Grievous (Scarlet Scars #2)(64)

“You seem awfully concerned about a woman whose name you couldn’t even remember not long ago,” I point out.

“Yeah, well, you know how it goes,” he says. “I drew a blank. But I can’t help that I’ve got a soft spot and Lexie just happens to touch it.”

“They make a pill for that now,” I say. “Makes you harden the fuck up.”

He laughs. “I’ll be sure to bring that up to my doctor.”

Thankfully, Three stops chattering, the conversation dwindling back to silence. The drive to Queens feels like it takes forever, traffic light but my thoughts heavy, Aristov’s words bouncing around in the torture chamber I call my mind.

By the time I see my house again, I’m wound tight.

The last thing I want to do is deal with people right now, but my brother is home, in the living room with his girlfriend, cuddling on my couch. At least she’s not singing this time, I think, as I pause in the foyer, glancing in at them. Three leaves, while Seven follows me, like he might be afraid to leave me alone.

My brother’s eyes study me, looking all around me, like he’s hoping to see Scarlet. Disappointment flickers across his face when he realizes she’s not here, but he doesn’t express the sentiment out loud. Melody just lays there, her face pale and splotchy. She looks like she’s been crying. Not sure I’ve ever seen her without her face painted before.

Something tells me she’s not handling this well.

“If you need me, I’ll be in my library,” I say, not awaiting any response before walking away.

Seven follows but lingers in the doorway as I stroll over to the bookshelf along the wall, carefully setting the grenade down. I reach into my waistband next, pulling out my gun, setting it down on top of the metal case.

“You got my phone, Seven?” I ask, patting my empty pockets before I turn to him, holding out my hand. I know he’s got it. He usually does.

If it’s not in my possession, it’s in his.

Pulling the small black burner from his pocket, he approaches me, handing it right over. I lean back against the bookshelf, scrolling through the phone, finding no texts at all. As much as I’m not a talker, I’m even less of a texter, not a fan of leaving evidence of my words around. No paper trails. But being as we’re living in the age of technology, sometimes texts come in or go out, credit card balances and other bullshit. Unavoidable. Which means those messages got erased somewhere along the way—and not by accident, I’m guessing.

Look, I’m not exactly Nancy Drew here, but I can do basic math. Two plus two equals four, three is the square root of nine, and only one person has access to this phone as much as I do.

So while there might be room for reasonable doubt, this isn’t the court of law. If not me, then who? If it’s true, must be the person I entrust it to.

Slipping the phone in my pocket, I reach over, snatching up my gun. Before Seven can react, I’ve got it pressed against his chest, right around his heart. He tenses, eyes as wide as they’ll go. He looks horrified but not exactly surprised.

“Boss,” he says quietly, leaving it at that, not bothering to ask what this might be about. He fucking knows.

“I was reminded of something tonight,” I say. “Something that I damn near forgot.”

“What?”

“Even your shadow leaves you in the dark.”

My finger is on the trigger. It would be so easy to pull. Part of me wants to do it. Blow a hole in his fucking chest and watch him bleed out on my floor.

But I hear my brother’s voice in the living room, just down the hall, talking to his girlfriend, who already seems to be traumatized by this all.

Not that her mental state is a priority of mine, but having her play witness to a murder will probably break her beyond repair, and being as my brother seems to be fond of the girl, I’m trying to avoid that.

“Did you seriously think I wouldn’t find out?” I ask. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

He slowly shakes his head. “I knew you’d figure it out eventually.”

No denial.

No bullshit.

Just a straight up confession.

“So why would you do this?”

“Because,” he says, “Aristov was coming for my family, he’d been to my house, he’d talked to my wife, but you... I knew you’d just come for me. I had to protect them.”

I almost laugh when he says that. Almost. Would I kill his wife? Probably not. His kids? Doubtful. There’s no point to it. I’d get nothing out of it. But the simple fact that he’d go behind my back like this makes me want to slit all of their fucking throats just to spite him.

“Get out of my house,” I say. “You don’t get to be a martyr. Not on my watch. So go home to your wife, to your precious family, and go to sleep tonight knowing there’s a little girl out there somewhere, missing her mother... a mother who is chained up in a basement... because you’re a fucking coward.”

He takes a step back but hesitates, mouth opening and closing, like he wants to say something.

Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it.

“Get out!” I yell. “Now!”

He turns, his steps brisk, knowing I won’t tell him again. I can hear him leave, slamming the front door, and I just stand there, clutching the gun, staring at the space he occupied.