Ruthless Knights (The Dark Elite 2)

The door shuts behind them. Nausea rolls through me like I’ve just been closed into that mental image of a mausoleum, quiet and still as the dead.

Damian wastes no time, turning to me with a smile.

“And how is Samuel?” His tone is laced with something wrong, something that sounds a whole lot like amusement.

A sharp pain goes through my chest at the sound of my father’s name, but I shove it away, as well as the bite of bitterness. I’m aware Damian’s trying to provoke me, but I won’t fucking let him.

I stare him dead in the eye. “He’s dead. As you know.”

“Which is exactly why you are here.” He leans forward in his chair, propping his forearms on the desk. “May I ask you a few questions?”

It may be posed as a request, but I don’t have any choice in the matter.

“Sure. Why not?” My jaw is locked tight, and it’s hard to keep the bite out of my voice.

“Why did you and your father flee Chicago?”

Proud that my voice is steadier than I feel, I say, “I was under the impression that he was grieving the death of my mother. He was heartbroken at her loss, and he didn’t want to risk losing me too.” Another sharp twang of frustration stabs at me. “But I’m not sure if that was the case anymore. I don’t know why he did what he did.”

“You and your father were close, is that true?” He gives me a penetrating look, crossing his hands on the desk.

I thought so, but I’m not even sure of that anymore. But I don’t say that out loud. Better to keep my answers short and simple. “We were.”

“Did he tell you anything, Grace? Either before you left Chicago or after? Mention any names, say anything strange?”

“No, he didn’t,” I say firmly. “I didn’t know that he had anything to do with Landon’s imprisonment. Not until very recently.”

It’s the truth. I’ve told Hale the same thing a thousand times. Either he didn’t brief his father on those earlier interrogations, or Damian thinks he can draw something out of me that Hale was unable to discover.

Does he think Hale went too easy on me? That he didn’t press me hard enough?

Thinking back to the first time Hale barged into the room where I was being kept prisoner, looming over the bed like a darkly handsome monster as he demanded answers, I can’t quite agree.

Then again, Damian knows me. He must remember how stubborn I am.

“Let’s talk about your wedding.” The older man leans back in his chair, relaxing. Damian is an expert at playing politics, so I know not to trust the exterior. He could be seething inside, and an outside observer would never know it. “You were marrying the young cop.”

“Brian.”

Bastard, I add in my head. I’m still not sure what else to think about him other than a string of obscenities in place of his name and a string of curses for my own stupidity.

“Yes, Brian.” Damian nods. “Tell me, how did the wedding go?”

You know exactly how the wedding went.

Calmly, I answer, “By my standards, not the best. You could say I dodged a bullet.”

“You’re clever.” Damian’s eyes crease with amusement but narrow in suspicion within half a second. The abrupt switch in his mood makes my stomach drop. “Who was the other group that ambushed the ceremony?”

“I don’t know.” As I’ve told Hale. A million times. I clench my jaw because I can’t clench my hands.

“Did you call them in?” Damian presses. I’m not as good at hiding my emotions as he is, and I’m sure he can tell I’m irritated. “Brian wasn’t working alone. From what I’ve gleaned, he’d been dirty for years. He cut deals with several gangs and mafia syndicates over the years, looking the other way or actively assisting them. Did you contact one of those organizations? Maybe someone he pissed off? Did you set him up?”

“What? No.”

“You didn’t orchestrate the attack on your wedding?”

“And why would I want to do that?” I snap.