Page 132 of Seizing Control: Part One

“You’ve done fucked up, brother,” Toker comments as he approaches from the opposite direction. He leans back against the wall, lights up his joint, and glares down at me. “I don’t think she’s gonna forgive you two dumbarses this time.”

“What the fuck are you talkin’ about?”

“Here.” He hands me his ancient phone with the ridiculous teddy bear case. “Turns out this call is actually for you.”

24

LILY

“Thought you said Gabriel is out of town,” I remark as evenly as I can once the handcuffs are removed from my wrists. The cop frees my cousin, and he immediately moves closer to me. Toker hasn’t stopped hovering since I fainted after they showed me the prison security cam footage. I’m still shaky, but I do my best to hide it from them all. “He’s either got unnaturally long arms or he’s closer by than he’s letting on.”

“Does it really matter?”

“Probs not.” Pushing up to my tiptoes, I lick my thumb, then wipe away the smudge of ash on his cheek. Together, we watch the cops go down the line of Shamrocks brothers and old ladies that they corralled into a line against the wall upon their arrival. They release us all, one by one, with no more than a caution to behave ourselves, despite the overwhelming evidence of our firebomb attack on the media, and the assaults that followed. “Thinking this might be the Trinity’s doing, though.”

“If you’re right, then we only have one person to thank.”

Our focus shifts from our fellow perps to Crystal and her family. Somehow, the Hudsons managed to stay out of the fray. Hunter wasn’t arrested—likely because he isn’t wearing a cut and he looks like a choirboy in his smart suit, despite his tattoos. Stepping up in Hades’ absence, Crystal and Angelis were inside the funeral home finalising arrangements while the Shamrocks created chaos in the public parking lot where the media had gathered.

The other member of their family was plonked on his backside in the nearby alley, holding his bloody nose and his mashed balls. Slash’s version of plausible deniability is hilarious to me but embarrassing for him.

And vice versa.

Uncertain whether I’m going to laugh or cry, I shake out my aching hand. My knuckles are split. Bruising is already setting in. I have a stabbing pain radiating up my forearm that’s growing more noticeable by the minute. But, no matter how bad my arm feels, I imagine it has nothing on Slash’s face. His nose is packed with tissue and his stance is lopsided. An imprint of my palm reddens his cheek.

As if he can feel me looking at him, Slash glances my way.

I avert my eyes.

He’s not going to play on my sympathies to get out of this.

My heart is broken. My soul sucked dry. I’m an empty shell, devoid of the capacity to withstand one more thing going wrong. I mean, I regret taking my grief out on him, feel awful for spitting at him, harbour a decent sized serving of guilt for kneeing him in the nuts.

It was juvenile.

Unnecessary.

Sure, the sentiment is correct.

The execution was wrong.

My eyes sting as the agony in my arm kicks up another notch.

I shake out my hand again to alleviate the pain.

It doesn’t work.

Cradling my arm, I head in the opposite direction to my husband.

Nadia follows me.

On his crutches, my twin shadows her.

The rest of the club and our sombre guests trail behind the three of us.

Mounting Zeke’s Harley, I grip my helmet in my hands, subtly flexing my fingers as I watch the cops usher what’s left of the media off our turf. The removal of the tabloid reporters from the area next to the funeral home is Slash’s doing. While I was aware that we owned the crematorium and the attached parlour and chapel, I didn’t know that most of the buildings surrounding us also belong to the Shamrocks. Even the parking lot, while technically for public use, is ours.

Chalk that up to more ignorance on my behalf.

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