Page 28 of Dark & Deceitful

“Told you.” Tarek puts his hand out, rocking anI-win, pay-up-suckersmile.

Grumbling good-natured expletives under his breath, Dark yanks his wallet from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. It’s fullof big bills as he rifles through them and slaps a crisp fifty into our son's open palm.

Fog stretches his tattooed hand across the table, mimicking his brother’s pose. Dark doesn’t hesitate to slap a fifty there, too. If Mr. Moneybags wants to spread the wealth, I’d happily take some of that off his hands. But I know it’s not his money. It’s the clubs. He’s playing his part of the rich man, ready to buy high-dollar pussy at an illegal auction. Dark’s acting skills are immaculate, which is why being married to him was scary at times. Worrying about what was real and what might be fake messed with my head when we were younger. Especially when he was gone for weeks, sometimes months at a time, and he couldn’t tell where he’d gone, what he’d done, or why they needed him there. Club business stays club business. Thankfully, as the boys grew older, he took fewer assignments that kept him away from us for longer than a week or two. Until Abby and we all know how that went.

“So, we’re betting on Mom now, are we?” I gesture to the money they’re stowing in their respective wallets.

Tarek sits forward to slide his wallet back into his rear pocket. “Dad’s been blowing up my phone?—”

“Tarek,” Dark hisses, slapping his palm on the tabletop.

“What?” Resettling in his seat, our son shrugs a single shoulder up and down. “It’s true.”

Squeezing his eyes shut as if he wants nothing to do with this conversation, Dark shrinks in his chair and crosses both arms over his big chest. Once again, his foot knocks into mine under the table before it starts to bounce. My heart jolts at the accidental contact, and I turn my body away to keep him from doing it again.

Ignoring his father’s reaction, Tarek keeps talking. “Dad’s been worried about you.”

“Okay?” That’s nothing new.

“You need to check your apartment.”

Ah. Shit. Here we go.

“Christ,” Dark bites off, shaking his head in frustration.

“Why?” I look between them for answers.

Tarek’s the first to fill in the blanks. “Dad had cameras installed.”

He what?What?

Hating where this is headed, I massage the frown lines between my brows as they begin to ache. “He… I don’t understand.”

Shifting in his chair, Dark stares at me straight-on. “We agreed you need to be safe.”

Fog nods as if he concurs with his father’s sentiment, which shocks the hell out of me. Them on the same side of anything doesn’t compute.

“I agreed to no such thing,” Tarek chimes in. “Invading Mom’s privacy without her knowledge is bullshit, and you both know it. Pops agreed.”

Great. Sunshine’s involved, too. It’s a family affair.

The other two males at the table remain quiet, and I feel like I’ve been sucker punched. I have cameras in my apartment. Why would they need to be inside my apartment, and why wouldn’t he have asked before installing them? Inside my apartment is the safest place I can be on this assignment. It’s in a gated complex with eight units. It’s small. It’s secure. That was the point of me moving there.

An awkward silence descends.

Tarek relaxes back in his chair as if his conscience is now clear.

Blowing out a breath, I try to navigate this. “Sooo,” I drawl. “I came up here on my only weekend off to see my sons, and when I get back to my apartment, I have to search for cameras. What the hell, guys?”

My ex lifts his glass and takes a long sip of water. I watch his throat work as he swallows. “You’re ours to protect.”

That’s his explanation. Really?

“Wrong. I protect myself.” I point to my chest for emphasis. “Whohas access to my apartment cameras?”

“Dad,” Tarek answers, staring pointedly at his father as if waiting for him to deny it. But he does no such thing.

“Dark. What the fuck?Youasked me to be a part of this. I have followed every single order you have given me. I have built a friendly relationship with—” I stop talking and look around as if there are cameras here with microphones, listening to our conversation, even though I know that’s impossible. Marge chases out the riffraff, and Hank is a former biker, who I’m pretty sure sweeps for bugs daily to keep their clientele safe. Leaning forward so far that my breasts press against the table’s edge, I gesture to our sons with a flick of my chin. “Am I even allowed to speak about this in mixed company?”

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