Page 73 of Cannon
“I’m not asking,” I replied, tightening my grip on his hand. “You took care of me last night. Let me return the favor.”
Something in his expression softened slightly at my words. He looked down at our joined hands, then back at my face withthose piercing blue-green eyes that seemed to cut right through me.
“Fine,” he finally conceded. “But I need to make a quick call first.”
I nodded, releasing his hand so he could step away. While he made his call, I watched him, the rigid set of his shoulders, the way he kept his back to the wall, always aware of his surroundings. Even injured, he moved like a predator, dangerous and controlled.
When he returned, he fell into step beside me without a word. The walk back to my apartment was silent, but not uncomfortable. His presence beside me felt right somehow, like we’d been walking these streets together for years instead of days.
Once inside my apartment, I led him to the bathroom. “Sit,” I ordered, pointing to the edge of the tub. “ZaZa’s sleeping, so we need to keep it down.”
He obeyed, his large frame looking almost comical perched on my vintage clawfoot tub. I dug through the medicine cabinet for antiseptic and gauze, aware of his eyes following my every movement.
“This might sting,” I warned, kneeling in front of him with a cotton ball soaked in hydrogen peroxide.
“I think I can handle it,” he replied dryly.
I dabbed at his knuckles, watching his face for any reaction, but he remained stoic, even as the peroxide bubbled in his open cuts. His hands were beautiful despite the damage, strong, with long fingers and clean nails. Hands that had been all over my body just hours ago.
“So,” I said, keeping my voice casual as I worked, “you gonna tell me what really happened? Who’s this brother you got into it with?”
Cannon’s jaw tightened, and for a moment I thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he sighed, a deep sound that seemed to come from somewhere ancient inside him.
“My half-brother,” he said finally. “Riot King.”
I froze, the cotton ball hovering over his knuckles. “Riot King? From King Industries?”
He nodded, his eyes never leaving my face. “Yeah. Him and Creed are my half-brothers. Same mother, different fathers.”
“Holy shit,” I whispered, sitting back on my heels. “How is that possible?”
“My biological mother was married to Silas King when she had an affair with my father. When I was born, she didn’t want me—blue eyes were a dead giveaway I wasn’t Silas’s son. Apparently he forced her to give me up. I was adopted by a doctor and his wife when I was a baby. Silas had my birth father murdered for touching what was his—mymother.”
My mind raced, trying to process this. Everyone in New York knew the King name. Their corporation was worth billions, real estate, shipping, technology and even wine. Old money mixed with new. But there had always been whispers about their other business interests, the kind that never made the financial pages.
“I remember when Riot’s winery was shot up last year,” I said slowly. “It was all over the news. They said it was a random act of violence, but…”
“Nothing’s random in their world,” Cannon finished for me. “The Kings run half the underworld in this city. Have for generations.”
I resumed cleaning his wounds, my hands gentle as I processed this revelation. “So you grew up with adoptive parents, not knowing any of this?”
“Not until I was older. I didn’t know who my birth mother was until months before I got out of prison. But my adoptive father was a good man,” Cannon said, his voice softeningslightly. “Dr. Price. Trauma surgeon. Saved more lives than I can count.”
“What happened to him?” I asked, sensing there was more to the story.
Cannon was quiet for so long I thought he might not answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was different, younger somehow, vulnerable in a way I’d never heard before.
“When I was ten, I wanted a pair of Jordans. The new ones everyone was going crazy for. My pops said if I got straight A’s on my next report card, he’d get me a pair. He wanted me to work hard for the things I wanted. So I busted my ass and he got me a pair.” He swallowed hard, his eyes distant. “Second day I wore them to school, some older kids jumped me. Beat me up pretty bad and took the shoes.”
I reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. “I’m sorry.”
“My dad was furious. Not at me, at the school, for letting it happen. He went up there the next day, demanding to see the principal, the kids’ parents, anyone who would listen.” Cannon’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The older brother of one of those kids was waiting in the parking lot. Shot my father three times in the chest over a pair of fucking sneakers.”
“Oh my God,” I breathed, my heart breaking for the little boy he’d been. “Cannon…”
“He died right there in the school parking lot. And after that, everything fell apart.” His eyes had gone cold, distant. “My adoptive mother… she couldn’t handle it. Started drinking, popping pills. She’d scream at me that it was my fault he was dead, although I think she was right. If I hadn’t wanted those shoes, if I hadn’t gotten beaten up, he’d still be alive.”
Anger flared in my chest at the thought of a child being blamed for his father’s murder. “That wasn’t your fault. You were a child.”
