Page 1 of Graves & Griggs
Prologue
Zayden
I’m listening to the doc go on and on about preparing my angel for labor. She’s thirty-seven weeks, which is pretty much a miracle for twins—our own mom made it to thirty-five before her water popped. Then again, wouldn’t have put it past her to induce herself so she could go get her fix. Like her being pregnant stopped that anyways. Junkie bitch.
Dominic is listening with rapt attention while I’m sitting on the exam table, my angel tucked between my legs. The doc tried to get me off the exam table, just like she does every appointment. You’d think she’d have given up by this point. Where my angel goes, I go. Simple as that. She doesn’t even fight it anymore, just gives me a patient smile while Dominic shakes his head. It’s a nice little dynamic we have set up.
My fingers twist her wedding rings around on her hand as the doc continues. I’ll still never get over the fact that this perfect fucking angel marriedme. Technically, me and my brother, but if you ask me, she just agreed to marry him because she felt bad. We all know I’m her favorite.
Not only did she marry me, though—us—but now she’s giving us the most precious thing in the world. A family. Two sons.
“Do you have any questions?” the doc asks, looking at my angel briefly before her eyes find Dominic, who’s looking at his phone, no doubt at the mile-long list he’s compiled since the last appointment. He’s been really on top of all the medical stuff during her pregnancy, and I’ve been there to rub her back and eat her pussy anytime she’s uncomfortable. It’s a balance.
My phone rings in my pocket, and irritation rises inside me as I pull it out and glance at the screen. An unknown number, no surprise there. No doubt it’s a job. We still take on jobs here and there, but not like we used to. We don’t feel the need—well, Dominic and my angel don’t. I get a little stabby from time to time and will pick up something last minute for a little release. It’s like therapy for me. I know what you’re thinking: maybe I should try actual therapy. C’mon, though—killing worthless fucks who have it coming is so much more fun.
I tap Blake’s thigh, signaling that I’m going to take the call, and she scooches to the side. I slide off the table, pressing a kiss to her head before I step out of the room and answer.
“What?” I snap into the phone.
A voice I haven’t heard in a while echoes through the phone.
“Not very good manners, Graves. Is that how everyone on the West Coast begins new conversations?” Christopher Putnam asks.
I roll my eyes in annoyance, not the least bit impressed by this slimy prick.
He runs a secret society out in Salem, Massachusetts, called the Brethren. Though, if you ask me, they operate pretty loud for being a “secret.” Maybe the secret part is what their motives truly are. I’ve heard rumors that they’re descended from witches or the people who killed the witches in the Salem witch trials. Something like that. If you ask Putnam, I’d say he more closely aligns himself to Christ, though. The fucking asshat thinks he walks on water orsome shit. We haven’t gotten a call from him in years, mainly because they have in-house men that take care of their needs. So why the fuck is he bothering me?
“What do you want, Putnam?” I sigh heavily.
A raspy chuckle echoes through the phone, and I can practically see his smile curling his face up as he continues.
“I have a job that I would love your hands on. We’re doing some remodeling and could use a man with your skills.”
“Yeah? How big is the remodel?” I ask as I walk down the hall.
“Not too bad. One room, easily manageable, as long as our timing lines up.”
The Brethren is calling me all the way out to the East Coast for one kill? Very unlike them. Consider my interest officially piqued.
“And what does the job pay?” I ask, strolling over to the front desk where a jar of lollipops sits out.
I grab a cherry one for my angel, her favorite, before I grab one for myself and pop it into my mouth. I close my eyes; I can already taste the cherry flavor on her lips.
“Triple our standard rate,” he says, catching me off guard.
The rate Dom and I have in place with the Brethren is $250,000. Whoever this target is, Putnam is willing to spend three-quarters of a million dollars to make them disappear?
“When?” I ask.
“You have three days.”
I don’t love the idea of leaving town with Blake so close to her due date. I’ll call my contact at the airport, get on a private jet. I can leave tonight and be back by breakfast.
“I’ll be there tonight. Send me the details.”
“Already sent,” he says before the line goes dead.
I pull my phone away from my ear, looking down at the incoming text message.
