Page 87 of Wicked Heiress

The driver parked in the circular driveway. Another limousine was in front of ours. Seven people climbed out: Carl Wellington, the Salvatores, and Alex Wellington. She was beautiful and stood between the four Salvatore brothers.

Each of them made a point of touching some part of her. Bastian brushed his fingertips against hers. Marcello swiped her curls over her left shoulder. Luca dug his fingers into her hip and pulled her closer.

Damian stood behind her with a crazed look in his eyes. It said, touch her and die. He was even scarier than Luca if that was even possible.

My cousin didn't have as hard of a look as his brothers. Neither did Marcello. Sure, they both looked like they'd killed a few people without a second thought. But there was something in Bastian's eyes, a softness around the edges.

Two other men I recognized from the helipad at the Salvatore Estate stood beside each other. Carl Wellington and Arlo Salvatore. Mark walked over to them and shook their hands.

Cole tapped my back and guided me toward the group.

Bastian looked right at me and tipped his head. "It’s going to be okay, Grace. I got your back in there.”

I wiped my sweaty palm on my dress and smiled. “Thanks.”

Bastian stepped out from the pack, now standing in front of me. As tall as Cole, he towered over me. "Don't let Fitzy get into your head. That's his specialty."

I breathed through my nose and forced a smile. What else could I say? I had never been good at handling our grandfather. He was the type of person who commanded every situation and left you feeling powerless.

"Gentleman," Carl said in a deep tone that snapped my attention to him. "And ladies. It's time."

Arlo and Mark followed him into the house, where two men held open the double doors.

Bastian threaded his fingers between Alex's while Marcello held her other hand. As we walked into the marble foyer, no one spoke. The main hallway reminded me of an art gallery.

Alex commented on each piece as we passed, her eyes wide. She pointed at a few of the sculptures and gasped. "How did he get his hands on that?"

"If you want it," Bastian told her, "I'll take it."

She laughed. "No, Bash. That's okay. But I appreciate the thought."

"I would do anything for you, Cherry."

I couldn't help but wonder how she'd gotten that nickname. It was sweet. My cousin loved and adored her and worshiped the ground at her feet. He stayed with me at the safe house for the past week, but he took turns with other Knights, so he could go home and see Alex. I felt terrible because I could see how much he missed her.

Guards posted up at each end of the hallway. Some even stood beside sculptures and art encased in glass. Finally, we stopped at the elevator.

My old bedroom was on the top floor. The memory of being tossed into this elevator and locked in the basement still haunted me. I pushed down the bile rising from my stomach at the thought of ever returning to that tiny space. Four walls that practically suffocated me as a child.

There wasn't enough room for all of us. So Carl and Alex got into the elevator with the Salvatores.

After the car returned to the first floor, I got in with Mark and Cole. We were quiet, eyes on the doors as they opened on the second floor. At the end of the hall, we entered a large office that looked like something from an Old Western movie. A long wooden bar spanned the right side of the space. Dead animal heads were mounted on the walls and over the fireplace's mantle.

Alex sat between Bastian and Damian on one of the worn brown leather couches. Their hands were on her thighs as they shifted uncomfortably in their seats and drank from snifters.

A shudder ripped through me as I looked across the room. Grandfather was close to eighty years old. Yet he looked as if he were in his late fifties.

Dark hair that didn't have an ounce of gray. His skin was still taut, his cheekbones high, and he had a pronounced jawline. He was in great shape, with a solid frame beneath his black suit.

My grandfather looked closer to Arlo Salvatore's age, who was very good-looking. They drank scotch by the bar, speaking between sips, but Fitzy's eyes held mine.

Cole tapped my back, urging me to move farther into the room. My legs felt stuck in quicksand, its force pulling me down. Horrible memories of my grandfather resurfaced every time we were together.

He was there the night armed men invaded my parents’ home. They took my father out of the house in handcuffs. My mom lay in a pool of blood. I cried and begged the men to bring my father back. I prayed my mom would wake up from her nap.

He killed my mom.

His own daughter.

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