Page 20 of The Tallest Tower (Underbelly Enchanted)

Regardless, I give zero fucks about her or her loyalty to another man. But I sure as shit care about a certain newspaper that has been printed and placed on newsstands today.

Pulling on a pair of pants and grabbing my phone as I leave my room, I move into the hall and jog down a couple flights of stairs, reaching the kitchen in under thirty seconds.

The television drones, and Micah sips a steaming cup of coffee, favoring his still tender hand.

“Morning.” He wears pyjama pants only. No shirt. No shoes. Nothing but his skivvies and a pair of plaid trousers that sit low. He greets me, but he doesn’t look away from the screen that covers a homicide in Elm Park that happened overnight.

A drug deal gone wrong. A runner not paying his bills.

“Newspaper here yet?”

“Yep.” He nods toward the back door.

His gesture would be a dismissal to most others, but I know that’s not how he means it.

So I go to the cupboard and take down a mug, then pouring it full ofblistering liquid, I forgo sugar and creamer, and carry my breakfast with me through the kitchen door and onto the patio out back, where I find the paper rolled up and waiting for me on a small iron table.

The pool glistens in the morning sunlight, and automatic sprinklersshhp-shhp-shhpto compete with the birdsong of the blue jays and whatever the yellow birds are that flitter around our established garden.

The stillness of the pool’s surface brings me calm. The purity of the blue sky makes me happy. But the wall of text on a stark white newspaper, not yet unrolled, makes my stomach turn.

I’ve always been a man who embraced the bad things for the sake of others. Like a soldier jumping on a grenade to save his comrades. A knight, falling on his sword to spare the lady. I have always, and will always, absorb the shitty things life tosses my way, if it means making my brothers more comfortable.

So despite my nerves, I turn away from the pool and take my coffee to the table.

Like Micah, I wear pants only. No shirt. No shoes. The morning sunlight warms my skin and glances over the million scars, large and small, peppered across my chest.

All five of us have them. We’ve all been scarred over the years, but the fact I havemorehopefully means I saved them from some.

Setting my coffee down and taking a seat on the sturdy iron chair, I pick up theCannon Dailyand begin the slow unfold.

Christabelle isn’t some lowly reporter battling for some decent spot in the paper. She’s the gilded princess, and she writes about the Malones. Which means my face is on the fucking front page, above the fold. Her article takes up the prime real estate, like she knows she belongs there.

“Cato Malone: Talented basketball star and grade-A student, or a mobster in the making?”

Anger roars in my veins and steals the breath from my lungs. My hands ball, fisting the newspaper and tearing the story Ms. Cannon worked so studiously on. But I rein in my temper. Bite down on the poison fighting to surface. Until Micah comes to stop in the doorway, his lips pressed closed but his eyes speaking a million thoughts. Then I slam the paper to the table, spilling my coffee so the boiling liquid dripsonto my skin and creates a red welt to match the others already spread across my body.

“What are you gonna do?” he murmurs in the otherwise quiet. His hair is shaggy from sleep, his green eyes, piercing against the side of my face. “Can’t kill her. Everyone will know it was you.”

“Can’t let her get away with it, either.” I push away from the table, leaving the paper behind. I leave my coffee. I leave Christabelle Cannon.

And yet, as I approach the edge of the pool, I bring her with me. Her perfume still teasing the edges of my lungs. Her supple skin, branded into the pads of my fingertips. Her confronting stare, a core memory I’ll never rid myself of.

“She can targetme,” I grit out. “Doesn’t bother me one bit.”

He nods. “But she’s throwing shots at Cato and Arch.”

“Which makes her a fucking problem.” I drop my head and look down at my bare feet. “I guess it’s time I give her something to write about. Something that focuses on me.”

He coughs out a soft laugh and shakes his head. I don’t have to turn and look to know the gesture. I feel it in the air. “You’ve always held the brush, Lix. Painting a target on your back is your second favorite thing to do.”

“Better my back than yours. Get rid of the Erikson girl for me, okay? Put her in a cab and send her away.” Leaning forward and swinging my arms ahead of me, I dive straight into the pool and sluice through the water.

Swimming is what floating in the womb felt like… right?

Probably.

It was surely the first and last time I felt at peace. The one and only time the world didn’t suck, when responsibility didn’t sit heavily on my shoulders, and a woman embraced me unconditionally.

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