups the back of his head. His slicked brown locks thoroughly picked through by the fingers of the dancer. "The money is mine, but with it comes the pressure. I have to accomplish more than being a spoiled trust fund baby. Want to know the worst part? The road ahead isn't that unappealing to me. I'm kind of a no-frills guy."

"I'm going to have to call bullshit."

"No, this is different. I'll be honest, man, I've never partaken in half the shit we've done this semester."

I chuckle. "Same."

He cracks a grin. "I suspected as much. And I'll admit I've enjoyed it. I think my issue is that I just want the freedom to decide, you know what I mean?"

My reply is cut off, as is my view of him as he's pinned to the brick, his eyes going wide at the sudden appearance of the man between us.

"Vide tes poches. Maintenant." Empty your pockets. Now.

I didn't see him. Not at all. He was background noise, a pedestrian walking down a typically busy Parisian street. I didn't think a thing about the man approaching us because I was fully immersed in our conversation. Preston seems just as surprised as the man glares between us, producing a knife out of thin air before thrusting it toward me. I barely manage to escape the tip, jumping back to the curb.

Satisfied with the space the move provided him, he grips Preston by the collar, pressing the tip of the blade into the base of his throat. I'm three feet away at most, and I know with just a little more pressure or a fast flick of his wrist, Preston will die.

Something inside me breaks with Preston's expression, and I leap forward, jerking the man's head back by the hair before smashing his face into the brick just next to Preston's shoulder. Adrenaline takes over as I fist the side of his head repeatedly until he goes limp and the knife clatters on the pavement at my feet. Once he's on the ground, I kick him with the hard-edged heel of my shoe until his arms are no longer raised in defense.

With a quick glance around, I see we're still alone and lift him from underneath the arms before glancing up at Preston. He's still plastered against the brick, his eyes wide. I eye the camera at the entrance, thankful we're just out of view.

"Grab his legs," I blurt, panic rising as Dom's face flits through my mind. This can't be it. This can't be the mistake that takes me out. "Preston, I can't go to jail." I don't voice my bigger fear, that I'm unsure if the man is dead or not. I've never hit someone so hard in my life.

Preston leaps into action, and we carry the unconscious man to a nearby alley and drop him behind a dumpster. Bending, I press my fingers to his neck to check for a pulse.

"He alive?"

I nod and stand. "Come on."

Preston stops me, gripping me by the shoulder. "Take his money."

"What?"

He juts his chin to the unconscious thief and flits his hardening gaze back to mine. "It's only fucking fair. Take his money."

Turning back, I lean over the man and study the damage I've inflicted. His face is mangled, and there's blood oozing from his ear.

"Do it, King."

Ripping open his jacket, I check his pockets and retrieve a wad of bills, some frayed, some newer looking, and I know it's not his. He didn't earn a cent of it.

"Jackpot. He's been at this all night."

Pocketing the money, I join Preston where he stands before we wordlessly leave the alley, hastening when we see the limo waiting at the club entrance. Once the driver's ushered us inside, he takes his seat behind the wheel. "Where to, Mr. Monroe?"

We stare off before he speaks up. "I'm hungry. You?"

I nod.

"Take us somewhere for breakfast. You choose."

The driver speeds away from the curb. "Yes, sir."

Preston lifts his chin toward me. "You're going to have to lose the jacket."

Inspecting it through the passing street lights, I see a splatter of blood on the coat. It's far too noticeable. While shedding it, I lean in on a whisper. "I've never done anything like that."

"How did it feel?"

I lift a shoulder. "I'm not going to cry about it."

"Me neither." He leans forward, his hands clasped between his legs, his voice low. "And don't ever second-guess what you just did. That man was going to end me no matter what I had in my pockets. I saw it in his eyes. He was fucking high." He sits back in his seat, his expression contemplative. "Along with my father's looks, I was blessed with his judgment. I know when to trust people and when not to. Usually within the first minute of meeting them." Pulling the case from his pocket, he lights the half joint he put out hours earlier, pinching some loose weed off his tongue before he speaks. "The way I see it, there are bad men capable of doing bad things, and then there are good men capable of doing bad things for good fucking reasons." He looks at me pointedly. "You're one of those."

"Which are you?"

"Incapable of being either. Eventually, I'm going to be a man in need of guys like you."

Preston dropped me off just as dawn began to light the streets. After a few hours of sleep, duffle in hand for my flight home, I opened my door to see I was blocked in by six large boxes. At the top of the first lay a note.

Thanks for saving me the burden of packing, Wingman.

P

*

There was a shift between us that night. We were both aware of it. We just didn't know exactly what it was. I never knew how instrumental that night would be in my future, but looking back now, I know it was the true beginning.

The memory flitting fresh through my mind, I stand in Cecelia's closet, sweat gliding down my back after another long run with Beau. I pick through her clothes, curious. She's a no-label girl. There's not one designer in her closet. We're so much alike in some ways and polar opposites in others. She's simple with her taste, even as a millionaire. She's never given a fuck about money, which she made crystal clear when she handed me her inherited Fortune 500 company, along with the profit she made from our deal, back to Exodus in full .

She never wanted her father's money. She only wanted his love.

That's all she's ever asked of any of the men in her life.

I run my fingers down the fabric of one of her dresses. "I'll make it up to you, Mon Trésor."

I've never lived with a woman, or really anyone as an adult for that matter, and I find it oddly satisfying that my first will be my last. That's only if life and time allow it. Time itself is as fucking merciless as love is—no boundaries or ceasefire. It's an enemy. And since I've been back, we haven't resumed shit.

But time is what she needs—time and boundaries—and that's what I'll have to give her. But is allowing space the right move? Do I treat her with fragility?

That's not what she's used to from me. That's not who we are.

Grabbing some clothes of my own, I toss them on the bed and walk to her bookshelf, picking through until I see a familiar book. A new library copy of The Thorn Birds , similar to the one destroyed at the restaurant months ago.

"I guess I'll always be the girl crying for the moon."

Opening the small book, I thumb a few pages and palm my head when I see the main character's name.

"Why did you name it Meggie's? "

"It's a long story."

"Do I know it?"

"Intimately and from afar."

"King, you fucking idiot," I mutter. I've flipped through the book once or twice out of curiosity, but the character names never stuck. I was too absorbed in Cecelia to see the bigger picture of what the book meant, and all these years later, I'm still as clueless.

She named her café after the lead character of The Thorn Birds , the story closest to her heart. Her thieving this book from the Triple Falls Library is one of the reasons we exist. It's obvious she compares herself to Meggie and our own story to the one inside the pages. I'll memorize the fucking thing if it means so much to her. But for now, I'm coming up blank on how to proceed.

This is my first time on the board without a strategy, and right now, she's resuming her life like I'm some obstacle she has to work herself around. She'd left me here this morning, purposefully, so I couldn't be more of a distraction.

Frustrated, I head into her bathroom and open her medicine cabinet, satisfied when I see her birth control.

That's a discussion for a different day. I grab the bottle of lotion sitting next to it, uncap it and inhale.

Immediately I'm hit with the familiarity and one of the triggers of my addiction to her, her scent. Reading the label, it dawns on me why.

Juniper Berry.

No wonder I'm addicted to her smell. I drink the contents of her scent nightly. In. My. Fucking. Gin.

"Well played, queen," I muse, capping her lotion and closing the cabinet.

Rummaging through her drawers, I realize I'm in full-fledged stalker mode with no idea what I'm searching for. Insight? Some sort of aid to help me in winning her back? Frustrated, I slam them shut, knowing I'm not going to find what I need counting her fucking Q-tips. My phone rumbles in my pocket with a text, and I'm thankful for the distraction .

Tyler: Incoming.

The phone rings in my hand a minute later, and I answer on the second, "Tobias."

"Had to make sure I knew my place picking up after two rings, huh?"

"Good afternoon, Mr. President. How's the big White House treating you?"

"The bed is very comfortable, Mr. King," he fires back in the same jovial tone. "I've been meaning to call you to thank you for all your help and for your contributions to the campaign."

"I consider it money well spent. We seem to agree on a lot of policy and change."

"That's another reason for my call. I wanted to assure you that I'll work tirelessly and have the country's best interests at heart."

"No doubt you do, sir ."

He cuts the shit. "Been a long time since prep, hasn't it, King?"

"Too long. I'm surprised you remember me. You were only there one semester."

It's a lie. Not his time at prep, but the acquaintance-only aspect of our conversation. Someone is always listening, and we're not taking any chances. From the second we stepped into that breakfast café twenty years ago, both slightly hungover and eager for grease in our bellies, we got personal due to a newly formed trust and respect.

For the first time, I trusted an outsider with my plans for Roman, and he shared his aspirations as well. And together we strategized our own agenda, and together, we carried it out to the fucking letter.

Little did I know, we would become the greatest of allies. Upon hearing his aspirations, I knew he was the perfect candidate for an underdog President. Orphaned, but from good breeding, insanely wealthy, good-looking, but someone who could control his dick and treat girls with respect, even behind closed doors. He was one of the first of my major recruits and a damn good decision on my part. My financial backing to his campaign was ironic and brought us full circle .

His ink is there—though it's invisible—and he's one of the founding fathers of the brotherhood, now sitting in the most powerful seat in the world.

"Molly wanted me to extend an invitation to dinner."

"Someday soon, I'll take you up on that." We agreed early on that the association between us needs to stay formal until we have the bulk of our work out of the way—or unless there's an emergency. My contributions to his campaign and our months at the same prep school for one semester our only visible tie. He's one of the only decent men in power, and we have too much to accomplish in the next seven years for our association to taint him—should I ever get prosecuted for my crimes.

Preston Monroe doesn't need micro-managing, and Tyler has been preparing for this since he joined the Marines.

"What are you up to these days, Tobias?"

"Most recently, sir, I've taken an interest in Virginia."

"Ah. Glad to know you're in the neighborhood. Anyone I know?"

"You'll meet her, eventually."

"I'm intrigued. So, I'm assuming you're retiring from politics?"

"It's temporary," I assure him. "I don't golf."

"Well, good luck with that. I'll be in touch."

"I appreciate your call, Mr. President."

"I look forward to seeing you at the House."

"You deserve this," I say honestly.

"Couldn't have done it without you, man."

Ending the call, I glance out the window of Cecelia's bedroom before I shoot off a text.

ETA?

Russell: A little birdie just parked the Audi in the driveway, keys in the visor. I've got two freshly hatched birds coming. Should I send more?

Send four more. I'm not familiar with the neighborhood. And switch the old. They're tired and bored, which makes them useless to me. I want 20/20 fucking vision. Understood ?

Russell: Got it. They'll be there tomorrow. How's Cee?

Good.

Russell: That was an abrupt answer. She can hold a grudge, can't she? Laughing emoji.

When I don't respond, the phone rattles again.

Russell: She's giving you hell, isn't she? God, I love that girl. Take care of her.

Get back to fucking work.

Russell: Aren't you retired?

I'm on vacation. Big difference.

Russell: 10/4 Good buddy. I'm sure you have your hands full. Kissing face emoji.