Page 5 of Deadly Rival

She straightens her shoulders and heads back into her salon. I’ve been so focused on the logistics of the capture that I’ve hardly thought about what comes after. Tomorrow, if all goes to plan, she’ll be in my room. Will she remember me? I’m guessing yes, though I don’t know if she’ll recognize me at first.

I can’t wait to see the shock in her eyes when she realizes who I am.

Enough.

Not dying tomorrow is my top priority.

I jump out of my skin when my phone rings and cringe when I see the name. Jacob. He’s way too smart and knows something is going on. And of all the people in my life, he’s the last one I want to find out about my plans. He’ll either stop me or want to help and get dragged into my disaster of a plan. I don’t know what would be worse.

I answer. “Hey, man.”

“All right, mate? What’re you up to later?”

Possibly enjoying my very last day above ground.

“Not much. I’m pretty tired. Probably going to get an early night.”

A long, weighty pause presses down on me. Jacob’s voice has dropped when he speaks. “Look, I’m taking Quinn to trivia night at the bar. Come with us. With you on the team, we’ll be in with a shot at winning. They always throw in some bullshit questions about rich people stuff. I think they do it to impress Kendrick.”

I force a laugh. “Much as I’d love to help you peasants out, I’m just not feeling great. Let’s catch up tomorrow.”

Jacob’s sigh echoes down the phone. “Okay, mate. Are you coming to Brian’s lecture tomorrow? Gabriel roped me into it.”

“I’d rather stab my own eyeballs with knitting needles, thanks.”

Jacob laughs, but it sounds strained. Or maybe I’m just imagining it. I’ve been jumping at shadows for weeks, sure every innocent question has a deeper meaning. The foolishness of what I’m doing feels like it should be a beacon flashing over my head for all to see.

Behold, the dumbass who wants to piss off the Brotherhood and their biggest rivals all at once.

“Can’t say I blame you. I might drag Quinn along to liven things up. We’re going to Grandad’s bingo night tomorrow evening. You fancy that?”

“Sure. Why not?” I hope it sounds more genuine than it feels.

We say goodbye, and I stare at the phone for a while before forcing myself to move, prowling my apartment. I chose every item of furniture myself, with the help of a designer who seemed delighted to work with someone who appreciated his talents.

Most Brothers are like my two best friends—too caught up in their work and their Wards to give a shit about decor. But Iknow the value of making an impression. My home is my castle, just like Kendrick’s office is his.

I take a seat on my Edra “On the Rocks” sofa and run a finger over the rich gray fabric. The designer just about came in his pants when I suggested it, and he planned the whole apartment around the statement piece. There’s something soothing about the muted colors throughout the place, broken up here and there with splashes of vivid brights.

I grew up surrounded by the showy trappings of wealth—sports cars, the latest electronics, gold and marble on every available fucking surface. If there’s such a thing as a stereotypical mob lawyer house, my house was it. As a teenager, I shunned it all and dressed like I was broke, but as I grew older, I realized that was stupid.

I allowed myself to like nice things again and ended up with tastes as expensive as my goddamn father, if a lot more subtle. Ironic, really, since my aggressive scruffiness was one of the main reasons we used to argue. He’d be proud of me now, if we were still on speaking terms.

I love my apartment. I love the work I’m doing here in the Brotherhood, and I’m happier here than I’ve been in my entire life. Why am I risking it all? I could take the sensible approach. Choose a Ward I might actually like instead of lumbering myself with one I already hate and leave the past where it belongs.

But Maggie won’t let me.

Now I really am starting to sound like a lunatic. I drag myself to my computer and go through the plan for the millionth time. It’s going to work. It has to.

***

Not for the first time, I’m glad my Tesla is silent. I pull up outside the gates of Brighthaven, the tiny, exclusive nursing home facility with a grand total of ten residents. Every Thursday, without fail, Ophelia visits her ancient old nanny, Maida. Thursdays are late-opening night at her salon, so she takes a couple of hours off in the morning.

From my clumsy attempts at surveillance and capture planning, it seems like the best time to grab Ophelia. Brighthaven sits on acres of woodland so, according to the cheerful brochure, residents can enjoy the peace and quiet of nature in their golden years.

On Thursday mornings, twelve times out of thirteen, Ophelia is the only visitor and the only car in the car park. Probability is in my favor, and I always seem to beat the odds. I used to do well in Vegas, before they clocked me for card counting and added me to the banned list.

I hold my breath as I creep toward the facility. The gates at the front require a code to get in, but the wire mesh fence around the side isn’t well-maintained, and in several places it’s come detached from the posts. I don’t suppose many people try to break into nursing homes.

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