Sancte Diaboli: Part Two (The Elite King's Club 7)

“Are you fucking talking about Khales? Still?”

“No!” Her eyes are wide in shock.

I glare at her.

She winces. “Okay, sort of.”

I shake my head in disbelief, pulling my gaze off her and back out the window. “Madison, shut the fuck up.”

“Always nice chatting with you, Bran.” She stands but rests her hand on my shoulder. “I mean it. You’re going to be a staunch father and uncle. We need that. We all need you.” Then she leaves, and I’m left with the faint echo of her words for the remainder of the flight. I can’t think about it right now. I just need to bury Bailey and Cash.

The jet lands and I stretch my arms over my head, yawning. Saint and Bishop are laughing together, and an unreasonable side of jealousy rears its ugly head.

“So, did she tell you the good news? Hmmm?” I say to Bishop.

Bishop looks between her and me.

Saint shakes her head. “No, I haven’t yet.”

I choke on a laugh. “That’s a fucking first.” I make my way to the door. “Congratulations, Uncle Bishop. You’re having another baby.” I take the steps down onto the tarmac and smirk when I see the Bugatti parked up beside Bishop’s Maserati, Nate’s Lambo, and Spyder’s Porsche. I make my way for the Bug but pause when my hand is on the door handle, staring up at the jet. Matte black with the letters TEKC in cursive writing on the side. So fucking extra.

I point to it when Bishop steps off the stairs and onto the tarmac. “We need to upgrade to a 747 if we wanna fit all these fucking kids on our future flights.”

Bishop cracks out a laugh, dragging his aviators down over his nose. “Actually not a bad idea.”

Saint is walking down the stairs, hoodie on, loose ripped jeans, and Converse. I don’t know if she means to do it, but everything looks like a fashion show with her. Saint looks between the Bug and the Mas.

I flex my jaw. “Try me, Saint. See what happens.”

She turns toward the passenger seat of my car and opens the door. I nudge my head at Bishop. “We’re going to stay at the hotel until I figure shit out with the house.”

“Which one?” Bishop raises his eyebrows at me. “I mean, the manor or The Coven?” My face falls. I forgot about that fucking house. Every parent in The Elite Kings leaves their houses to their kids when they pass, as well as all businesses. It’s why I’m stuck with Vitiosis Hotel in New York, passed down from generation to generation. Remodeling the hotel after Lucan passed was one of the first decisions I made. The hotel was child’s play. It’s the casinos we all own where the real money is, and it makes it easy for us to funnel cash. Most business are all under The Elite Kings, and we split it equally once our generation takes the gavel. So now, not only do we have decisions to make when it comes to the underbelly of crime, we’ve also got our legitimate businesses that we have to continue to oil. Needless to say, I’m not ready for a kid.

I slip into the driver’s seat and hit the window down. “I’ll go there after the burial. Benny has a lead on the other two as well.”

Bishop disappears into his car beside me. He revs his engine. “To VH?”

Nate’s car roars loudly, and then Spyder’s. “All in!”

I slide into first gear and floor it forward. We shoot back in our seats as I direct us toward the exit gates where men are holding the tarmac lights. Saint is on her phone, unbothered with the speed before she turns the radio on. I look into my rearview mirror, ripping up the emergency brake to drift sideways onto the street that leads to the freeway. She starts humming to the song in the background, and I instantly want to know what the song is called just because of how it sounds coming out of her mouth. Ray-Bans are covering her eyes, her hair wild and sprawled around her shoulders, and I fucking swear to God my heart skips a beat as the setting sun hits her skin. “JOYRIDE” by Sonia reads across the computer screen built into the dash. Damn. She sings the shit out of this. Once we hit the freeway, I settle down to a more respectful speed, letting Nate and Bishop have at it. We all know Nate won’t give it to anyone else, and I don’t give enough of a fuck about winning a race like I used to a couple years ago.

I wait until she’s finished the song before I turn to face her. “What if the baby is a girl?”

She pushes her glasses down her nose to look at me, her feet up on the dashboard. “Then she’s one lucky girl.”