Oaths and Omissions (Monsters & Muses #3)(12)

When my father died, ownership of the pub—and his criminal dealings—was passed along to me, though I lost the plot a bit when my stint in jail threatened everything the Wolfe family had spent centuries building.

Luckily, a man known to be far more dangerous than me decided to have mercy, for once in his life. He bailed me out, got my sentence reduced, and rescued the pub before it could be collected in civil assets forfeiture.

Unfortunately, that meant I owed the man, and I don’t like debts. So, for years I worked as Dr. Kal Anderson’s associate, part fixer and part private investigator, while he figured out a way to extract himself from the Mafia.

Eventually, he did—by stealing his don’s daughter and forcing her to marry him.

But that’s not my story to tell.

In the five years since, I’ve never seen the bloke happier. Or, as happy as he allows himself to appear in public.

Even now, sitting in the booth across from me sipping a Jack and Coke, his features are drawn and guarded, his black hair swept back neatly over his head while his dark eyes scan the article in front of him.

The black trench coat he wears and his permanent scowl make him look like the formidable god of the underworld that everyone sees him as. But there’s a softness to him, too. Something gentler, or less irritable as the pub music pulses around us, that wasn’t present before he got married.

You’d never guess the man has a young wife and two kids at home by just looking at him, but after being his closest—and only—confidant for most of my adult life, I can certainly see the signs.

Kal Anderson is happy, and he bloody well deserves it.

Setting his glass on the wooden table, he throws an arm over the back of the red leather booth, looking up at me. “So, the party was a success, I take it?”

I cock an eyebrow. “Tom Primrose is still alive, isn’t he?”

“We both know that isn’t going to last, if the message you left in his garage is any indication.” Tapping the edge of the article, he shrugs. “Couldn’t have been all bad if you found time to cover up a crime for someone else.”

My chest tightens, and I blow out a breath, reaching for the cigar resting by my elbow. Taking a slow puff, I let the smoke fill my lungs before releasing it slowly, watching it billow up in front of us.

“What do you mean?”

He gives me a pointed look. “Man found hanging in the Primrose family’s garage, even though no one saw him leave the main house? That has you written all over it.”

“Right. So, why a cover-up?”

“Multiple lacerations to the face and scalp, as well as a likely fatal one to the throat.” He rubs his chin with his palm. “You don’t leave that many variations of trauma for the public to see. Either you’re sending a message or covering something up.”

“Can’t it be both?”

Palming his drink, he brings it to his lips, nodding as he gulps the amber liquid down. “I guess, but that still begs the question: why? You were in Tom’s house, I can’t think of a better opportunity for you to strike.”

When I don’t reply immediately, losing myself in the memory of my actions the other night and how I thought waiting was a good idea, a slow shit-eating grin spreads across Kal’s face.

“Oh. I see, then.” His glass hits the table, impossibly loud, and one of my waitresses, Amber, comes over to refill it, before scampering away. “So, what’s her name?”

I suck on the end of my cigar, scoffing. “Who?”

“Come on, Wolfe. Men like us don’t abandon our plights for just anyone. She must be special.”

It’s true—at least, it appears that way. I’ve certainly thought of little else but Ms. Lenny Primrose since the party, allowing myself to entertain the image of her tits caked in the blood of her enemy while emptying my cock at night.

But I didn’t abandon anything for her. I just… postponed.

“I don’t even know her well enough for her to be anything but a nuisance.”

“Let me guess,” he says, bracing his elbows on the table. “Brunette, killer figure. Young. Draws the attention of the room without even trying?”

My eyes narrow, and I balance my cigar on its ashtray. “How in the bloody hell can you possibly know that?”

His grin widens, threatening to show teeth. “Because I think she just walked in.”





6





“This is a bad idea.”

“So you keep saying.” My brother Palmer tosses me an irritated look. He reaches up, adjusting the collar of his boyfriend’s plum button-down shirt. “You need a new catchphrase, swan.”

Troy grins at the nickname, nudging me with his elbow. “Swan?”

“Len did ballet before we moved to Aplana, and they put on a production of Swan Lake one year,” Palmer answers. “Broke her ankle the night of curtain call and ended up not being able to perform.”

“Naturally, my brothers have been making fun of me for it ever since.”

Troy laughs, leaning against the bar top. “Your brothers are assholes, Lenny. But I like it. Swan. It suits you, ’cause you’re, like… graceful and shit.”

I hold up my hand. “Don’t even think about adding it to your vocabulary. I’d suggest forgetting the nickname right now, actually.”