Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

Gabe

I cut away from Freedom Hall, having no desire to be around people or listen to boring speeches. I'm feeling edgy, out of control, and nothing settles those feelings like alcohol. It's a good thing I know just where to get such a commodity.

The Mardraggon booth is a large U-shaped bar made of hand-carved cherrywood with attached swivel stools along the three sides. There's a top overhang with pendant lighting at the back of the bar, in front of which stands a bartender in an elegant tuxedo. Upon a single shelf sits a bottle of every brand of bourbon we currently produce, each one with its own light shining from underneath to accentuate the bourbon's rich amber hues, making the liquid within the bottles shimmer enticingly.

I believe I saw a report come across my email about the cost of constructing this temporary bar for the Spirits and Saddles Gala, and it was close to fifty thousand dollars. It's going to be disassembled after this event and put into storage, probably never to be used again. Next year, for the same charity event, Mardraggon Enterprises will do something different but no less costly. It's a fine example of just how much money we have and how much is acceptable to spend to market our product.

Technically, the event is just for people to sample the variety of Kentucky bourbons available, but you can also get a full drink—one or two fingers, whichever you prefer.

The bartender sees me, knows exactly who I am, and moves my way as soon as I take a stool at the middle of the bar. There's no one else here and very few people linger in the lobby, since everyone made their way into Freedom Hall for the speeches.

I expect that's where Kat has gone and then hate myself for even spending a moment of thought on her. She's the current reason I'm here and saying to the bartender, "Give me the Copper Still Reserve, neat."

He nods and bows slightly, as if I'm royalty. "Right away, Mr. Mardraggon."

I drum my fingers on the polished wood surface and when the crystal glass slides into my line of sight, I mutter my thanks.

I don't have to pay for this, but I pull a twenty out of my wallet and hand it to him for a tip. I ignore his effusive gratitude, pick up the glass and pull a long sip into my mouth. The warm rush over my palate and into my stomach provides a quelling effect and I sigh with satisfaction.

Someone approaches and takes the stool two down from me, but I don't look that way. I have no desire to engage in niceties or meaningless conversation. It would most likely be someone fawning over the privilege of having the chairman of the board of Mardraggon Enterprises to talk to or someone who wants to talk about my father.

"I'll take the Mardraggon 1921 Shadow Reserve."

The hair rises on the back of my neck as I recognize the voice but it's the request for the rare bourbon that has me turning on my stool.

"I'm sorry, sir," the bartender says solicitously, "but we only have our Copper Still Reserve, Golden Rye Legacy and Rebel's Toast for tasting tonight."

It's the blond thug, Kravitz, who came to my house yesterday but I don't see his cohort around. Frankly, I'd put them out of my mind, thinking the request brazen but lacking validity. I have more important things to worry about but the fact the big man is sitting two stools down at an invitation-only gala has me reconsidering. This is no coincidence. He's clearly got connections.

Turning to face me, Kravitz bestows a smile before twisting back to the bartender. "I'll try the Rebel's Toast."

I'm silent as a small tasting cup is prepared, my eyes never leaving the guy. He watches the bourbon being poured and when it's offered to him, he holds up the clear plastic cup that holds less than half an ounce. He sniffs it almost delicately, then tilts it back. It's a bourbon drinker I'm watching as he holds the liquid in his mouth to savor, eyes closing slightly before swallowing.

The man hums in approval, looks to me and says, "That's very good. Kudos." He then slides his gaze to the bartender. "I'll take a double."

"No, he won't." The steely edge to my voice has the bartender's head whipping my way before he steps backward as a silent indication he's not going to serve this man per my command.

Kravitz inclines his head as I rise from my stool, looking neither flustered nor affronted. I leave the rest of my drink untouched and walk away from the Mardraggon booth, knowing damn well the man will follow me. He's not here for the 1921 Shadow Reserve, the Rebel's Toast or anything other than a second attempt to try to intimidate me.

I move through the nearly empty exhibit hall, keeping my eyes averted from the handful of people taking advantage of the lack of lines at the open bourbon booths. I walk right out the door, hang a left and move into the shadows because no one needs to witness this conversation.

The evening is cool but I feel flushed, and not in a good way.

Not in the way I felt ten minutes ago kissing Kat.

I hear the scrape of shoes and when I turn to face Kravitz, he's lighting a cigarette. Blowing out a plume of smoke my way, his eyes pin on me. Luckily, the wind catches the foul odor and it drifts away before I have to smell it.

"What are you doing here?" I ask.

The man tucks one hand in his pocket and shrugs. "Enjoying the festivities. Interesting charity gala."

Not a direct answer to my question and I learned long ago not to waste my time on silly, petty games. I start to move past the man to head back into the building. "I've got more important things—"

"I'm here to provide incentive for you to get that case of bourbon for us."

I halt, turn to face the man. He's not in a rush and takes another drag off his cigarette, smoke pouring out of his mouth as he says, "I paid a visit to your father today."

My body tenses but past that tiny bit of wariness, I can't figure out how that makes me feel. There's an implied threat but I'm not sure I really care. Every day that passes, it's not antipathy I feel for my father but raw anger brewing hotter because of the things he's done. As a result, I can't say that I have a single concern for his safety, health or welfare. "And?" I drawl flatly.

The blond man stares at me a long moment before saying, "It was impressed upon him the need to turn over that case of bourbon."

Nothing on my face gives away alarm because it's not alarm I'm feeling. More curiosity. "And exactly how did you do that?"

He chuckles. "Oh, I'm sure you can figure it out. Your dad wasn't moved by our request though."

"That's because he doesn't have the authority."

Kravitz nods, taking another drag from his cigarette. "Yes, Mr. Rafferty said as much, but we had to be sure. He knows you're the one who turned your dad into the police as well as orchestrated his removal as chairman of the board. It's also clear you don't care if we hurt him."

My smile is mirthless. "I'm glad you understand. I don't give a shit what you do to my father."

"What about your mother, though?" The man's lips peel back in a vicious smile.

A pit forms in my stomach because while I don't care what happens to my dad, I obviously don't want my mother hurt.

I can't let them know that though. They can never know she would potentially be a weakness. "My mother has chosen to side with my father. I have broken all ties with both of them, so if you're trying to get to me through them, it's a waste of your time."

He takes another drag, tossing the butt onto the concrete and crushing it with the toe of his shoe. He blows out smoke and then pins me with a cold look. "I guess that makes you our primary target then. Pity… so much easier to send a message when we know you have someone to care about. I guess we'll be seeing you next Tuesday."

For a moment, I have no clue what he means about next Tuesday, but then I remember they said they would come back in one week. I had so thoroughly dismissed their demand as ludicrous, I never thought they would follow up. "Don't bother. I won't have that case."

"We'll still come by and have a talk. I'm sure we'll be able to come to an understanding."

The man starts to walk away but I stop him with my next question. "I don't understand why your boss doesn't get the equivalent of money from Lionel. He's good for it."

Kravitz turns back to me. "Yes, we know your father has plenty of money. Mr. Rafferty has plenty of that too. He has more than he knows what to do with. But he loves to collect things and that case of Shadow Reserve Barrel is what he wants. It's what he was promised."

I'm getting frustrated with how dim this guy is. "Again, my dad bet something he doesn't own. It wasn't his to wager."

"Ownership doesn't matter. Especially when you have the ability to produce it."

Un-fucking-believable. "You better come at me with something more than threats."

The man bobs his head. "Challenge accepted. See you Tuesday."

I don't say anything else and there's no need for me to argue with him further. I watch as he melts into the darkness, briefly considering whether I should call the police. But I'm not even sure what I would say. Nothing criminal has been done at this point.

With a frustrated sigh, I pull out my phone and dial my mother. When she answers, I can tell she's distressed. "Gabe, I'm so glad you called. A man just came to see your father. They went into his office to talk and when he left, I found Lionel bleeding. The man punched him several times."

"Did they threaten you?" I ask.

"No, why would they? What's going on? Your father won't tell me anything."

Typical. But I'm grateful he never shared with her his plan to murder Sylvie. At this point, given her utter devotion to the man, I'm not so sure she wouldn't have gone along with it.

I decide to fill her in on the truth. "Your husband has apparently bet the 1921 Shadow Reserve case of bourbon in a game of high-stakes poker. He lost and now they want payment."

My mother scoffs in that imperious tone that only she can seem to carry. "That's ridiculous. Your father doesn't play poker. It's such a crass game."

"No offense, Mother, but I'm realizing these days that you don't really know the man at all. I'm sure you thought he would never try to kill Sylvie either."

My mother gasps, outrage in her tone. "He did not do that and it's a horrible accusation you've made."

There's no sense trying to talk sense into her. "Mother… I'm telling you that you have attached yourself to somebody who does not deserve your loyalty. If I were you, I would hire some protection. That man might come back and he might bring others with him."

I don't wait for her response but hang up, knowing I've done the only duty I'm required to do for her.

I step through the glass doors back into the exhibit hall lobby. The crowd is now pouring back in from Freedom Hall and the liquor booths are filling up. This gala will go on for several more hours, people getting drunk as only Kentuckians can do when free bourbon is being offered.

I scan the crowd for Kat, looking for that formfitting and sexy-as-hell dress she's wearing. The kiss we shared was scorching and while I don't like the fact that she had a physical effect on me, I'm absolutely triumphant that she felt the same. I saw it in her eyes. That woman was wound tight when my mouth lifted from hers and I wonder if I could get her into bed. Maybe nothing more than a hookup, but it would definitely take the edge off.

I don't see her, but there are a ton of gorgeous women around. Some I know, some I don't, any one of them I could have in my bed tonight.

Sadly… horrifically… I realize it's only Kat I want. She's not only the sexiest woman I have ever been with, we're cemented by the connection we once shared. For that glorious year, she was mine, and I have to admit it was the happiest time of my life. Losing her was the lowest.

But I've moved on and a hookup with the Hell Kat is a terrible idea. Besides, she's just as likely to cut off my balls as she is to stroke them. I need to leave the idea of Kat Blackburn far behind.

I do the next best thing and head back to the Mardraggon booth to finish my drink, knowing I'm going to order another.