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Synopsis
The sizzling, darkly seductive saga continues with the Ravenhood Legacy's third installment. Here is the exhilarating. deeply emotional story of Tyler and Larissa...in his words.
NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED.
Tyler Carter Jennings is an enigma. Charged with the task of guarding the Ravenhood as well as every secret of those who belong to it, he keeps those burdens, along with his past and personal heartbreak, to himself. As a highly trained Marine and tactical reckoning force, there’s never been a situation he couldn’t handle . . . until her.
Larissa DiCicco is all too familiar with the weight of secrets and their consequences. A member of one of the most powerful and influential families in the world, she was just a teenager when her older brother disappeared. Charged with the responsibility of maintaining her family’s legacy, she has no choice but to seek refuge in the only man who may be able to help her escape her fate.
When Larissa and Tyler collide, they both recognize what powerful adversaries they are. And that losing their hearts to one another while sharing all they know might be the most damning and dangerous thing they’ve ever done . . .
Publisher: Kensington Books
Print pages: 364
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Birds of a Feather
Kate Stewart
US PRESIDENT: BARACK OBAMA | 2009–2017
Asheville, North Carolina
LYING ON MY stomach, feet kicked up behind me, I’m flipping a page of one of Mama’s outdated fashion magazines when the yelling starts—again. It’s been nearly every day for the last week. But it’s the way they’re arguing tonight that has me popping my head out of my bedroom. As their roars escalate, I creep up to peek over the mezzanine rail to see them in another standoff. This time, Ciro met Roc at the door—where they’re squared off now, screaming at the top of their lungs. Their war has been ongoing for some time, but somehow, I know this fight is different. I can feel it.
“You are no son of mine!” my father booms, his olive complexion reddening. “You have no respect!”
“And you’re a man to respect?” my older brother spits, tipping his chin up in a blatant sign of contempt. “You’re so fucking courageous that you dole out all of the orders and do none of the heavy lifting.”
Flinching, I pad toward the top of the stairs, remaining hidden in the shadows while bracing myself, knowing the turn this will take because of my brother’s posturing and words. Roc has never gone this far.
“I know who you are, what you are, and Nonno would be disgusted if he knew what you—”
The crack from my father’s backhand echoes up to me, and I flinch again as my brother’s laughter rings out in response to the blow. The fact that Roc used our grandfather against him—the one person Ciro DiCicco feared shaming up until his death—tells me all I need to know. That, and the fact that Roc’s venom is filled with an underlying threat, has me fearful that my brother might not survive this rebellion. It’s the menacing look in his eyes—his voice littered with hate—that has me bracing for the worst.
“What’s wrong, mostro?” Monster, Roc spits. “You don’t like the truth?”
“As if you have some ground to speak. You think I don’t know what you did to that girl last summer? I’m done cleaning up your messes. You’ve disgraced this family for the last time!”
“It’s your sick fucking blood that’s running through my veins. You sold your soul long ago—and ours! This family is cursed because of you. Keep your filthy fucking fortune and plagued name. You might have forced me to help you earn it, but I want no part of it.”
“That’s laughable,” Father scoffs. “How will you buy your drugs?”
“I would rather be a penniless drug addict than a replica of you!”
“Then go!” My father’s tone takes on the deadly edge he uses when he’s about to act in a way that can’t be undone. “As of now, you get no protection from the name you so despise. I would kill you myself if I weren’t certain you’re about to save me the fucking headache.”
Ciro delivers this in a way that strikes fear into the hearts of every man who crosses him before he turns his back with finality. It’s then that Roc’s eyes find mine. In his return gaze, I see it—he’s not coming back. As if in afterthought, Ciro reaches into his pocket and tosses a fortune in bills at Roc’s feet. “This should buy enough to rid me of you.” His following words send a cold chill down my spine. “If it doesn’t, you better make sure you crawl to an edge of the earth where I can’t reach you.”
The loose bills start to scatter when Roc cracks the front door, and Dad stalks toward his study. Roc continues to hold my gaze as I frantically shake my head, begging. He can’t leave. He won’t. He won’t leave us.
Seeming to read my thoughts, Roc breaks the stare and lowers his eyes to the dwindling pile of money before scooping just enough of the loose cash to not look like he took any. The rest scatters in the wind, along the foyer, trailing him outside the door before he slams it so hard that the glass surrounding it cracks. With it, so does my restraint. I swallow the bile that threatens as thunder rattles the walls of the house along with the wood floor beneath my bare feet.
Knowing what going after him will cost me, I take the first step down as Ignacio fearfully calls my name from behind his inch-open bedroom door. Turning, I aggressively shoo him back into his room. Panic wins as I take the stairs as quietly as I can and manage to clear my father’s line of sight. Just before I do, I catch a glimpse of Ciro where he sits in his study, staring into a roaring fire, before I hit the landing and quietly slip through the front door.
Rain pelts my neck and scalp as I race toward my brother, ignoring the pain from the sharp gravel digging into my bare feet as I call after him.
Glancing back, Roc stops at his driver’s door and, after spotting me, immediately begins to jerk his head back and forth in warning. “Go inside, sorellina,” little sister, “you know what will happen if he finds you out here.”
“Where will you go?”
Looking up, he scours the house, eyes darkening, expression tortured, as if the house itself represents everything that haunts and hurts him, when we both know it’s the man inside. The man he just bravely faced off with. “Anywhere but here.”
“When will you be back?” I ask, my lips trembling as I purposely press my feet into the sharp gravel to keep from crying. Emotional displays other than well-constructed hurled venom are considered a weakness in our family.
“I won’t.”
“You can’t leave us here!” I shriek, panic seizing me as he opens his car door. “Please don’t go,” I beg, tugging at his T-shirt as he stops and hangs his head. Turning to me, he bends and grips my shoulders.
“I have to, and you know why. Listen to me, Larissa. As soon as you get the chance, you get away from here, from him. Run as far and as fast as you can. For yourself and for Ignacio, don’t let him turn you into one of his monsters, okay?”
“But you’ll come back for us.” I search his eyes for any sign of hope as he tightens his grip on my shoulders.
“Promise me!” he bellows above the increasing wind and rain.
“Take us with you—”
“Promise me,” he grits through clenched teeth.
“I promise,” I utter as fear cripples me that I have no idea how to keep that vow. If he leaves, it will be an impossible feat.
“Go back inside before he finds you out here!” he shouts, but I continue to grip his arms as he tries gently to free himself. My fingernails drag over rough, raised skin as I fight to keep a hold on him. Looking down, I spot the bold edges of a heavily blackened tattoo, which wasn’t there the last time he was home. Thunder rattles the ground as I study it—the wings of a bird, a crow, I think—but it’s too dark to fully make out. Releasing my fingers, Roc gently pushes me away to gain space while I persistently beg him not to go. Once free, he slips into his car, and I call his name again, pounding on his driver’s window as he scans the house for long seconds. It’s the start of his engine that has me full-on screaming, uncaring of who might hear. This cry not going ignored when sorrow-filled, dark brown eyes meet mine through his window. I see it then. Whatever protectiveness he feels for me, for Ignacio, is not enough because, short seconds later, he’s spinning tires and speeding away. I watch on, absorbing the sight of his car as he bullets down the driveway and out of the gate. Not once slowing, his exit becomes purposeful and absolute.
Gone.
Rain soaks me as I stare after him for long minutes, praying he’ll change his mind and come racing back, both for Ignacio and for me. That he won’t be so selfish as to leave us to fend for ourselves in this hell. But it’s a foolish hope because I saw it in his expression—in his departure. All lingering hope disappears when the gates close. Locking me in. At the sight of it, a guttural cry bursts from me. At both the loss of him and what his permanent absence means.
Soaked through by the chilling rain, I turn back toward the house and freeze when I’m met by familiar sapphire eyes. Inside his return gaze swirls turbulent affirmation of the same knowledge. There’s no escaping my fate, and there’s nowhere to run. My brother’s betrayal makes each step back toward my damning fate even more grueling.
In my darkest moment, I curse my brother’s future to be just as tormented as the one he’s cursed me with.
Florida Coast
Three months ago
STRAPPED UP AND ready, sweat gliding down my back as a murky violet-gray dawn commences, the fading crescent moon peering down on us as the only witness. The birds begin their scattered songs as if all is right in the world. Despite the positioning of the men around me, there’s an unnatural stillness in the air—one I’ve become all too familiar with. I first noticed it during my missions overseas. It was just as present the morning Dom died.
This stillness is not at all a calm before the storm but an indication of the presence of evil.
That same awareness hit me hard just as we crept through the gate minutes ago, stealthily moving through the heavily manicured and whimsically deceptive grounds to surround the fortress. Duplicitous to the naked, untrained eye, the exterior looks like something out of a fairy tale—blooming wisteria hanging from archways of expensive wood, trickling fountains surrounded by flowering bushes—but that’s where the illusion ends, at least for me. Because I know the strategy behind this type of deceit in a way few others do, and what the pattern looks like. My enemies and I share a commonality in deception for the sole purpose of maintaining our secrets.
Thanks to Dom, I’ve been made privy to more of the secrets kept by our growing number of enemies. Thrust more thoroughly into the rabbit hole in the year and change since we’ve taken Antoine and his army down. Full credit to Dom’s torturous legwork; I’ve witnessed the countless evils that have taken place inside the walls of the mansion we’re surrounding. Walls covered with priceless art and highly polished marble floors flown in from Istanbul. The other extravagant expenses make up the fraudulent palace—the lie—which commands acknowledgment from those of lesser power. Those expected to bow to the owners, to receive and regard them as no less than the gods that these delusional fucks believe themselves to be. But for me, just inside the oversized oak doors, mere feet away, rests the very definition of evil.
Their crimes against humanity are plentiful, the most damning of them cementing my participation in this morning’s raid. With the lie-encircled secrets Dom left on his laptop for us to uncover along with his task list, he made us privy to the parties guilty of atrocities he had hopes of bringing to light, and for the possibility to both expose and dispose of these types of deity wannabes.
His older brother takes his place opposite me against the arched brick hallway just short of the mansion’s entrance. Tobias was insistent on participating today when I told him I would personally be overseeing the raid to take down these particular monsters.
Heaviness of what we’re about to do fills the still air, emanating throughout the space and bouncing from everyone occupying it. Though I feel every bit of said heavy rattling inside my head and chest, I continue to play my part and keep my vow to shield those I love and care about from the thoughts I’m having. A battle that started with my own time behind enemy lines and, more recently, the unveiling of Dom’s task list. A war Dom himself fought every day he kept the information in his mind and close to his chest.
The battle within me is raging daily now, along with my theory, which is rapidly threatening to solidify itself as fact—that we’re not enough.
That we have no fucking way of balancing the scales, let alone shifting their weight in our favor. That we have a very slim chance of winning the battles ahead, let alone the war.
What I suspected as a newly inked bird and budding soldier has become less a suspicion and more of an undeniable truth since I saw the evidence of just how easily this world can fall victim to the most depraved of minds.
The worst part? My dwindling desire to risk it all for a world that collectively seems to no longer give a fuck. Not about the damage they’re doing to each other, let alone anyone suffering at the hands of this type of evil.
Even so, I’ll continue to do my part. To try, as much as possible, to be a beacon of hope, even as my own diminishes. To convince those who are inked and fighting with me to believe that we have a chance of tipping those scales.
Daily, I think about the part my son recently signed up to play and wonder if he’s glimpsed the amount of doubt and fear growing inside me.
I’ve witnessed true evil in my time as a Raven and a soldier, and finally being able to fully combine both roles in these last years has been both freeing and damning.
As that initial high continues to wear off, the reality of what we’re up against has those hopes dwindling by the day because of the sheer amount of evil there is. Of how far it stretches, what it’s gotten away with so far, and for how long.
I was naïve.
We all have been, but I refuse to point that out to my brothers—especially Tobias, a man who’s worked his whole life to get to this point. In no way do I want to convey to him that we’re going to need more than just prime real estate in the White House to accomplish what we started so many years ago.
That truth weighs heavily on me as I study Tobias now, uncertain if I should go to him with this or if I should tell him at all. We’re doing what we can, and maybe it will be enough for him. Maybe it should be for me as well.
Deciding I can’t find it inside me to break this to him—at least not today—I do my best to briefly lighten the atmosphere as I take in his appearance.
“How did you already manage to scuff your shiny new boots?”
Tobias’s brows furrow in irritation as he glances down at his recently purchased, flawless black boots. It only takes a second for him to realize I’m busting his balls.
He rolls his eyes at me, lips lifting slightly in amusement as he mutters an “imbecile” under his breath. His choice of insult draws an instant ache from me, the French lilt around the word taking me back in time, more particularly to a face and image burned into memory. A sunny day in a former life. At times, it’s fucking torturous having a memory as vivid and as sharp as mine. Being unable to forget the details can, at times, be a cruel gift.
Thankfully, Russell distracts me, dispersing the image by tossing in his own commentary for Tobias over the line through our earpieces.
“You do look ridiculous, T,” Russell snarks. “Seriously, who in the fuck dresses up for a raid? Please tell me your hair isn’t combed back with product?”
“Fuck you,” Tobias mutters, clearly embarrassed by being called out, his expression riddled with admission. Because my bougie French brother did, in fact, slick his hair back with product as he dressed for a government raid. Well, technically, a special ops raid by a legitimate government organization that’s still highly classified. Something we’ve done our fucking best to protect in recent months with the amount of trash we’ve gathered and disposed of. We’ve made every effort imaginable to make sure none of it has been televised or reported in any way. At least not yet. We have a tactical plan for how we’re going to release the information and when. And only if forced. But since two or three of our raids have been leaked and televised—something that still has me fuming—we might not have a choice. These fuckers have ways of warning one another, and it doesn’t seem to matter how covert we are.
“My guess is he’s trying to camouflage the fact he’s gained the freshman twenty,” Russell coos.
“Isn’t it freshman fifteen?” I jest.
Tobias snaps his attention to me. “What is that? This freshman twenty?”
Shaking my head at my brother, I can’t help but marvel at just how un-Americanized Tobias is at times.
“The weight you gain when you get comfortable in a new relationship,” Russell happily supplies, and I can’t help but chuckle as Tobias palms his vest while craning his neck to check himself out.
“I wear the same pant size as I always have, connard,” asshole, he snaps.
“Doesn’t matter if you have a dicky-do.”
“Dicky-do?” Tobias poses as a question to me, but our mics are far too advanced to miss even a pin drop.
“It’s when your gut sticks out more than your dicky-do,” Russell quips in answer, pulling a laugh from everyone on the line.
“You still look good, baby,” I coo, giving him an air-kiss pucker of my lips, which earns me a death-threat return stare.
All traces of humor cease when two of our most trusted line up just outside the massive front doors, cueing us in that it’s showtime.
“For Dom.” I intentionally trigger every bird on the line into the heaviness of the moment to regain our collective focus. The shift is instant for Tobias, as his eyes blank out briefly before filling with a familiar determination and fury.
Our earbuds sound with Russell mimicking the same sentiment as he readies himself from where he sits in a control room hundreds of miles away. One of the few birds I made damn sure flew with me to DC just after Preston won the election. Now, a little over two years and change into what we can only hope is Preston’s first term, Russell has proven my demand to take him with me was a wise decision. My most recent request is for Peter to join the fray under Julien’s wing.
Within one slow blink, I clear every imaginable thought to conjure the pocket. A heartbeat later, I’m in the black, my tunnel vision at the ready. Every bit of my focus is sharp, intent on my mission as I mentally run through the blueprint of the minutes ahead. Looking past the faces of the men outside the door who search my person awaiting my signal, I summon the rage I’ve been harboring. A single hand gesture later, we splinter the doors and unleash hell.
“ATTACK HIM WHERE he is unprepared, appear where you are not expected.”
—Sun Tzu, The Art of War
US PRESIDENT: PRESTON MONROE | 2021–2029
SPRING 2022
Washington, DC
“IN THE LAST two months, numerous reports have been flooding the airwaves of what officials, government agencies, and media alike have deemed the most methodical retribution plot in US history. The common ties to each, substantial and indisputable evidence, which has perplexed authorities. Many reports have labeled this movement the ‘Smoking Gun.’”
Clicking off the rerun of this morning’s news on my cell, I take another sip of my coffee and eye the clock.
Two a.m.
I’m about to give up hope when I catch sight of the black SUV with government plates pulling up to the skyscraper. Straining from where I’m parked, I manage to glimpse him from my vantage point as he exits. His stoic posture shows no signs of the exhaustion I expected to see. He’s been next to impossible to keep tabs on recently, no doubt carrying out the details of his latest accomplishments, which are currently running on replay like wildfire through media outlets. Most of those reports streamed by their own channels, which make up FLEET Media.
He enters his apartment building, nodding to his doorman, who scans the area behind him. As predicted, he disappears into the building’s mailroom, which gives me seconds to make my decision.
A decision easily made because of his recent absence and his freshly aired good deeds, which have hastened the need for our long overdue introduction.
Thankfully, I’m one of very few who know where to look for him, which may be helpful if I can successfully access his audience.
My gut churns as I consider the magnitude of this undertaking. A gut I’ve been overlooking my whole life in lieu of carrying out orders and exceeding the expectations I’ve been burdened with—but this feeling I can no longer ignore. The stakes are too high, though the truth will only shackle us both and possibly tether us indefinitely. Though this is what I’ve been preparing for almost half my life. The question is, can I really trust this man?
If I’m wrong about him, it will be detrimental to my chances. At this point, my instincts tell me Tyler Jennings is the only person on this earth that I can trust, though gaining any reciprocal faith may be utterly impossible.
In a sense, I feel like I know him, but it’s become a sort of obsession to understand him over the years. Our secret lives are another commonality we share, but in entirely different respects, which makes this the riskiest decision I’ll ever make. It’s my desperation driving me now.
Though part of this is personal for me, it won’t be at all for him. To him, it will feel like a threat and an unwelcome invasion—a dangerous one at that. Finally having this conversation—this confrontation—means that any breath I take during our exchange and possibly after will be at his discretion.
This also means I’ll be voluntarily handing my fate over to another for the first time in my life. However, if I don’t come forward now, both of us will be on borrowed time. Self-preservation should be a priority for me—for most, it would be—but the fear of death has never taken too much residence in my life.
Though as I rattle in indecision while precious seconds tick by, I feel the trepidation in every fiber of my being. Sheltered is not at all a word I would use to describe my upbringing, but it is through that upbringing that I’ve been privileged not to know this feeling. Tragically true and fucking ironic—I’ve been protected by the very same entity that offers certain death. And by taking this step, I’ll change it all. This one act requires a bravery that I’ve never had to possess, and yet I feel it as the pendulum swings closer and closer, the ticking of time lowering its blade and scraping my scalp, which now prickles with awareness. My life is about to change drastically, for better or worse. It’s that awareness that has me out of my car and trailing him into his building.
Once inside and after executing my carefully mapped-out plan, I stand in wait, rattling with anticipation for the coming seconds.
Lurking just inside the hall next to the elevator, I ready myself before it dings and he steps out. Dressed to murder a woman’s libido in his tailored suit, his masculine, heady scent reaches me as he stalks out without so much as glancing my way. Stunned by the lack of reception, I soak in as much of his profile as I can as he passes me, completely at ease.
His glistening wingtips click against the floor, purpose in his stride, as if he’s about to start his day rather than end another as the right hand of the president. I’m dazed by his proximity and the comparison to how I imagine this would play out, and he finally breaks the silent standoff by speaking up first.
“Mind telling me how the fuck you got on my floor?” He asks this in a tone that borders on arrogance and is heavily laced with irritation.
“It wasn’t easy,” I admit honestly.
“Should have been impossible.”
“It damned near was.” Gripping the leather straps, I hide any hint of the shake in my hands by tightening the belt on my raincoat. “May I please speak with you?”
Stopped at his door, his phone buzzes in his hand, the sound heavily amplified in the vacant hallway. As he answers, he finally lifts his penetrating gaze to mine.
Jesus.
The shift in the air is instant, and my heart begins to thunder in my chest as he pins me with his unflinching return stare.
“Pretty fucking aware, I’m staring at her,” he snaps, eyes lazily rolling down my frame in a thorough sweep as he tries to place me and fails. He wouldn’t recognize me. Until tonight, I’ve never come closer than the length of a few city blocks.
He leans back against his front door, seeming to settle in for whatever entertainment this interlude will provide, ending his call and pocketing his phone as the elevator doors open behind me. Glancing back, I watch two men I don’t recognize from his security detail step out, and I brace myself before addressing him again. “Tyler, please, just give me five minutes.”
Seconds tick by as he glowers at the suit-clad giants at my back, who, by their grip on me, are more than pissed I managed to get past them. From the unforgiving expression on Tyler’s face, I have no doubt they’re ready to drag me out of the building and not so nicely dispose of me.
“Sorry, sir,” one of the suits says, “she passed the preliminary check and was very convincing.” He nods toward me. “We’re happy to escort her from the building.”
“Tyler, please don’t be unkind. I only want a conversation,” I utter softly, using the best keyword I can to convey the nature of my business with him. Conspiracy is way too obvious, and it’s idiotic to assume that everyone in his employ is aware of where all his alliances lie.
Tyler’s expression doesn’t change despite my use of the word as he clips out, “I’ll handle it.”
“She was checked at the door,” one of them says, releasing his grip on me while letting Tyler know I’m unarmed.
Feeling the twin glares at my back as the elevator doors close behind me, Tyler lifts his chin, prompting me to approach. Turned now and facing me fully, he scrutinizes me deeply as I near, heels clicking on the immaculately polished marble floor. I’m nervous, and it’s apparent, though I don’t fucking like it.
My instilled resolve batters me in that I cower for no man under no circumstance, but maybe witnessing some vulnerability from within me will help my case with him. Then again, if I turn back now, I can go back to my life as I once knew it. It’s the idea of what that future will entail if I do that has me hastening my steps toward him as the salvation he could very well be.
When his phone buzzes again, he pulls it out and lifts a finger at me, halting my advance on him.
“Jennings,” he clips into the mouthpiece, his eyes scouring me curiously.
Stopped a few feet away, I soak in his details up close for the first time—thick brown hair the color of coffee splashed with cream. I imagine his eyes, impenetrably bronze at present, would be a warmer brown under different circumstances. It’s his arresting bone structure that truly sets him apart. That and his crimson-stained lips. The small white scar on his chin interrupts the darker tone of his skin, its tint seemingly natural, which could only be earned by hours in the sun. I assess all of this in a matter of seconds.
Getting this close to him in this capacity is a minor miracle within itself—not that I’m incapable of garnering any audience of my choosing on any given day. It’s just the nature of this interaction that changes my position and, pathetically, has me at his mercy. With some submission may come liberation and a chance to take control of my future, my path, and on my terms.
A chance I may never get again, but one I gained through the small window I created due to my sharp observations while conducting surveillance.
If it wasn’t for his needy tenant, I would never have gotten into the building in the first place. Taking note of the placement of the cameras as he ends his call—which only consists of him listening—I gesture toward his door. “I don’t think we should converse out here.”
“Well, here is where you cornered me, and why is that?”
“I prefer we’re in a more private place when we properly introduce ourselves.” I lift my chin toward the cameras.
He tilts his head, eyes calculating, before a slow, amused smile lifts his lips. “And just what kind of introduction do you see happening?”
Doing my best not to roll my eyes, I erase the last of the space and spill my first confession. “I know.”
“Know what exactly?” His tone has changed somewhat, his lilt slightly playful, eyes twinkling and evaluating as if he’s … considering me?
“Everything you don’t want me to,” I whisper.
“Is that so?” He thoroughly rakes my person again, not bothering to mask his increasing amusement. “And what is it you don’t think I want you to know?”
“Tyler … I know who you are.”
He bulges his eyes animatedly. “Congratulations.”
“Okay, let’s put it this way: I know what you are.”
“And what exactly am I?” He dips his head to make up for our height difference, his eyes scorching a line from my throat to my lips and back to my eyes.
Unflinching, I stare back, utterly confused at the sudden change in his reception. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude or unkind,” I repeat for emphasis, “but it’s imperative I speak with you privately.”
“Sure it is, sweetheart,” he muses, raking his lower lip with his teeth as he considers me again. “Arrogant prick,” he utters in a whisper that I’m certain he didn’t mean for me to hear. A long silence ensues before a sloppy smile appears, along with a dimple.
“Why the hell not,” he chuckles before turning, tapping his keycard, and unlocking his door. Stepping in, he stops just inside his entryway for me to follow. The second I clear the threshold, I’m pinned to the back of his door.
ASURPRISED GASP LEAVES me as my jacket is ripped open and my modesty is stripped from me entirely. Within an inhale, all six feet—maybe an inch or two more—of him blankets me while palming my lace leotard–covered body. His eyes light fire, and I instantly become scorched earth as he drinks me in unabashedly.
“Jesus fuck, you’re cruel perfection,?
Asheville, North Carolina
LYING ON MY stomach, feet kicked up behind me, I’m flipping a page of one of Mama’s outdated fashion magazines when the yelling starts—again. It’s been nearly every day for the last week. But it’s the way they’re arguing tonight that has me popping my head out of my bedroom. As their roars escalate, I creep up to peek over the mezzanine rail to see them in another standoff. This time, Ciro met Roc at the door—where they’re squared off now, screaming at the top of their lungs. Their war has been ongoing for some time, but somehow, I know this fight is different. I can feel it.
“You are no son of mine!” my father booms, his olive complexion reddening. “You have no respect!”
“And you’re a man to respect?” my older brother spits, tipping his chin up in a blatant sign of contempt. “You’re so fucking courageous that you dole out all of the orders and do none of the heavy lifting.”
Flinching, I pad toward the top of the stairs, remaining hidden in the shadows while bracing myself, knowing the turn this will take because of my brother’s posturing and words. Roc has never gone this far.
“I know who you are, what you are, and Nonno would be disgusted if he knew what you—”
The crack from my father’s backhand echoes up to me, and I flinch again as my brother’s laughter rings out in response to the blow. The fact that Roc used our grandfather against him—the one person Ciro DiCicco feared shaming up until his death—tells me all I need to know. That, and the fact that Roc’s venom is filled with an underlying threat, has me fearful that my brother might not survive this rebellion. It’s the menacing look in his eyes—his voice littered with hate—that has me bracing for the worst.
“What’s wrong, mostro?” Monster, Roc spits. “You don’t like the truth?”
“As if you have some ground to speak. You think I don’t know what you did to that girl last summer? I’m done cleaning up your messes. You’ve disgraced this family for the last time!”
“It’s your sick fucking blood that’s running through my veins. You sold your soul long ago—and ours! This family is cursed because of you. Keep your filthy fucking fortune and plagued name. You might have forced me to help you earn it, but I want no part of it.”
“That’s laughable,” Father scoffs. “How will you buy your drugs?”
“I would rather be a penniless drug addict than a replica of you!”
“Then go!” My father’s tone takes on the deadly edge he uses when he’s about to act in a way that can’t be undone. “As of now, you get no protection from the name you so despise. I would kill you myself if I weren’t certain you’re about to save me the fucking headache.”
Ciro delivers this in a way that strikes fear into the hearts of every man who crosses him before he turns his back with finality. It’s then that Roc’s eyes find mine. In his return gaze, I see it—he’s not coming back. As if in afterthought, Ciro reaches into his pocket and tosses a fortune in bills at Roc’s feet. “This should buy enough to rid me of you.” His following words send a cold chill down my spine. “If it doesn’t, you better make sure you crawl to an edge of the earth where I can’t reach you.”
The loose bills start to scatter when Roc cracks the front door, and Dad stalks toward his study. Roc continues to hold my gaze as I frantically shake my head, begging. He can’t leave. He won’t. He won’t leave us.
Seeming to read my thoughts, Roc breaks the stare and lowers his eyes to the dwindling pile of money before scooping just enough of the loose cash to not look like he took any. The rest scatters in the wind, along the foyer, trailing him outside the door before he slams it so hard that the glass surrounding it cracks. With it, so does my restraint. I swallow the bile that threatens as thunder rattles the walls of the house along with the wood floor beneath my bare feet.
Knowing what going after him will cost me, I take the first step down as Ignacio fearfully calls my name from behind his inch-open bedroom door. Turning, I aggressively shoo him back into his room. Panic wins as I take the stairs as quietly as I can and manage to clear my father’s line of sight. Just before I do, I catch a glimpse of Ciro where he sits in his study, staring into a roaring fire, before I hit the landing and quietly slip through the front door.
Rain pelts my neck and scalp as I race toward my brother, ignoring the pain from the sharp gravel digging into my bare feet as I call after him.
Glancing back, Roc stops at his driver’s door and, after spotting me, immediately begins to jerk his head back and forth in warning. “Go inside, sorellina,” little sister, “you know what will happen if he finds you out here.”
“Where will you go?”
Looking up, he scours the house, eyes darkening, expression tortured, as if the house itself represents everything that haunts and hurts him, when we both know it’s the man inside. The man he just bravely faced off with. “Anywhere but here.”
“When will you be back?” I ask, my lips trembling as I purposely press my feet into the sharp gravel to keep from crying. Emotional displays other than well-constructed hurled venom are considered a weakness in our family.
“I won’t.”
“You can’t leave us here!” I shriek, panic seizing me as he opens his car door. “Please don’t go,” I beg, tugging at his T-shirt as he stops and hangs his head. Turning to me, he bends and grips my shoulders.
“I have to, and you know why. Listen to me, Larissa. As soon as you get the chance, you get away from here, from him. Run as far and as fast as you can. For yourself and for Ignacio, don’t let him turn you into one of his monsters, okay?”
“But you’ll come back for us.” I search his eyes for any sign of hope as he tightens his grip on my shoulders.
“Promise me!” he bellows above the increasing wind and rain.
“Take us with you—”
“Promise me,” he grits through clenched teeth.
“I promise,” I utter as fear cripples me that I have no idea how to keep that vow. If he leaves, it will be an impossible feat.
“Go back inside before he finds you out here!” he shouts, but I continue to grip his arms as he tries gently to free himself. My fingernails drag over rough, raised skin as I fight to keep a hold on him. Looking down, I spot the bold edges of a heavily blackened tattoo, which wasn’t there the last time he was home. Thunder rattles the ground as I study it—the wings of a bird, a crow, I think—but it’s too dark to fully make out. Releasing my fingers, Roc gently pushes me away to gain space while I persistently beg him not to go. Once free, he slips into his car, and I call his name again, pounding on his driver’s window as he scans the house for long seconds. It’s the start of his engine that has me full-on screaming, uncaring of who might hear. This cry not going ignored when sorrow-filled, dark brown eyes meet mine through his window. I see it then. Whatever protectiveness he feels for me, for Ignacio, is not enough because, short seconds later, he’s spinning tires and speeding away. I watch on, absorbing the sight of his car as he bullets down the driveway and out of the gate. Not once slowing, his exit becomes purposeful and absolute.
Gone.
Rain soaks me as I stare after him for long minutes, praying he’ll change his mind and come racing back, both for Ignacio and for me. That he won’t be so selfish as to leave us to fend for ourselves in this hell. But it’s a foolish hope because I saw it in his expression—in his departure. All lingering hope disappears when the gates close. Locking me in. At the sight of it, a guttural cry bursts from me. At both the loss of him and what his permanent absence means.
Soaked through by the chilling rain, I turn back toward the house and freeze when I’m met by familiar sapphire eyes. Inside his return gaze swirls turbulent affirmation of the same knowledge. There’s no escaping my fate, and there’s nowhere to run. My brother’s betrayal makes each step back toward my damning fate even more grueling.
In my darkest moment, I curse my brother’s future to be just as tormented as the one he’s cursed me with.
Florida Coast
Three months ago
STRAPPED UP AND ready, sweat gliding down my back as a murky violet-gray dawn commences, the fading crescent moon peering down on us as the only witness. The birds begin their scattered songs as if all is right in the world. Despite the positioning of the men around me, there’s an unnatural stillness in the air—one I’ve become all too familiar with. I first noticed it during my missions overseas. It was just as present the morning Dom died.
This stillness is not at all a calm before the storm but an indication of the presence of evil.
That same awareness hit me hard just as we crept through the gate minutes ago, stealthily moving through the heavily manicured and whimsically deceptive grounds to surround the fortress. Duplicitous to the naked, untrained eye, the exterior looks like something out of a fairy tale—blooming wisteria hanging from archways of expensive wood, trickling fountains surrounded by flowering bushes—but that’s where the illusion ends, at least for me. Because I know the strategy behind this type of deceit in a way few others do, and what the pattern looks like. My enemies and I share a commonality in deception for the sole purpose of maintaining our secrets.
Thanks to Dom, I’ve been made privy to more of the secrets kept by our growing number of enemies. Thrust more thoroughly into the rabbit hole in the year and change since we’ve taken Antoine and his army down. Full credit to Dom’s torturous legwork; I’ve witnessed the countless evils that have taken place inside the walls of the mansion we’re surrounding. Walls covered with priceless art and highly polished marble floors flown in from Istanbul. The other extravagant expenses make up the fraudulent palace—the lie—which commands acknowledgment from those of lesser power. Those expected to bow to the owners, to receive and regard them as no less than the gods that these delusional fucks believe themselves to be. But for me, just inside the oversized oak doors, mere feet away, rests the very definition of evil.
Their crimes against humanity are plentiful, the most damning of them cementing my participation in this morning’s raid. With the lie-encircled secrets Dom left on his laptop for us to uncover along with his task list, he made us privy to the parties guilty of atrocities he had hopes of bringing to light, and for the possibility to both expose and dispose of these types of deity wannabes.
His older brother takes his place opposite me against the arched brick hallway just short of the mansion’s entrance. Tobias was insistent on participating today when I told him I would personally be overseeing the raid to take down these particular monsters.
Heaviness of what we’re about to do fills the still air, emanating throughout the space and bouncing from everyone occupying it. Though I feel every bit of said heavy rattling inside my head and chest, I continue to play my part and keep my vow to shield those I love and care about from the thoughts I’m having. A battle that started with my own time behind enemy lines and, more recently, the unveiling of Dom’s task list. A war Dom himself fought every day he kept the information in his mind and close to his chest.
The battle within me is raging daily now, along with my theory, which is rapidly threatening to solidify itself as fact—that we’re not enough.
That we have no fucking way of balancing the scales, let alone shifting their weight in our favor. That we have a very slim chance of winning the battles ahead, let alone the war.
What I suspected as a newly inked bird and budding soldier has become less a suspicion and more of an undeniable truth since I saw the evidence of just how easily this world can fall victim to the most depraved of minds.
The worst part? My dwindling desire to risk it all for a world that collectively seems to no longer give a fuck. Not about the damage they’re doing to each other, let alone anyone suffering at the hands of this type of evil.
Even so, I’ll continue to do my part. To try, as much as possible, to be a beacon of hope, even as my own diminishes. To convince those who are inked and fighting with me to believe that we have a chance of tipping those scales.
Daily, I think about the part my son recently signed up to play and wonder if he’s glimpsed the amount of doubt and fear growing inside me.
I’ve witnessed true evil in my time as a Raven and a soldier, and finally being able to fully combine both roles in these last years has been both freeing and damning.
As that initial high continues to wear off, the reality of what we’re up against has those hopes dwindling by the day because of the sheer amount of evil there is. Of how far it stretches, what it’s gotten away with so far, and for how long.
I was naïve.
We all have been, but I refuse to point that out to my brothers—especially Tobias, a man who’s worked his whole life to get to this point. In no way do I want to convey to him that we’re going to need more than just prime real estate in the White House to accomplish what we started so many years ago.
That truth weighs heavily on me as I study Tobias now, uncertain if I should go to him with this or if I should tell him at all. We’re doing what we can, and maybe it will be enough for him. Maybe it should be for me as well.
Deciding I can’t find it inside me to break this to him—at least not today—I do my best to briefly lighten the atmosphere as I take in his appearance.
“How did you already manage to scuff your shiny new boots?”
Tobias’s brows furrow in irritation as he glances down at his recently purchased, flawless black boots. It only takes a second for him to realize I’m busting his balls.
He rolls his eyes at me, lips lifting slightly in amusement as he mutters an “imbecile” under his breath. His choice of insult draws an instant ache from me, the French lilt around the word taking me back in time, more particularly to a face and image burned into memory. A sunny day in a former life. At times, it’s fucking torturous having a memory as vivid and as sharp as mine. Being unable to forget the details can, at times, be a cruel gift.
Thankfully, Russell distracts me, dispersing the image by tossing in his own commentary for Tobias over the line through our earpieces.
“You do look ridiculous, T,” Russell snarks. “Seriously, who in the fuck dresses up for a raid? Please tell me your hair isn’t combed back with product?”
“Fuck you,” Tobias mutters, clearly embarrassed by being called out, his expression riddled with admission. Because my bougie French brother did, in fact, slick his hair back with product as he dressed for a government raid. Well, technically, a special ops raid by a legitimate government organization that’s still highly classified. Something we’ve done our fucking best to protect in recent months with the amount of trash we’ve gathered and disposed of. We’ve made every effort imaginable to make sure none of it has been televised or reported in any way. At least not yet. We have a tactical plan for how we’re going to release the information and when. And only if forced. But since two or three of our raids have been leaked and televised—something that still has me fuming—we might not have a choice. These fuckers have ways of warning one another, and it doesn’t seem to matter how covert we are.
“My guess is he’s trying to camouflage the fact he’s gained the freshman twenty,” Russell coos.
“Isn’t it freshman fifteen?” I jest.
Tobias snaps his attention to me. “What is that? This freshman twenty?”
Shaking my head at my brother, I can’t help but marvel at just how un-Americanized Tobias is at times.
“The weight you gain when you get comfortable in a new relationship,” Russell happily supplies, and I can’t help but chuckle as Tobias palms his vest while craning his neck to check himself out.
“I wear the same pant size as I always have, connard,” asshole, he snaps.
“Doesn’t matter if you have a dicky-do.”
“Dicky-do?” Tobias poses as a question to me, but our mics are far too advanced to miss even a pin drop.
“It’s when your gut sticks out more than your dicky-do,” Russell quips in answer, pulling a laugh from everyone on the line.
“You still look good, baby,” I coo, giving him an air-kiss pucker of my lips, which earns me a death-threat return stare.
All traces of humor cease when two of our most trusted line up just outside the massive front doors, cueing us in that it’s showtime.
“For Dom.” I intentionally trigger every bird on the line into the heaviness of the moment to regain our collective focus. The shift is instant for Tobias, as his eyes blank out briefly before filling with a familiar determination and fury.
Our earbuds sound with Russell mimicking the same sentiment as he readies himself from where he sits in a control room hundreds of miles away. One of the few birds I made damn sure flew with me to DC just after Preston won the election. Now, a little over two years and change into what we can only hope is Preston’s first term, Russell has proven my demand to take him with me was a wise decision. My most recent request is for Peter to join the fray under Julien’s wing.
Within one slow blink, I clear every imaginable thought to conjure the pocket. A heartbeat later, I’m in the black, my tunnel vision at the ready. Every bit of my focus is sharp, intent on my mission as I mentally run through the blueprint of the minutes ahead. Looking past the faces of the men outside the door who search my person awaiting my signal, I summon the rage I’ve been harboring. A single hand gesture later, we splinter the doors and unleash hell.
“ATTACK HIM WHERE he is unprepared, appear where you are not expected.”
—Sun Tzu, The Art of War
US PRESIDENT: PRESTON MONROE | 2021–2029
SPRING 2022
Washington, DC
“IN THE LAST two months, numerous reports have been flooding the airwaves of what officials, government agencies, and media alike have deemed the most methodical retribution plot in US history. The common ties to each, substantial and indisputable evidence, which has perplexed authorities. Many reports have labeled this movement the ‘Smoking Gun.’”
Clicking off the rerun of this morning’s news on my cell, I take another sip of my coffee and eye the clock.
Two a.m.
I’m about to give up hope when I catch sight of the black SUV with government plates pulling up to the skyscraper. Straining from where I’m parked, I manage to glimpse him from my vantage point as he exits. His stoic posture shows no signs of the exhaustion I expected to see. He’s been next to impossible to keep tabs on recently, no doubt carrying out the details of his latest accomplishments, which are currently running on replay like wildfire through media outlets. Most of those reports streamed by their own channels, which make up FLEET Media.
He enters his apartment building, nodding to his doorman, who scans the area behind him. As predicted, he disappears into the building’s mailroom, which gives me seconds to make my decision.
A decision easily made because of his recent absence and his freshly aired good deeds, which have hastened the need for our long overdue introduction.
Thankfully, I’m one of very few who know where to look for him, which may be helpful if I can successfully access his audience.
My gut churns as I consider the magnitude of this undertaking. A gut I’ve been overlooking my whole life in lieu of carrying out orders and exceeding the expectations I’ve been burdened with—but this feeling I can no longer ignore. The stakes are too high, though the truth will only shackle us both and possibly tether us indefinitely. Though this is what I’ve been preparing for almost half my life. The question is, can I really trust this man?
If I’m wrong about him, it will be detrimental to my chances. At this point, my instincts tell me Tyler Jennings is the only person on this earth that I can trust, though gaining any reciprocal faith may be utterly impossible.
In a sense, I feel like I know him, but it’s become a sort of obsession to understand him over the years. Our secret lives are another commonality we share, but in entirely different respects, which makes this the riskiest decision I’ll ever make. It’s my desperation driving me now.
Though part of this is personal for me, it won’t be at all for him. To him, it will feel like a threat and an unwelcome invasion—a dangerous one at that. Finally having this conversation—this confrontation—means that any breath I take during our exchange and possibly after will be at his discretion.
This also means I’ll be voluntarily handing my fate over to another for the first time in my life. However, if I don’t come forward now, both of us will be on borrowed time. Self-preservation should be a priority for me—for most, it would be—but the fear of death has never taken too much residence in my life.
Though as I rattle in indecision while precious seconds tick by, I feel the trepidation in every fiber of my being. Sheltered is not at all a word I would use to describe my upbringing, but it is through that upbringing that I’ve been privileged not to know this feeling. Tragically true and fucking ironic—I’ve been protected by the very same entity that offers certain death. And by taking this step, I’ll change it all. This one act requires a bravery that I’ve never had to possess, and yet I feel it as the pendulum swings closer and closer, the ticking of time lowering its blade and scraping my scalp, which now prickles with awareness. My life is about to change drastically, for better or worse. It’s that awareness that has me out of my car and trailing him into his building.
Once inside and after executing my carefully mapped-out plan, I stand in wait, rattling with anticipation for the coming seconds.
Lurking just inside the hall next to the elevator, I ready myself before it dings and he steps out. Dressed to murder a woman’s libido in his tailored suit, his masculine, heady scent reaches me as he stalks out without so much as glancing my way. Stunned by the lack of reception, I soak in as much of his profile as I can as he passes me, completely at ease.
His glistening wingtips click against the floor, purpose in his stride, as if he’s about to start his day rather than end another as the right hand of the president. I’m dazed by his proximity and the comparison to how I imagine this would play out, and he finally breaks the silent standoff by speaking up first.
“Mind telling me how the fuck you got on my floor?” He asks this in a tone that borders on arrogance and is heavily laced with irritation.
“It wasn’t easy,” I admit honestly.
“Should have been impossible.”
“It damned near was.” Gripping the leather straps, I hide any hint of the shake in my hands by tightening the belt on my raincoat. “May I please speak with you?”
Stopped at his door, his phone buzzes in his hand, the sound heavily amplified in the vacant hallway. As he answers, he finally lifts his penetrating gaze to mine.
Jesus.
The shift in the air is instant, and my heart begins to thunder in my chest as he pins me with his unflinching return stare.
“Pretty fucking aware, I’m staring at her,” he snaps, eyes lazily rolling down my frame in a thorough sweep as he tries to place me and fails. He wouldn’t recognize me. Until tonight, I’ve never come closer than the length of a few city blocks.
He leans back against his front door, seeming to settle in for whatever entertainment this interlude will provide, ending his call and pocketing his phone as the elevator doors open behind me. Glancing back, I watch two men I don’t recognize from his security detail step out, and I brace myself before addressing him again. “Tyler, please, just give me five minutes.”
Seconds tick by as he glowers at the suit-clad giants at my back, who, by their grip on me, are more than pissed I managed to get past them. From the unforgiving expression on Tyler’s face, I have no doubt they’re ready to drag me out of the building and not so nicely dispose of me.
“Sorry, sir,” one of the suits says, “she passed the preliminary check and was very convincing.” He nods toward me. “We’re happy to escort her from the building.”
“Tyler, please don’t be unkind. I only want a conversation,” I utter softly, using the best keyword I can to convey the nature of my business with him. Conspiracy is way too obvious, and it’s idiotic to assume that everyone in his employ is aware of where all his alliances lie.
Tyler’s expression doesn’t change despite my use of the word as he clips out, “I’ll handle it.”
“She was checked at the door,” one of them says, releasing his grip on me while letting Tyler know I’m unarmed.
Feeling the twin glares at my back as the elevator doors close behind me, Tyler lifts his chin, prompting me to approach. Turned now and facing me fully, he scrutinizes me deeply as I near, heels clicking on the immaculately polished marble floor. I’m nervous, and it’s apparent, though I don’t fucking like it.
My instilled resolve batters me in that I cower for no man under no circumstance, but maybe witnessing some vulnerability from within me will help my case with him. Then again, if I turn back now, I can go back to my life as I once knew it. It’s the idea of what that future will entail if I do that has me hastening my steps toward him as the salvation he could very well be.
When his phone buzzes again, he pulls it out and lifts a finger at me, halting my advance on him.
“Jennings,” he clips into the mouthpiece, his eyes scouring me curiously.
Stopped a few feet away, I soak in his details up close for the first time—thick brown hair the color of coffee splashed with cream. I imagine his eyes, impenetrably bronze at present, would be a warmer brown under different circumstances. It’s his arresting bone structure that truly sets him apart. That and his crimson-stained lips. The small white scar on his chin interrupts the darker tone of his skin, its tint seemingly natural, which could only be earned by hours in the sun. I assess all of this in a matter of seconds.
Getting this close to him in this capacity is a minor miracle within itself—not that I’m incapable of garnering any audience of my choosing on any given day. It’s just the nature of this interaction that changes my position and, pathetically, has me at his mercy. With some submission may come liberation and a chance to take control of my future, my path, and on my terms.
A chance I may never get again, but one I gained through the small window I created due to my sharp observations while conducting surveillance.
If it wasn’t for his needy tenant, I would never have gotten into the building in the first place. Taking note of the placement of the cameras as he ends his call—which only consists of him listening—I gesture toward his door. “I don’t think we should converse out here.”
“Well, here is where you cornered me, and why is that?”
“I prefer we’re in a more private place when we properly introduce ourselves.” I lift my chin toward the cameras.
He tilts his head, eyes calculating, before a slow, amused smile lifts his lips. “And just what kind of introduction do you see happening?”
Doing my best not to roll my eyes, I erase the last of the space and spill my first confession. “I know.”
“Know what exactly?” His tone has changed somewhat, his lilt slightly playful, eyes twinkling and evaluating as if he’s … considering me?
“Everything you don’t want me to,” I whisper.
“Is that so?” He thoroughly rakes my person again, not bothering to mask his increasing amusement. “And what is it you don’t think I want you to know?”
“Tyler … I know who you are.”
He bulges his eyes animatedly. “Congratulations.”
“Okay, let’s put it this way: I know what you are.”
“And what exactly am I?” He dips his head to make up for our height difference, his eyes scorching a line from my throat to my lips and back to my eyes.
Unflinching, I stare back, utterly confused at the sudden change in his reception. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude or unkind,” I repeat for emphasis, “but it’s imperative I speak with you privately.”
“Sure it is, sweetheart,” he muses, raking his lower lip with his teeth as he considers me again. “Arrogant prick,” he utters in a whisper that I’m certain he didn’t mean for me to hear. A long silence ensues before a sloppy smile appears, along with a dimple.
“Why the hell not,” he chuckles before turning, tapping his keycard, and unlocking his door. Stepping in, he stops just inside his entryway for me to follow. The second I clear the threshold, I’m pinned to the back of his door.
ASURPRISED GASP LEAVES me as my jacket is ripped open and my modesty is stripped from me entirely. Within an inhale, all six feet—maybe an inch or two more—of him blankets me while palming my lace leotard–covered body. His eyes light fire, and I instantly become scorched earth as he drinks me in unabashedly.
“Jesus fuck, you’re cruel perfection,?
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