Fallen Empire (Dirty Empire)

He hesitates. “We’re gonna find her, Gabe.”

“You better fucking hope so.” I level him with a look that says the fault for Mercy being kidnapped sits squarely on his shoulders, when I know it’s not Farley’s fault that this happened, or Moe’s or even my father’s—though he is the catalyst.

I’ve done this to Mercy. Dragging her into my life has put her in a world of danger that I can’t get her out of.

And if anything happens to her….

I grit my teeth against the hollow ache in my chest and slide on a mask of calm. “Let’s go.” It’s time I enlightened my brother on exactly how far down this dark hole my father has hurled us.

Our elevator doors part to the sound of blaring music. I pause a moment to take in the horde of people milling around the penthouse. A few, I recognize. Most, I’m sure I’ve never seen before in my life. None of them should be here, but Caleb only knows how to do Vegas one way, and this is it. When Farley’s detail at the bottom of the elevator informed us of our guests, I wasn’t entirely surprised.

I can only assume Ross’s body has long since been cleaned up. Caleb is reckless but he’s no idiot.

I clench my jaw to keep my temper at bay—the Easton boys always like a good party after all—and shift past a group of women, brushing aside the clawed hand that reaches for me without acknowledging its owner. Maybe I know some of them—been inside a few—but none of them matter. No one matters anymore but Mercy.

“Where is he?” I scan the terrace beyond the wall of glass, but I don’t see Caleb amongst the small crowd.

“My guess would be in there.” Farley nods toward the games room. The doors are cracked open, the sound of female laughter carrying out.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” I charge in. Sure enough, the location for a triple homicide only twenty-four hours ago is now the host of a lively game of strip poker between Caleb, Merrick, Vincent, and four women who probably haven’t seen their twentieth birthday and are sorely losing.

The air reeks of booze and perfume and sin.

“Hey, bro!” Caleb hollers, as if nothing’s the matter. “You made good time! You gonna join the next round?” He’s lost nothing more than the cufflinks off his shirt, though the material is rumpled, the buttons misaligned as if hastily fastened. Merrick and Vince are similarly dressed—fully, but dishevelled. Merrick, at least, grips his card hand, seemingly intent on the game, but Vince isn’t intent on anything but the woman perched on his lap, wearing only her heels.

“Am I gonna join the next round?” I echo my brother’s question, my voice unnaturally calm. Caleb’s eyes are glossy and the table’s surface in front of him is coated in white powder, which tells me what he’s been up to all afternoon. That and the countless torn condom wrappers crumpled on the black marble floor, and his belt and shoes strewn near the leather couches. This game is just another act in the night, likely with fresh women after he finished with the last ones.

This is just Caleb being Caleb, I remind myself, as I reach down to untangle the skimpy red lace thong that somehow looped over my shoe.

But, while I’ve had to contend with our father and his laundry list of murder and abduction requests, and Mercy is trapped in the desert with a psychopath who could write a book on the art of torture, Caleb’s been getting high and sticking his dick in wherever he can find room.

That’s the last thing I need him to be doing right now.

“Everyone, get the fuck out now!” One look at Farley, who knows better than to stall, and he’s moving swiftly out the door. In seconds, the music cuts off and disgruntled voices buzz as people are ushered out.

But in this room, no one moves.

“Did you not hear me! Now!” I’m seconds from pulling out my gun for a little show and scare to get them moving.

“Sorry, ladies. Gabe’s got his panties in a bunch tonight.” Caleb throws his cards to the table in an exaggerated display of annoyance. “That’s two times today you’ve made me toss a royal flush.”

The women climb out of their seats languidly, wearing pouts as they collect the few articles of clothing they arrived in before sashaying past me, offering everything from wariness to open disdain, as if I dared ruin their night.

The Perris don’t even feign to wonder if I mean them, too. They stay settled like the partners in crime that they are.

My hand twitches at my side, the Glock tucked into my pants weighty, the guilt on my conscience more so. What would they say if they knew my father ordered them dead? Despite everything, I like these two. They’re a lot like us, surviving in a world they were forced into and a path they’re trying to break free of.