Lock You Down (Rivers Brothers 2)

"I explained it," she insisted.

She had. Described it. Even in a lot of detail. But I didn't think it was possible for me to grasp the size of it until I was face-to-face with it.

This was what a twenty-six-million-dollar mansion looked like.

Enormous.

Ostentatious.

But undeniably impressive.

"Walk now, gawk later," Reagan suggested, handing me the plant and the whiskey as she grabbed her purse and the bag full of electronics she'd made me carry on. "Okay. Deep breaths."

"Are you talking to me, or yourself?"

"Yes," she answered, stabbing a finger into the doorbell.

She didn't bother to ring the bell at the Mallick house anymore, already comfortable with that familiarity. I thought it was interesting that she didn't feel that way about the home she had mostly grown up in.

"Honey!" her mom greeted, throwing open her arms, pulling her daughter against her body, dragging her inside the door as she did so.

Her father and I looked at the two of them then each other, both nodding.

"Mr. Hoffman," I greeted, tucking the plant against my body so I could offer him my hand. "Nixon Rivers."

"Nixon, nice to meet you," he told me, giving me a hard shake, the kind I imagined all fathers gave the men their daughters brought home to meet them. The kind of handshake that said he might be twice your old, but he would fuck you up if you gave him a reason.

"You too, sir. I wanted to bring you some whiskey. Yours is the best I've had. I can't say I ever had it before Reagan, though."

"A connoisseur."

"You could say that," I agreed.

"What was your objection to ours before?" he asked, calm, casual, genuinely wanting an honest answer as he welcomed me into the foyer.

"Honestly, the price-tag," I told him, shrugging. "I make a good living, but I would consider that a 'special occasion' bottle, not the kind of bottle I would always have stocked in my bar."

"Our Reagan has been telling us to cut the price-tag," he said, nodding. "I think we need to give that some serious thought."

He would soon get to see the results of doing so, but I was biting my tongue on that.

Again, his gaze went to his wife who was still holding onto Reagan like she was afraid she'd disappear if she let go even an inch.

"How is she really?" he asked, eyes suddenly losing their spark, face going dark. His job as the patriarch was to protect his family. It couldn't have been easy to accept that he had not been able to protect Sammy. And then Reagan too.

After a lot of discussion, all involved parties had decided that it would be best if her parents and brother and friends at work weren't privy to all the facts involving the Michael situation. Namely, the fact that Reagan had set out on a mission to take down Michael, to catch him in the act.

"Some days she is better than others," I told him honestly. "The memory loss nags at her," I added.

"It's interesting," he said, voice dipping lower, making sure it didn't carry to the women who were finally breaking apart, tears being swiped off cheeks.

"What is, sir?"

"The fact that she knew what had happened to Sammy. And at whose hands. And yet she got close and alone with him at a party. And that she is dating someone in private security."

He knew.

If not everything, enough.

"That is interesting," I agreed, nodding.

"Another girl came forward this morning," he said, blindsiding me. I hadn't checked the news. "The Schmidt's daughter," he went on, clearly knowing the parents, likely the woman as well. "When she was seventeen," he bit out, jaw tight.

"It's good he has ended up behind bars," I said carefully.

"It would be better if he ended up in a grave," he said, not a hint of dishonesty in his voice. "But I am glad my girl was strong enough to make sure he never did this again."

"It's not over yet," I reminded him. There was a trial to come. A jury of peers. People could be incredibly stupid when you threw them in a room day after day while they worried about their kids, their jobs, the events they were missing while being forced to try to pay attention to the often boring details of a trial.

"It's over," he said with the confidence, the finality of someone who had the money and power to make sure something went the way he wanted. Mr. Hoffman by himself did. But he and all the fathers of all these girls? There was very little they couldn't influence should they want to.

"Oh, dear," Kitty declared, red-rimmed eyes going wide as she looked at me. Well, not at me, at the half-dead plant in my arm.

"It was a housewarming gift several years back," I told her. "From a well-meaning relative who didn't know I don't know anything about plants. I was hoping you could save it," I added, holding it out toward her.