Page 91 of Tricked By Jack
Caleb doesn’t hesitate. He crosses the space in three strides, his good arm a steel band around my waist before I can even blink.
“No,” I scream, swinging the mug like a weapon.
“Now you’re just making me hard,” he sneers, batting my makeshift weapon away.
I thrash, claw, kick backward, but it’s useless. Even with a broken arm, he’s too strong. The mug that did little impact slips from my hand, shattering against the floor, tea spraying all over.
“Let me go!” My nails rake his forearm, teeth bared, but he doesn’t even grunt. My feet lift off the ground as if I weigh nothing at all.
Shelby watches, arms folded, her mouth curved in a faint, satisfied smile. “Hurry up,” she snaps. “Jack’s not stupid.”
Caleb hoists me higher against his chest, pinning my wrists with one hand as he heads for the door. My pulse hammers in my throat, my scream tearing raw as the hallway tilts around me.
Before we step into the elevator, I look back just in time to see Shelby cut her hand, smiling evilly at me as she lets some of it drop onto the floor.
Chapter 30
The Trickster
The smoke clings like a second skin, burrowing into my pores and settling at the back of my throat with every breath. Even stripped of my jacket, it lingers, metallic and sharp on my tongue as I sink into the couch in Nick’s office.
My brother stands at the window, shoulders rigid beneath his tailored shirt, afternoon sunlight cutting harsh angles across his face. He doesn’t look at me when he speaks.
“Tell me again.” His voice is controlled, measured. The voice of the heir who learned to hide rage before I learned to wield mine.
Ned shifts on the couch beside me, his sleeves are rolled to expose forearms streaked with soot. His eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second—solidarity, permission—before he looks away.
“There’s nothing to tell that I haven’t already said.” I drag a hand down my face, feeling grit beneath my fingertips. “The hotel’s gutted on floors three through five.”
Nick’s jaw tightens. “And the guests?” His question hangs between us, heavy with what we both already know.
“That’s just it.” I lean forward, elbows on knees, the taste of smoke souring my mouth. “There weren’t any. No bodies. No casualties. Not even a fucking maid or bellhop caughtin the crossfire.”
“On a weekend.” Nick finally turns, eyes narrowed. “At our busiest hotel.”
“Exactly.” The word scrapes my throat. “The place should’ve been packed. Instead, it’s like someone cleared it out before lighting the match. Only casualties were profit margins and some precious art in the lobby.”
My brother crosses to the bar cart, pouring two fingers of whiskey into a crystal tumbler with the kind of precision that tells me he’s counting breaths. He doesn’t offer me one. Doesn’t need to. We both know I’ve been sober for days, and now isn’t the time to break that streak.
“What did the fire inspector say?” Nick asks, swirling the amber liquid but not drinking.
“Said it looked like arson.” Ned’s voice is gravel, worn smooth by years of delivering news. “Clean job, too. Professional. Points of origin precisely placed to cause maximum property damage with minimal risk to life.”
“Someone trying to send a message without catching a murder charge,” I add, the words bitter on my tongue.
Nick takes a measured sip, then sets the glass down with deliberate care. “Marco checked in just before you got here. So did the three. None of them has heard anything.”
The weight of those words presses against my sternum. The three major crime lords have a network of informants that run deeper than anything else in this city. If there’s movement they aren’t aware of it means trouble.
“This kind of silence costs serious money,” I state.
Nick’s mouth twists with disgust, but he doesn’t say anything. And neither does Ned.
The implication hangs between us, unspoken but understood. This was calculated, aimed directly at the Knight family, and executed with enough power to ensure the usual channels of information went dark.
“So it’s personal,” I say, the words scraping past the smoke still coating my throat.
Nick meets my eyes, the scar on his face making himlook even more menacing when he’s this angry. “It’s worse than personal. It’s patient. Whoever did this has been planning it. Building toward it.”
