Claiming His Forever

I drop the letter opener and pick up a pad of paper and a pen. Both are branded with the word Mystique in calligraphy.

I toss the pad at him. Maury fumbles, drops it, then leans down, and picks it up with a loud huffing noise.

I throw him the pen and this time he manages to catch it.

“All the locations of the shipments,” I tell him. “The addresses. Where in the houses they’re hidden. Now. Before I lose my patience.”

“Okay, okay,” Maury says, clicking the pen, sweat sliding in buckets down his forehead. “And Kristian, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for it to come to this.”

I turn my back to him, my gaze coming to rest on a photograph of me and him as boys, standing in front of a glistening lake together. We’re holding up a giant fish. Dad’s in the background, grinning over at us, and I remember how Mom smiled as she took the photo.

I know that Maury is talking about more than the drugs.

I didn’t mean for it to come to this.

He’s talking about the path his life has taken.

I understand that to some extent, but at the same time, men in our position have to be vigilant, disciplined. I haven’t become one of the most powerful men on the East Coast – in both legitimate and mob businesses – by indulging in drugs and booze and women every chance I get.

I hold the fucking line.

I don’t let distractions into my life.

“Boss,” Maury says.

He hasn’t called me boss while we’re alone in a long time, but he must be able to sense how quickly and inevitably my rage is growing.

I turn to find him placing the pad on the desk. His handwriting is a scrawl, but I can read it. There are three houses, with the hiding places written next to them in parentheses.

“This better be all of it,” I snarl, turning the pad over.

“It is. I swear. And … boss.”

“What?” I snap.

“Who talked?” he says. “Who ratted on me? Whatever else I did, the last time I checked, ratting is the lowest of the low.”

I shake my head slowly, disgusted.

“Nobody ratted, you clumsy bastard,” I growl. “You’re not as sneaky as you think you are. You’ve been acting strangely for weeks. I put a tail on you.”

I pick up the notepad and head for the door.

“Stay here,” I tell him. “If you try and run, I’m putting a bounty on your head. At two million, you’ll be dead before sundown. I’ll send some of the boys to pick you up.”

“I’ll stay here,” he whines. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, pushing the door open. “You’ve already said that.”

Chapter Three

Kimberly

“Please be quiet, okay?” I whisper.

I place the bag on the floor of the basement and unzip it. Tinkerbell sticks her head out, grinning, her tongue lolling.

She always loves an adventure.

She sees this as one big game.

I wish I could somehow explain to her that if she makes too much noise when the potential buyers are upstairs, she could cost me my job.

“Okay?” I go on, as she climbs from the bag and starts to sniff around the basement.

I’ll have to tell the buyers that they can’t see the basement today for some reason. I haven’t thought of an excuse yet. Maybe I can say that the flooring isn’t complete yet or something like that.

This is a new home, after all.

The driver laughed when he realized what I had in the bag on my lap. Vinnie was an older man, probably around sixty, with a bald head and a big round face.

For a second I thought he reminded me of Dad, but then I realized he reminded me of my make-believe idea of what Dad was like. I was too young when Dad died to remember anything about him.

“Please don’t tell anybody,” I murmured to Vinnie, running my hands over Tinkerbell’s fur as she popped her head from the bag.

“Don’t worry, miss,” he said cheerfully. “Your secret is safe with me.”

Now, Tinkerbell walks around the basement, shifting her leg and making as if to pee on the brand new washer-dryer. I quickly dart over to her and scoop her up before she can, and then cradle her to my chest one-handed as I use my other hand to collect her puppy pads from the bag. I spread more than a dozen of them around the basement, covering most of the floor. Hopefully, that will catch any accidents.

Once that’s done, I reach into the bag and take out a small Chihuahua-sized bone with chunky chicken pieces attached.

That gets her attention.

Her ears perk up and she trots over, sitting down with her mouth open, her tongue twitching hungrily.

She’s normally only allowed one of these every couple of days, but it’s the only way I can think to keep her quiet for a couple of hours. She likes to take her time with them, gnawing then slowly, sometimes just lying with her cheek resting against the bone.