Chapter Twenty

Tobias

Age Twenty-Four

T he echo of an obnoxious engine followed by the telltale "fuck you" of horns sound as Dom whizzes through the terminal. I manage to smother my budding grin with a scowl just as the sleek muscle car comes into view. He's spent nearly two years restoring it from frame. He skids to a stop a foot away, his dark tinted windows down, a menacing smirk firmly in place. Agitation fleeing just from laying eyes on him, I retrieve my duffle from the sidewalk, and he holds up a hand before lifting a poster board that reads Giorgio Armani.

"Hilarious," I snap, "and you're twenty minutes late." I step off the curb and open the passenger door, tossing my duffle between us before sliding in and surveying the interior, unable to conceal how impressed I am.

"This looks . . . fucking amazing."

Pride shines in his eyes at my reaction. "Just picked it up from the paint shop. That's why I'm late. You're the first passenger. I made sure of it."

Cupping the back of his neck, I pull him to me and press my forehead to his. "MIT. I'm so fucking proud of you, little brother." A rare but wide smile cracks his face as he sinks into the contact briefly before pulling away.

"I read a lot of books. They made me smart."

I return his grin. "You remember that conversation?"

"I remember everything ."

"I'm still pissed I had to hear you got accepted from Sean." Like me, Dom keeps his cards close to his chest, only showing them when his hand is forced, an issue we've butted heads on more than once, but he's cut from the same cloth.

"It's not that big of a deal."

"Agree to disagree."

He rights himself in the seat before peeling away from the curb, cutting a taxi off in the process. I shake my head at his deep chuckle.

"You'll have this fucking thing impounded in a week."

"Sean predicts days."

"My money is with him."

He glances my way, his dark hair scattering in the summer wind. "Who in the hell are you trying to impress with those expensive ass suits, anyway?"

"It's called being a grown-up. You should try it sometime."

"We aren't allowed to wear suits—your rules."

And that's the truth of it, because dressing up thugs in suits is an outdated tradition that may command respect—but also draws attention. It's a uniform for men of a different breed with a completely separate agenda. We aren't fucking thugs or anything like that breed, despite the fact we have to make thug moves on the regular. Our motives are entirely different. My corporate dealings give me an excuse to dress the way I want, and it's part of my illusion. "You would be lost without your little black boots," I jab, "and I have something better in mind."

He lifts a brow, cutting off another car as he shifts and guns the gas. "What are you thinking?"

"You'll know soon enough."

"Are you spending the rest of the summer here?" The hopeful lift of his voice rakes my chest.

"Bet on it. "

"Good, because in three months, I'll be in my own foreign country," he mutters.

"Boston isn't a foreign country."

"It is to me," he says contemplatively. "I've never been out of Triple Falls."

The truth of that eats at me—but he was needed here—and I think his resentment is fading because he knows it's the truth. Without him, we wouldn't have made it this far this fast. He seems to read my thoughts.

"I can skip it," he offers up easily, too easily. "You know I can. Tuition is expensive and—"

"No. The longer you stay in Triple Falls, the more you'll remain a small-town thinker. School is a jumping point for you; it will be uncomfortable at first, but it will do you good, and deep down, you want to go. Sean will survive without you for a few years. And don't worry about tuition, you leave that to me."

He gives a small dip of his chin.

"Look at me, Dom."

His eyes cut from the road to me.

"It's your turn ."

A brief flash of anticipation lights his eyes before he flits them back to the road.

"While you're there, you ease up on your part-time job, and that's a fucking order."

"I'm being smart about it. And I have to admit—" one side of his mouth lifts—"what we're doing feels good. It's a rush."

"The best kind," I agree, my own lips lifting. "Just pull back some, so you can focus."

"Aye, aye, Captain." He gives me a mock salute. "How was Paris?"

"Nothing new."

Dom floors the Camaro the second we're on the highway, putting every bit of horsepower under the hood to work. I keep the paternal reprimand dancing on the tip of my tongue and indulge him, enjoying the ride as his brother. In the last year, since I've resided in Triple Falls more often than not, we've grown closer, strengthening the club while we set our strategy in motion.

Like Sean and Tyler, Dom's grown into his own man, maybe more so than the other two, a man I respect and admire. The fact that I still have to go back to France every six weeks to satiate Antoine and keep him at bay grates on me, but I've got my own reasons for being there. Our first international chapter continues to grow with the addition of a few relatives I managed to find who have proven their worth.

And Exodus business is fucking booming.

Studying my brother's profile, I'm amazed at the change in his build, no trace left of the little boy who was terrified of the chickenpox. He's become even more bold, fearless, cunning, and cocky to a point it's now an ingrained trait. He knows exactly who he is, and that fills me with pride because when I was his age, I struggled with a little identity dilemma. He feels my watchful gaze on him and glances my way, his next question more of a demand.

"Tell me about France."

"Nothing to tell. Don't get curious. And don't waste your time."

"What does he have on you?" It's a subject he's broached more than once that I've refused to entertain. But I have to give him something, or he won't leave it alone.

"My youth. He's nothing but a resource, one we may need down the line. I have him under control, but let me make myself clear, my business with him has nothing to do with us. Not a single fucking thing. This is my shit to deal with, not yours. If you ever step in, we're going to have a serious fucking problem. Leave it the fuck alone."

Dom's nostrils flare as seconds tick past, and I hate that we're already at odds. But I understand why he won't let it go, and I would be just as adamant if I thought there was any threat to him. He wants to have my back, but I refuse to let him have it on this. I kick back in my seat, changing the subject because I don't want him to know just how much this particular gamble weighs on me. Antoine's becoming more predictable at this point, which makes his presence in my life less worrisome. "What's the plan for tonight?"

He grimaces and glances over at me.

"What?"

"Sean and I have plans."

"With who?"

"This girl we're seeing—"

" One fucking girl?"

"We treat her well."

"You really get off on that shit?"

His jaw ticks, and I know we'll never see eye to eye on this. He's a different animal when it comes to women. For me, they're an escape, a short-term refuge. For him, I'm not sure what they are. But I get the impression for the moment, they are toys, and that's not the way I raised him to think.

"Do your thing, brother, but mark my words, you'll probably regret it one day. What's going on with Tyler?"

"Jarhead's driving in tonight to hang. We're lucky he's stationed so close."

"Yeah, we are, but I don't need a babysitter while you go get pussy."

He smirks. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm meeting Eddie at a bar downtown. We're going to check on the price tag."

"New clubhouse?"

"Something like that."

He shakes his head. "All work, no play. You're fucking boring. Maybe it's time for you to find a Helen of your own."

We exchange a long glance. "No Helen exists for me."

He shrugs. "If you say so. So, what's next?"

"We buy Boardwalk and Park Place and any other property Roman hasn't already staked a claim on. It's time to invest in some real estate."

"We're really doing this," Dom spouts with uncontained enthusiasm, briefly letting his mask slip. Over the last few years, he's adapted an air about him that's both intimidating and secretive, albeit necessary for our purpose.

"We are doing this," I agree, satisfaction swelling in my chest. "Just make sure you, Tyler, and Sean are free by midnight."

"What are we doing at midnight?"

The buzz of the tattoo gun starts up again as Tyler fists off his shirt and takes a seat in the chair next to Sean. Dom walks over to where I sit, his arm slathered in light ointment, the dark inked feathers lined with smudges of blood through the clear wrapping. He, along with Sean and Tyler, requested extra heavy on the ink. A twitch of a smile graces his lips as he glances down at his arm with evident pride. "You can keep the silk ties, brother, this I can fucking work with." He smirks, his eyes rolling over my new suit. "It's a shame you can't partake—"

"Tobias, you're up, man," Jimmy, the shop owner says, waving me over to the waiting table he's just sanitized. Dom follows me as I shrug off my suit jacket and loosen my tie.

"Isn't ink frowned upon at the country club?" Dom asks as I untuck my shirt and begin to unbutton it. Jimmy hangs the sketch in front of the two of us beneath a desk lamp, and I survey it carefully before nodding in approval and answering Dom.

"Only if they can see it. And I fucking hate golf."

He carefully studies the raven, wings outstretched, his lit expression dimming noticeably as he scrutinizes the distinctly different tattoo. To any other Raven, it would be misconstrued as pecking order—an indication of my position in the hierarchy—but Dom's too fucking smart, and he knows ego has nothing to do with it. I hoped I could get this part of it past him until we were all done getting marked.

Dreading the inevitable, I curse under my breath as Sean and Tyler sense the shift in the air and stop their chatter, turning their attention to the two of us as Dom starts to bristle with anger. "Don't start," I snap at Dom in warning as he begins to pace in front of me.

"That's going to be your ink, man?" Tyler asks, eyeing the outline. "It's fucking sweet."

"It's fucking incriminating is what it is," Dom says, refusing to back down. Tyler and Sean look over to me with drawn brows as I address my brother.

"This is not up for debate."

Dom shakes his head adamantly. "No way, brother, we're in this together."

Sighing, I lift my chin to the two guys running ink on Sean and Tyler, and the buzzing stops just before they clear the room to walk out front. When they both have lit cigarettes in hand and are safely on the other side of the door, Sean moves from his chair and lights one of his own, readying himself to get between us if need be. "All right, what the fuck is going on?"

Dom's dark gaze narrows on me as he lifts his chin. "I believe our brother is trying to deceive us with this grand gesture."

"It's not deception." I grab the bottle from Tyler that we uncorked an hour ago when I announced our plans. "This is a celebration, little brother—" I tip the lip of it toward him—"and you're ruining it."

"Bullshit," he snaps, anger seeping out of him. "This is your way of ensuring you're the one who pays the bill."

"It's done ." I cut my hand through the air. " End of ."

"Not fucking end of." Dom shakes his head as Tyler glances back at the draft of my tattoo in an attempt to figure it out. It doesn't take long. "No, man, this is bullshit. If one goes down, we all go down."

Sean's posture bows when he too gathers the truth of what's happening and pins me with the same accusatory eyes. "What the fuck, man?"

"You designed it this way," Dom growls. "All of it was intentional. "

Wordless, I take another sip from the bottle.

"Whose name did you put the bar in today?" he prompts, refusing to let it go.

"Mine," Sean speaks up, his tone just as accusing. "He called me in to sign the paperwork, and Tyler now owns the land for our spot."

"Got the deed in the mail last week," Tyler adds.

Dom pulls it all together in a matter of seconds. "You're using Exodus as the front, and you're putting all the legit businesses in our name in case you get cuffed."

"All good business decisions," I argue. "If anything happens to me—"

"Fuck no." He jerks the outline of my tattoo from where it hangs. "This might as well be a target on your fucking back. If there's ever an investigation, all arrows will point to you ."

"Which makes you the sitting fucking duck if we dip in the wrong bag and draw heat," Tyler adds.

"Which also means you'll be the one doing the most time for racketeering," Sean gathers, clear fury in his tone. "That's why you wouldn't let us in on Exodus."

Tyler speaks up next. "No way, brother, no fucking way, Tobias. We make these decisions together."

"Except this one he kept us out of because he knew we would never agree," Sean adds, his fury apparent.

"It's done," I snap. "So, there's no point in arguing."

"Fuck that. You don't get to martyr yourself," Dom refutes, his tone lethal. He hates not being in the know, but mostly, he hates that he didn't figure it out sooner. "If we fuck up, we go down together ," he declares adamantly.

"That's not the way we designed this , and you know it," I remind him. "And you need to remember that we have other people's livelihoods depending on us ." I look over at my brother. "I haven't forgotten what hungry feels like, have you ?" My argument stuns him silent, and I dig in, intent on making my point. "We have to be smart about this—things are about to kick up, and we need to be prepared for anything. "

"Motherfucker!" Dom explodes, flipping a tray of ink over as he glares at me.

I can't help my grin. "You're going to have to work harder to stay one step ahead of me, brother. You're not quite there yet." I glance between them, my gaze lingering for a few seconds on each of them. "And this is all speculation. Just do your job, keep your head in the game, and don't fuck up."

The gin begins to warm me, the light buzz lifting my lips as they eye each other. "Have a damn drink and stop sulking like I just told you Santa isn't real."

"He's not?" Sean quips, but the delivery is lackluster, and no one laughs.

I decide not to coddle them. Those days are long over.

" I trust you ," I say emphatically, and all three of them snap their downcast eyes to me. I know that declaration is just as important to them as it is to me. "So, don't let me down." I lift my chin toward the two inkers in wait, and they stomp out their cigarettes before making their way back inside. I don't spare a glance at the three of them as I take my place on the table. Tonight is about celebration, and I'm not going to let their fear ruin the faith I have in them. Nothing but exhilaration courses through me as the gun buzzes to life, and I feel the first prick of the needles in my skin.

Minutes later, the music's turned up, the mood lifting as they pass the bottle, and we resume our celebration.

We finish the last of it huddled around the fire, piss drunk, with the future buzzing heavily between us. I gaze on at each of them as the familiar inkling comes over me. It strikes hard, the hairs on the back of my neck lifting despite my drunken state, and with its arrival comes the knowledge we are exactly where we're supposed to be. It's time to make our first move.

It's been a long fucking time coming.

But for the first time in years, surrounded by my brothers, I embrace the present. When the chatter starts to die out, and they begin to pass out one by one, I shift my gaze up at the night sky, and the image of the flock that inspired me comes to mind. Though pitch dark, I can see them so clearly, just as the pieces start to move on their own. Turning toward the newly built mansion, I see a single light on in the house and briefly wonder what kind of thoughts keep a man like Roman Horner up at night. Soon, I won't have to wonder. Piece by piece, I'll steal chunks of his kingdom from beneath him until it starts to crumble around him. And then, and only then, will I reveal myself as the thief responsible.

"I'm coming for you, motherfucker," I whisper vehemently, tossing another log onto the fire just as the lone light clicks off.

*

My head splinters as the recollection of that night fades, and the heavy pulse of fresh hell sets in. Prying one eye open, I see Cecelia sleeping soundly next to me and wince through the invasion of morning light. Beau's nails click on the hardwood announcing his entrance into the bedroom, and he nudges the hand I have hanging over the lip of the mattress, beckoning his new bitch to escort him out for his morning leak. Moving far too quickly, my body reacts, my head screaming obscenities as I usher him out of the room and through the back door to relieve himself. Shivering in the onslaught of cold, I'm slapped awake by one thought.

One step ahead, Tobias.

Alarm shoots up my spine as I rush inside and gather both phones before heading into the bathroom to check them for missed texts.

Russell: New birds in the nest.

The text was sent at eight o'clock last night. I feel slight relief knowing we're covered with Tyler's trained birds, especially since I wasn't of sound mind. For me, blind trust is damn near hard to come by, but over the years, I've tried my best to return it. Still, with so much to lose and flying blind, I'm in the worst imaginable position. I'm no longer in control or calling the shots, nor am I aware of every move being made on the daily, and it's nearly fucking impossible for me to deal with that day by day. Blind trust is what I have to continue to give so I can navigate my way with Cecelia. But now? I'm not so sure I'm capable. Especially if Antoine's planning on making a move. I'm just not sure of what his motive would be or what his intentions are, other than to keep tabs on me. But if he took the time to send someone—in lieu of a fucking phone call—chances are something's brewing.

Hitting a separate text feed on my burner, I see a message from one of the two birds I kicked to the curb after my run in yesterday.

Oz: He's working alone. He came to report and nothing more.

You're sure?

Oz: Positive. He showed us his itinerary, and we cross-checked it with every single passenger on the flight and every other within days of his arrival. So far, everything checks out. We're combing the sidewalks now.

Wait for word from me.

Oz: 10/4

Furious with myself that I let my emotions and nerves get the best of me yesterday to the point I drank myself into a blackout, I switch phones to see the demand for a report on the idiot's cell. I'm relieved when I see the message was sent only minutes ago. The order short and to the point.

Quelle est la situation?

I mimic the previous text.

Pas de changement. No change.

Anxiety slices through me as I will the fucking phone to go off with a reply. A reply that will ensure me more time for damage control with Cecelia.

Adrenaline spiking, I wait with bated fucking breath and see Antoine's response time has varied anywhere from one hour to five. It's too soon to tell if Antoine's onto me, so I shoot off a text to Tyler.

I want two birds in the air. Now.

His reply is immediate.

Tyler: On it. Need to talk?

I'll let you know.

Cursing the situation and the fucking disaster I made of date night, I summon Beau back into the house before creeping through the bedroom and softly shutting the bathroom door. After a brief inspection with bloodshot eyes, I wash my face, brush my teeth, and rinse my mouth out before swallowing down a couple of Tylenol from her medicine cabinet. The reality of last night slams into me as I take one last look in the mirror. "Run for your life, Trésor."

Phones cupped in my hands, I quietly open the door and slip them both into my duffle before easing back into bed. Cecelia stirs slightly with the dip of my weight, and I slowly exhale a breath of relief when I fully make it back in without waking her.

She slept in today purposefully. I'm part relieved, part terrified because I can't remember much past finishing the book and emptying the closest bottle.

Brief images flash through my mind of what happened after that fatal sip and some of the verbal vomit I spewed. I'm positive an apology is in order at the very least.

Did she see the lights? Chances are with Sir Piss-a-lot, she did last night.

Hopefully, it was some consolation for the complete fucking fool I made of myself. But I know her, and I know her heart. What I don't know is if that heart has any more forgiveness in it for me at this point, especially now. I asked her for a date, and she came home to a fucking shitshow. Covered in it, I gaze down at her before gently pushing the hair away from her face for a better view. No evident tear streaks, no puffy eyes, and for that, I'm thankful. I'm sure I still reek of gin and desperation, but I don't want to miss her reaction to me when she finally wakes. It will tell me all I need to know. I don't have to wait long because a minute into caressing her, she smiles at me before her eyes flutter open.

Thank Christ.

"How are you feeling?"

I draw my brows. "Like I ran a marathon while on an IV of gin and wine."

Her deepening smile erases more of my anxiety. "Pretty much what happened."

"I'm sorry. I meant to— "

She covers my mouth with her hand. "You apologized a lot. Yelled a lot. Revealed a lot. And unloaded a lot of that baggage. Unfortunately—" she purses her swollen-from-sleep lips—"you don't know how to unlock your suitcases." Brow creasing with worry, she lifts a hand to my pounding head before gently running her fingers through my hair. "Do you remember anything?"

"Some."

"Well, to start, you gave the book a bad review," she says, her soft laughter echoing in the bedroom.

I wince, mostly from the pain in my head, some from humiliation.

"I had a plan, and it seems I'm not so good at executing them these days."

"Well, you are on vacation." She edges her chin on her pillow, moving closer to me, and I'm thankful I brushed my teeth. Gin-brewed sweat beads at my temple as I try my best to recall the details of my blackout.

"Forgive me, Trésor. I don't re—"

Her full smile steals my speech. "Remember that your calf had sex with Beau and that you're expecting in four to six weeks?"

I faceplant my pillow and then turn to her and grin, opening one eye. She runs her fingers through my tangled, flour-caked hair, and I rest in the touch, a hope igniting in me that I've been starving for.

Her eyes do a slow sweep down my face before her tone turns to one of concern. "You were brutally honest."

"I don't know how to make things right."

"I saw the effort you put in while I was cleaning my destroyed kitchen." She widens her eyes. "No more cooking drunk, okay?"

"You should have let me clean it. Forgive me?"

"For last night, I'll consider it." She runs her hand down my bicep and arm before squeezing my hand and entangling our fingers. "The lights, Tobias, they are beautiful."

"I didn't want you to see them alone."

"I think I needed to."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, I needed to see for myself what you haven't told me in all the years we were apart. You're... a lot to handle in a room sometimes. I don't mean it in a bad way, but you're distracting. And your guilt... it's eating you alive. It's been years, Tobias. Haven't you made peace with any of it?"

"With Roman, all of that, yes, but with... everything else, no," I close my eyes. "I don't know how to stop it."

"We'll get through this." She moves her upper half to cover me, and if it weren't for my pounding head, I'd be all too eager to try and make love to her until she forgets the ass I was last night and remembers the controlled man she met. The man capable of conducting himself.

"Je suis un putain d'idiot," I mumble, biting my lip.

"My idiot." She grips my jaw and uses her thumb to pull it free from my teeth. For the first time since I came back to her, she initiates a kiss. Heart rocketing, I cup the back of her head and latch on, keeping her close, and kiss her back through the protest in my screaming head.

"Tobias," she moans against my lips, and I have a vision of ripping flannel, of more moans, of burying my cock inside her.

Shifting to hover above her, I see the one thing I desperately need in her eyes, permission.

Fuck the headache.

Chest cracking wide, I reclaim her lips and grip her hair, angling her head and plunging my tongue deep into her mouth. Our kiss singes us both, and we set into motion. All at once, I give into every part of me, with the freedom I haven't had for years as I begin to touch her, taste her neck, inhale her scent, indulge and lose myself in her while dragging moans and rapid breaths from her lips.

"Fuck, I missed you," I murmur, lifting the hem of her flannel top with an eager hand just as Beau barks, his alert breaking us apart as the sound of an approaching motor stops all our movement. Cecelia glances up at me and frowns.

"Expecting someone?" I ask, ready to murder whoever is interrupting us as my cock weeps in my boxers. There's no fucking way anyone would make it this close to our front door without my birds aware. Whomever it is, they've already been screened and identified if they made it into the driveway. I'm positive there is a text waiting with an arrival announcement.

Hovering above her, pulse hammering, hips still grinding, I pose a hopeful question as she gasps at the friction. "Mailman?" I ask, and she shakes her head.

"It runs in the afternoon."

Groaning in frustration, I spring from her and grab my Glock. By the time I'm armed, she's already got her Beretta, missing the swipe of my hand to block her as I give chase, tugging on my sweatpants, as I stumble after her.

"Goddamnit, Cecelia!"

"Chill, Frenchman," she snaps behind her as she heads toward the living room.

I'm halfway to where she stands at the entryway when she turns from the window and rushes toward me, paling with every step. Alarmed, I reach for her to get her behind me, and she stops a foot away before thrusting her gun toward me. Gripping it, and knowing she's aware of who's in her driveway, I search her face as the alarm drains from it and concern kicks in. "What's wrong?"

"Go shower, okay? I'll get rid of them, and then we'll have breakfast."

"Rid of who?"

"Tobias, please, just let me handle it."

I move to walk around her as a door opens and closes, and panic fully blooms on her face.

"Please!" she begs, jumping in front of me and placing a hand on my chest. "Tobias, let me handle this. Please ."

Jealousy snakes in, and I narrow my eyes. "Who. The. Fuck. Is. It. Cecelia?"

She twists her hands in front of her like a teenage girl. "Tobias, when you got here, I completely forgot about it. We made plans so long ago. It slipped my mind."

"I have a text waiting that will tell me exactly who it is, and I'm not fucking moving until I know, so out with it."

She lifts terrified eyes to mine. "It's my mother."