Page 18 of Lost Kingdom

“My relationship is fine. It’s strong. Yours is significantly more concerning, considering she wants nothing to do with you.”

“Yeah, and now you’re talking just to hear yourself speak.” I blow through my doorway and head along the hall, past Capone and straight toward the fridge. His heavy footsteps thud along behind me. He wants to be fed, and if I try to leave without doing it, he’ll tear strips from my face until we’re a matching pair. “You don’t need to know everything about what I’m doing. And I owe you no explanation.”

“Tim—”

“I don’t owe you my time or enforcement, either. If you have a gangbanger over here embarrassing the family, then I trust you’ll deal with it on your own. I’m not doing it for you.”

“Stepping in and helping the family isn’t the same as stepping up and taking the reins,” he grumbles. “You can do the first without risking your stance on leaving.”

“It’s a no from me.” I select a tin of cat food and toss my phone down to free up my hands, and though I bend and drop the contents into Capone’sbowl at the end of the counter, my eyes stop on the envelope Cordoza handed me two nights ago.

There is no address on the front.

No stamp.

No marking that’ll get either of us in trouble.

“I’m busy today, Lix.” I push the cat back when he attempts to eat and risks tuna dropping on the top of his head. “I have my own work. My own problems. So my answer remains no. But thanks for thinking of me.”

“You’re an asshole. I’m calling Cato.”

He ends our call without goodbyes, not realizing our youngest brother is still in New York. But that’s a conversation for them. It’s a deal they’ll strike between themselves. And none of it has anything to do with me. So I finish dropping food into Capone’s bowl, then I stand again and lob the tin into the trash. I wash my hands at the sink and listen to the radio as the city chugs around us. I know Felix is antsy about mafia activity in Copeland City. I know he wants to stamp that shit out as quickly and quietly as possible.

This is the Malones’ fuckin’ city, and his choice to trade here—or not—is intentional. Anyone else sliding into what appears to be a hole in the market is galling to the man accustomed to having his way.

But just because Iget itdoesn’t mean I intend to help him enforce the rules set down.

“Code three,” the radio crackles. “Priority one.”

Shaking my head while my phone bleats with texts, I pick up the envelope I’ve opened, closed, and reopened a thousand times since Saturday night. Peeling the sticky seal open with careful hands, I tug the single sheet of paper out and unfold it to reveal the scripted print. The seal at the bottom. And the judge’s signature after that.

My phone beeps. Buzzes. Beeps. As texts land, one after another, and all of them point toward one single guy. One idiot whose actions I’ve tried already to curb. Whose decisions bring harm to others. One motherfucker who refuses help, and because of that, forced me to speak to Estefan Cordoza and ask for a favor.

He’s the reason my brother is pissed at me. And he’s the reason I stare down at a certificate that makes my stomach curdle.

‘This is to certify that Timothy Malone III and Aubree Grace Emeri were joined in marriage on Saturday, December 3rd.’

She doesn’t know it yet. And when she finds out, I doubt she’ll be pleased.

But sometimes, a man has to do what a man has to do to ensure someone’s safety. And when that man has powerful friends, a judge willing to sign anything he asks for when an appropriate amount of money is exchanged, and enough motivation to get the job done… well, that’s when enemies are made and future explosions are created.

Aubree Emeri is a claimed woman. Legally. Morally. And indefinitely.

I’ll tell her eventually.

6

AUBREE

OH LOOK, MY SHADOW IS BACK

Iwalk ahead of a hobbling Fletch, carrying my own murder bag when usually, he would offer. I slow my steps, when typically, the over-energized Charlie Fletcher is the one kicking in doors. But when a man takes a bullet to the leg on the job, sometimes, accommodations must be made.

“Third-floor walk-up,” I recite for the record, glancing back as empathy beats from my every pore. He maneuvers the stairs and moves without crutches now. Not even a walking stick. But I know, beneath the brave face and gritted teeth, is a man in pain.

“The scent of old cooking oil is evident,” I continue. “Ethnic cooking that verges toward spicy.”

“You can smell food?” Grunting, Fletch breaches the top step and swipes his brow to clear it of sweat. “I smell decay.”

---