in a tight cycle, he braked as a group of at least a dozen males approached, blocking the exit with a wall of muscled bodies. Flame tattoos on bared forearms identified them as Patrol members. Cale swung off the bike, about to call out to them when their stances widened and their eyes glowed red.
With quick, bold movements, Cale stripped off his shirt so they’d see who they were dealing with, displaying those violently earned scars and proud tattoos as a resume of his life in the House. The glare of midday sun detailed the brutal swell of muscle and sparked a cool fire of determination in his unblinking stare.
They came at him with barely a whisper.
How well they’d been trained, these infiltrators in their midst. His brother Rico’s doing? Proud of them even as he drew a wicked knife from his boot. Pleased when they hesitated for a long moment.
Cale smiled, sharp teeth flashing as he drawled, “Take me, you traitorous sons-of-bitches. But I’m not gonna make it easy for you.”
– – –
A hard shove propelled Cale into the lofty second room of a mid-town hotel suite. He stumbled and fell to hands and knees on the plush carpet, blood soaking warm and wet through his shirt from his many wounds, running from torn scalp to cloud his vision. He hadn’t been blindfolded so him knowing where they were apparently presented no problem. Because they didn’t plan for him to live long enough to tell anyone.
His pulse shuddered as polished shoes stepped into view. Hand-made Italian. A lifetime of acidic terror flooded his throat as memories he couldn’t swallow choked him. Of Bram the Beast. His father.
Be like stone.
Those words from childhood flooded his mind as one of the shiny shoes lifted, making every muscle contract in expectation of his rage. That smooth sole fit to the back of his neck, heel exerting pressure, forcing tensed arms to finally fold until he was prostrate on the rug.
“Give me a reason to let you live.”
It took a moment for enough spit to form to allow words that were subdued but steady. “You’ll want to know why I’m here.”
A pause as Bram considered that. “I assumed it was involuntarily.”
“You’d be wrong. Those pieces of shit couldn’t get me on my knees unless I wanted to be there.”
Silence.
Cale closed his eyes, steadying the rasp of his breathing, hoping curiosity would outweigh a famous eruption of temper and a very final retribution. Bram’s chuckle surprised the hell out of him, providing both hope and a soul-clutching dread. His father’s amusement didn’t often lead to mercy.
“I’m listening. What do you want, Cale, that’s worth your traitorous life?”
“My family’s survival. End this, my king, without further bloodshed. Take my life and spare theirs.”
“Why would I want to do that? I already have one without the other?”
“Because my brothers, excluding this one who isn’t worth a damn,” he paused for emphasis to make sure Stephen Terriot, who’d supervised his capture, registered his disgust, “carry your blood and strength and the future of our clan.”
“Conspirators who’d cage me and let me rot.” Pressure increased, grinding Cale’s cheek into the wool fibers.
“No, my king. Not traitors to you. You exist because that was their condition.”
A lengthy pause then a suspicious, “All of them?”
“Yes, my king. They insisted your behavior was from the poisons Martine gave you. They wanted you to get well. I convinced them to follow me, to deal with New Orleans and Memphis. And it’s torn our proud and powerful family in half, made us weak and afraid. I’m here to ask . . . to beg you to make it whole and strong again. Don’t think for a second,” he growled, “that that one,” he glared again at his treacherous half-sibling, “could have brought me here alive unless it was my wish to meet with you.”
Fateful seconds ticked by as Bram considered his words, nudging at them cautiously. Finally, the pressure of that expensive stitched sole lessened, allowing Cale to ease up onto his knees while head stayed bowed and shoulders slumped in humility. A moment his father savored as a balm to his fury.
“Why should I believe you, boy?”
He took a steadying breath. “Kendra. Nothing means more to me than her survival. And that of our child. Let them live. Let my brothers and their families live, and I’ll make any concessions you want. Without me, they’ll turn to you, as they should, and you can take our family back to their place of