Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

Gabe

W alking through the main floor of my home, I switch lights off as I prepare to go up to my bedroom. It's nowhere near bedtime and I still have a lot of work to do, but I have found the master suite to be extremely comfortable. I've taken to doing evening work sitting atop the big four-poster bed with my laptop propped before me. In the kitchen, I grab a bottle of water and in the pantry a bag of peanuts to snack on. My phone chimes in my pocket and I pull it out to see that Kat has texted again.

I ignore the beating of my pulse that happens every time I get a text, call or email from the woman. Over the past handful of days, we've settled into a routine that includes daily contact. If she's not asking questions about something she's read in the mountain of paperwork I've given her about the winery, she's reporting on Sylvie. This is extra special as she's doing so of her own accord, and it speaks to Kat's kind heart, despite years of hard feelings between us.

Today I've had a barrage of questions about what to pack for our trip, which occurs in four days. Sylvie gets out of school on Friday, and we're scheduled to load up on the Mardraggon jet Saturday morning.

I flip to the text thread and smile at Kat's question. Even though we're taking a private jet, I still need to bring my passport, correct?

Chuckling, I can't help but think it's utterly adorable that Kat knows nothing about international travel. It's not that I think she's unsophisticated in those ways because she comes from a very sophisticated family. It's just that those things have never been important to her before so she doesn't know about them. I grew up jetting all over the world and although Kat's family had the means to do that, all the Blackburn kids were working the farm probably from the time they could walk.

I set the water and peanuts down on the counter to free my hands for a reply. Yes. You need your passport. Still have to go through customs.

The three round dots indicate she's responding and I wait patiently.

Or rather impatiently.

You never know what you're going to get with our exchanges. Sometimes our texts can devolve quickly into an argument or we'll end up teasing each other like the days of old. It lends a thrill to our communications because together we are unpredictable as hell.

Her response is neither though: Thx.

Shrugging, I pocket my phone and reach for my snacks when the doorbell rings.

My eyes drift over to the digital clock on the built-in double oven and I see it's just after nine p.m. I've been expecting that doorbell to ring from the moment I arrived home a few hours ago and I even debated whether I would answer or ignore it when it finally happened.

But I'm not one to push my problems aside, so I've already planned out in my mind how this will go down.

Leaving the snack behind, I move through the kitchen that opens into the formal living area, which in turn leads into the foyer. I reach the double front doors and take a breath before grabbing the knob on the left and opening it, knowing damn well who's on the other side.

It's Tuesday night and as promised, Clinton Rafferty's goons are standing on the bottom step under the portico. They didn't pull their SUV underneath but rather left it sitting back farther in the driveway facing us, the headlights on and the engine running. It's the same two men who originally visited me a week ago—Kravitz and Bellamy—although I doubt those are their real names. The blond, Kravitz, was at the Spirits and Saddles Gala last week and he nods to me like we're old friends.

I don't open the door all the way but just enough that only half my body is visible to them with barely my head and chest sticking out. I hope my message is clear—I don't have any intention of engaging in a lengthy conversation and they're not coming inside my home. "I told you not to bother coming here, that it would be a waste of your time."

Kravitz flashes me a genial smile. "Yes, you did say that, just as I told you I was still coming. I feel I must again impress upon you the urgency by which you should turn over Mr. Rafferty's winnings. He's not known for his patience."

I'd looked up Clinton Rafferty and as expected, I learned that he's a well-respected businessman. Not a surprise—his standing in the business community makes it very easy to deny accusations he's sending thugs out to collect illegal poker winnings. The man was born and raised in Louisville, attended the University of Louisville where he earned a degree in business administration, which laid the groundwork for his future endeavors in the corporate world. I easily found online that he's the founder and CEO of Rafferty Holdings, a conglomerate with interests in a variety of sectors including real estate, hospitality and entertainment. Most of his money is in developing high-profile commercial properties and luxury residential units that have significantly contributed to urban revitalization projects across Louisville, making him a community hero of sorts. No one would ever dare think him capable of extortion and I'm sure he's confident enough that no one will ever buck under the threat of harm.

His high standing in the community also means he's got cops in his back pocket, which I'm confident is how he knew I was the one who turned in my father. That has not been made public yet although select friends and extended family know what I did.

I'm not his typical victim, though. "You can tell Mr. Rafferty to go fuck himself."

That does nothing to rattle either of the men and they both maintain bland smiles. "How about we come inside and discuss this matter?" Bellamy suggests.

I reach over to the baseball bat I had leaned against the wall on the right side of the door and hold it so it's visible. "I think we'll stay right where we are."

Kravitz chuckles as he eyeballs my weapon. "A baseball bat? Is that supposed to scare us?" He pulls aside his suit jacket, revealing a gun tucked in a chest holster. He doesn't need to say anything because his message is that the gun trumps the bat every time.

He's not wrong and I don't bother showing him the pistol I have tucked into the back waistband of my jeans. Instead, I give him a lackadaisical smile and toss the bat onto the ground at his feet. I reach behind the door one more time and grab the shotgun I'd leaned there previously. I open the left door completely and hold the gun across my body. "I've got more than a baseball bat. Take one step closer and you're going to see just how good of a shot I am."

Kravitz holds out his arms in the universal sign that he means no harm, which is a fucking lie. He laughs—an easy-going sound completely at odds with the seriousness of this meeting. "We're just here for what's ours because it's time to pay up. We'd like that to happen without things getting messy."

"I'm getting blue in the face repeating this but I'll say it again… the bourbon is not mine to give. It belongs to Mardraggon Enterprises. Even if it were mine to give, I'm not covering my father's debt. He's on his own." My voice is cold, steady, and there should be no doubt in their minds they're getting nowhere with me.

Bellamy steps forward, his face a hard mask of anger. "Mr. Rafferty won't be happy about this. He expects his winnings."

"And he can take that up with the entire board of directors if he wants. I'll even facilitate a meeting. He's not getting anything from me though."

Kravitz remains silent, a smirk on his face, but Bellamy is incensed I'm not quavering in fear. "You're making a big mistake. Mr. Rafferty isn't someone you want as an enemy."

"Neither am I," I retort, my voice firm as I shift the shotgun in my grip, emphasizing the urgency of my command. "Now, I am telling you to get off my property. I'm not sure if either of you have ever heard of the Castle Doctrine, but it gives me the right to defend my property with deadly force if necessary. However, rather than just shoot the two of you, I invited someone else over to make sure the message is clear you're not welcome here anymore."

Bellamy frowns and Kravitz tenses as someone melts out of the shadows from his right.

A Shelby County deputy sheriff. "Gentlemen, I'm Deputy Chris Parton. Mr. Mardraggon asked me to stop by as he anticipated you might come onto his property without permission. While he's well within his right to defend his ground, I'm hoping I can convince you gentlemen to leave peaceably."

I keep my expression passive but it's hard not to laugh at the disgruntled looks on both of the thugs' faces. I can see they're stunned that I'd actually call the police on them and I'm guessing Rafferty chooses his victims wisely. In other words, those who aren't going to fight against his collection efforts.

I'm not normally one who would run to the police for help with private matters, but Chris is my cousin on my mother's side. He happens to be off duty tonight but when I explained to him what was happening, he had no problem in slipping on his uniform to come over to lend an air of credibility that I'm not kidding when I say I won't be engaging with these people anymore.

It's my hope that Chris's authority will get the message back to Clinton Rafferty that I am not his way in to that debt my father owes.

For a moment, it looks like Bellamy might want to argue but Kravitz merely nods and takes a few steps back.

He looks to Chris and then to me. While his tone is polite, his eyes promise me that this is far from over. "Have a good evening, Mr. Mardraggon. I'm sure we'll run into each other again."

"I hope that's not a threat," Chris says.

Kravitz is cool as a cucumber, making him the more dangerous of the two men. He gives a slight bow toward my cousin. "Not at all, Deputy. Just being polite."

The men walk to the SUV and we watch as they back down the driveway, rather than pulling through the circular drive under the portico. It's well calculated so that we can't see their license plate.

Chris turns to me and we shake hands. "You all right?"

"Yeah, man. Thank you for coming. Hopefully that will be enough to keep them away."

Chris nods. "Hey listen… I'm really sorry about this mess with Lionel. Is Aunt Rosemund doing okay?"

"She's refusing to take any of this seriously. Has her head stuck in the sand. She doesn't believe the charges against him."

"You want me to give her a call?"

It's a nice offer. "That would be great. I've tried to warn her about these guys, but she doesn't believe they'll do anything. She doesn't understand the threat. She thinks they've moved on to me and she's probably right, but you never know."

Chris jerks his head down the driveway. "They pulled in straight and backed out so I couldn't see the license plate."

"Yeah, I thought about that. If they come back, I'll walk out there and look at it myself."

Chris frowns at me with worry. "Not a good idea. If they come back, don't answer the door. Just call us. Those guys had guns and I don't think they're afraid to use them."

"Not afraid to use mine either," I counter. "But I understand what you're saying."

Chris offers his hand and rather than shake it, we clasp briefly before pulling each other into a half hug. "I'm proud of you for turning Lionel in," he says. "That took guts. I know the Mardraggon side of your family likes to stick together."

Being from my mother's side, Chris has never been embroiled in the nasty underbelly of what it means to be a Mardraggon, but he's a local and knows what everyone else knows. Our loyalties run deep.

Except when my niece is threatened. "It was easy. There was really no choice in turning him in."

"I hear you. Just be careful with these goons." He throws his thumb over his shoulder. "I'll get going. Want to shoot clays sometime?"

"Absolutely. I'll text you and we'll set a date. I'm leaving for France for a business trip on Saturday but maybe the week after?"

"Let's do it."

Chris disappears around the corner of the house where a four-car garage sits and where I assume he parked his patrol car so it wouldn't be seen.

I head back inside, lock the door and set the alarm system. The exterior cameras recorded that entire exchange, not that I think it provides any proof of anything against Rafferty. I'm sure if this devolves, he'll deny knowing these men and they'll be ghosts in the wind. Criminals know a thing or two about loyalty as well.

Taking the shotgun and my pistol, I bypass returning them to the gun safe but rather carry them upstairs after collecting my water and peanuts.

Until this mess is resolved, the weapons will remain in proximity to me.