Ruthless Knights (The Dark Elite 2)

I hate being out here where I can’t see her, where I can’t anticipate harm coming her way—verbally or physically. I want to be by her side, even if she doesn’t trust me. I want to prove to her that my priority now is to protect her.

“So back the fuck off.”

Hale’s raised voice filters through from the other side of the door. It’s the first sound I’ve heard since we got kicked out.

I glance over at my brother, then at Ciro, my hands clenching into fists. We all know Hale respects and loves his old man, and to hear him speak with such fury toward his father means that Damian overstepped somewhere.

But for Damian to overstep…

Fuck, what the hell is going on in there?

“Shit,” Lucas mutters, glancing at the door.

All three of us seem to decide at the same moment that we can’t just sit around anymore. I stand at the same time Lucas does, and Ciro is right behind us. I take a step toward the door with my brother and friend flanking me, waiting for the slightest hint of a raised voice. If shit goes sideways in there, Hale will need us. Grace will need us.

And we’ll deal with the fallout afterward.

But before we have to decide whether to disobey a direct order from Damian and re-enter the room, the office door opens. All three of us stand to attention immediately, waiting for our command.

“Come in.”

Hale jerks his head, holding the door open for us. His expression is calm, but a muscle in his jaw ripples as he clenches his teeth.

We file in one by one, resuming our earlier positions behind Grace, and I'm instantly relieved now that I can see her. I have to fight to keep my gaze on the back wall of the room as I’m trained to do, not on her.

Is she okay?

My self-control is weak as fuck, and I glance down at her, assessing her posture. She remains seated in her chair, neck stiff and back straight, but Hale leans his body against the desk, looking at his father. By the glare on his face, it’s clear that Damian’s feathers have been ruffled as well.

I curse inwardly. It’s one thing for Hale to be on edge, but both of them?

Whatever went down in here while we were outside, I don’t think it’s resolved. At least, not fully.

The tension between the two is strange, uncomfortable. Hale and his father are two parts of a well-oiled machine, working together in harmony. Damian trusts his son more than he trusts his own men, rare for the mafia. Rarer still, Damian respects and loves his son. He’s never felt threatened by Hale or jealous of him, as other syndicate leaders have been with their first-born.

Hale returns the sentiment—he’s always been close to his father. While others plot to bring down their family members for their own personal gain and power, Hale would lay down his life to defend his father in an instant. His mother died a long time ago, and he’s aware that one day his father’s job will become his, but until it does, Hale’s support goes to Damian and Damian only. He’s in no rush to rise to power.

Damian snaps out of contemplation, turning to us instead, and Hale pulls away from the desk. Like a restless wolf, he doesn’t sit down, keeping his body angled in front of Grace’s as if to shield her from his father.

It’s okay. It’s a good fucking thing we’re all looking out for her, I tell myself, feeling a flare of jealousy at his defensive posture.

I’ve never been jealous of my friend. Jealousy makes you stupid, and it won’t get you anywhere but dead in our world. But in moments like these, I wish like fuck that I had the power to stand up to Damian and not end up with a bullet between my eyes.

“My apologies for keeping you in the dark,” Damian begins, directing the comment toward Lucas, Ciro, and myself. His voice has calmed, as well as his posture. “I know you’ve been a part of this mission from the beginning, but I needed to see where my son stood in all of this.”

He shoots a pointed look toward Hale, and Hale doesn’t say anything. I’m not sure if Damian found the answer he wanted, but nothing is betrayed in his face.

“I’ve always done my best to make sure innocent people don’t get caught up in our business,” the syndicate head says, his gaze lingering on Grace. She doesn’t flinch under his stare. “Despite the danger of our line of work, despite the fact that some may disagree with our ways of making a profit, honor can exist even in a life of violence and crime.”

He purses his lips, sweeping his gaze around the room. “You’ve all been part of my organization long enough to know that I don’t stand for violence where there is no need for violence. You also know that people who defy that rule find themselves… on the wrong side of a bullet.”

We all know what he’s talking about. There are people who want to join the syndicate because they think that by becoming one of us, they’ll get free access to drugs and weapons. They want to abuse that power. And Damian’s right. Our business may be organized crime, but we hold ourselves to a certain degree of decorum. Those who disrespect those rules find themselves exactly as he said—dead.

I don’t envy the bastard who finds himself on the wrong side of Damian’s wrath.

“So,” he continues. “I will allow that the

re’s a possibility Grace didn’t know anything about her father’s plans or dealings. Both recently and in the past.”