Crave The Night (Midnight Breed 12)

Abruptly, he bit off a curse and vaulted to his feet. “I don’t have to sit here and listen to this bullshit. I’m leaving. You can expect to hear from my lawyer—”

Nathan took a half pace forward, subtly blocking Gates’s path. There was no need for words or physical persuasion. Gates took one look at the flat intent in Nathan’s eyes and immediately backed down.

As Gates dropped into his seat again, the last of his bravado fled and he peered up at Nathan, studying him nervously. There was defeat in the male’s face, the kind of look that told of a crushing burden carried for far too long.

Gates lowered his head. When he spoke, his voice was subdued, reduced to a thready murmur. “Have you known all along, then?”

“You and Cass covered your tracks very well,” Chase answered. “It took us a while to unravel it all, but you couldn’t hide forever. We know you own La Notte. Cass may have run the place, but the club and all its profits—illegal and otherwise—belong to you. Now we need you to tell us about any other dealings you’ve had with him.”

Gates looked up, eyes narrowed. “Since when does the Order have the license to police a citizen’s private or business affairs?”

Chase wheeled on the vampire with a snarl. “Since the night last week when Opus Nostrum tried to blow up a global peace summit.”

“Opus Nostrum,” Gates replied, genuinely taken aback. “Are you saying you suspect that I—or Cassian Gray—had anything to do with that?”

Chase lifted a shoulder. “I haven’t heard you say you didn’t.”

“Well, I didn’t. Neither did Cass, I promise you that,” Gates said. Then he exhaled a sigh and leaned back in his seat. “I should hope the Order has better leads on the attack last week than whatever supposed evidence you seem to think you have linking me, or Cassian Gray, to those terrorists of Opus Nostrum.” Gates paused, pointedly cleared his throat. “If there is nothing further—”

“He’s not telling us everything.” Nathan approached him, taking in the look of relief on the Darkhaven male’s face. “The club isn’t the only thing he’s invested in with Cassian Gray. What else are you trying to hide?”

Gates scoffed. “Cassian Gray is my friend. Our business dealings are between us. We may not run in the same social circles, but last time I checked, that wasn’t a crime.”

Nathan grunted. “Do you have many Atlantean friends?”

Gates stared, unspeaking for a long moment. “If you have questions about Cass, maybe you should ask him, not me.”

“I would,” Nathan said. “But unfortunately, someone took his head last night.”

Gates’s mouth moved soundlessly. He swallowed then. “Wha—what are you saying?”

“Cassian Gray is dead. He was attacked and killed outside La Notte.”

“Dead.” Gates’s face went white. “He worried that he’d risked too much. Stayed in the city too long. He was fearful when I saw him the other day. That didn’t seem like Cass.”

There was shock in the Breed male’s voice, and true grief as well. He’d lost a friend, and it took him a moment to process what he’d just heard.

Then a new shock seemed to overtake him. There was an even greater hush to the Darkhaven vampire’s voice. “Ah, Christ … Jordana. I must see Jordana right away. Cass made me promise, should this day ever come …”

Nathan exchanged a look with Sterling Chase. “What about Jordana?”

“Where is she?” Gates asked, a franticness creeping into his voice. “Dammit, I have to get out of here.” Gates rose, his muscles tensing as if he were about to bolt for the door. “I have to talk to Jordana right now. I need to make sure she’s safe.”

Chase stepped in, scowling as he faced Gates. “What the hell does any of this have to do with her?”

The Darkhaven male turned a troubled look on them. “My God,” he breathed. “You really had no idea, did you? My friendship with Cass, the business partnership. It was all about her. Jordana is Cassian Gray’s child.”

23

JORDANA STOOD IN THE CENTER OF THE MUSEUM LOBBY, PARALYZED, watching in a state of numbed detachment—of staggering, surreal shock—as her father was taken away and the exhibit party abruptly ended, all of her guests scattering in the Order’s wake.

There were whispers and curious, pitying glances as people hurried out. A few murmured reassurances that it must be some kind of mistake, just a terrible misunderstanding that Martin Gates could have somehow run afoul of Lucan Thorne and his warriors.

Jordana wanted to believe that.

She wanted to believe Nathan would come back any moment and tell her it was a joke or a bad dream—anything to alleviate the ragged hurt inside her.

A hurt that told her this was no mistake.