Page 19 of Fool Me Twice

“So he’s not cursed?” Hart asked, frowning.

Fix walked over, unlocking the truck and throwing his bag back in. “I doubt it. He runs an unstable business. Feathers are bound to be ruffled.”

“I guess,” Hart said, getting in the truck with Fix and putting his seat belt on.

“Let’s grab the cases Taylor was harping on about this morning,” Fix said. “Might improve her mood.”

“Something pink and sparkly would probably work even better,” Hart said, but it was by rote, his mind a million miles away.

Fix chuckled, not noticing. “I did see a stand selling artisan pocketknives.”

“That sounds perfect,” Hart murmured as they turned the truck around.

All’s well that ends well, Hart thought, the soft music from Fix’s radio battling the pit in his stomach as the view of Cane’s warehouse shrank in the side mirror.

Chapter 5

Cane

He wasn’t cursed.

That was the first thought that had gone through his mind each time he’d stepped into his office since the day Hart had done his little cursebreaker fuckery.

It was the only thing he wanted to focus on, because the other thing was Hart, and he was so fucking sure he didn’t have the luxury to go there. Not yet.

So…not cursed.

That was a fucking turn up if he’d ever seen one. In a business like his, shit going sideways wasn’t out of the norm. Quite the opposite. Backstabbing, betrayals, money exchanged between hands it shouldn’t even touch…all of that came with the territory. But in all his years in the business, there had never been a time when shit had gone sideways this much in such weirdly specific ways. All at once. And when shit like that happened, you could put your slates on someone hiring a caster to get to you.

Cursing your enemies was as common as sharing boring, ass-kissing meals with them, pretending you got along and didn’t have your finger on a trigger under the table.

It had to have been a curse. There was no way it was anything else.

He walked over to the window of his office, leaning against it and looking down at what he thought of as the throne room of his empire.

It was still ticking, still working as intended, but murmurs had started. Whispers had found their way to Cane’s ears. Eyes turning. Not enough to shake the ground beneath him, but enough to ruffle some feathers and pique notice. Like a foreshadowing.

It made Cane want to keep a much closer eye on things. To make sure nothing slipped by him again.

The place was empty save for Raph setting up the bars for the night’s events like he usually did. It didn’t do to run out of liquor. He watched Raph work for a moment, stacking crates of beers before looking around himself surreptitiously. Cane frowned as he watched the nineteen-year-old, a pit in his stomach forming when Raph moved the last crate in the stack. It was empty, and Cane watched him flip it over, pluck something from the bottom of it, and stick it in his pocket, all the while looking around himself, nervous and jittery.

Cane was moving before he even registered the thought, slipping out of his office and down the stairs on silent feet, blood pumping in his ears.

There was no way.

Cane had pulled Raph and his twin sister from the gutter when they were teens. He’d given them both jobs, a place to live. He’d saved them from their piece-of-shit father and absent mother. Other than Ares, there was no one more loyal to him. No one more willing to do whatever Cane asked.

It didn’t add up.

Cane strode over and grasped Raph’s forearm, squeezing it in a merciless grip and spinning the guy around.

Raph gasped, fingers spasming as he tried to pull his hand away. His pupils were dilated to the point where Cane suspected he was on something, no matter how little sense it made. Raph had too many scars left over from his old man to count—the result of many a drug-fueled rampage.

“C-Cane…” Raph stuttered, squirming when Cane reached into the boy’s pocket and pulled out several little plastic bags filled with a familiar white substance.

Cane’s stomach turned. Drugs had no fucking place in his warehouse. He had other avenues for that, and his fight ring wasn’t a part of it. It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t allow it. He kept this place clean.

He squeezed the bags in his fist, nostrils flaring as he stared at Raph. He had to stop himself from flattening the little traitor to the ground.

---