Dukes of Madness: Chapter 14

For a brief moment, I think I might actually miss Nick.

He would never drag me to a country club for dinner, and if he did, he’d be glued to me like a shield, ripping out the eyelids of any of these assholes frowning at my blue hair.

Of course, he’d also walk me in like a dog attached to the leash he’s holding, so… no. He’s in the right place. Tucked snug in his cage, exactly where he belongs.

“Don’t let me out until you stop hating me.”

Enjoy eternity, I guess.

“Jesus, I hate these people,” Remy says, tugging aggressively at his tie. I’ve seen this man in many forms. I’ve seen the Maniac, frantic and wild-eyed, threatening to jump. I’ve seen the Duke, cocky and confident, walking into the gym to watch a fight. I’ve seen him stripped down to just ‘Remy’, sexy and shirtless, lounging lazily on his bed.

But I wasn’t prepared for Remington Maddox.

The black suit fits him like a glove, turning the rough-and-tumble man who owns me into the picture of contrast. Black pants, white dress shirt. Black blazer, white pocket square. He’d come out of his bedroom looking like this, clearly someone who’s used to dressing for such occasions. I bet he could knot that necktie blindfolded, with one hand bound behind his back.

Sure, there are signs of the artistic genius visible beneath the finery. The tattoos on his knuckles. The ink peeking out from beneath his collar. The silver rings on his fingers. The marker tucked behind his ear. His hair, combed but still somehow chaotic, as if it’s decided to rebel, too.

But the long lines of his body fill out his professionally tailored suit impeccably, and I finally understand that you can’t take the breeding out of a man—not even Remy. Two halves of himself are fighting one another here. The essence of his spirit and the obligation to his name.

I feel the same about being a Lucia. Slipping into a dress that I don’t even know the cost of yet, in order to avoid embarrassing a man who’s more powerful than me?

I have experience with that.

Blood runs deep.

So does conditioning.

“Although, seeing you in that dress almost makes it worth it.” His fingers graze my shoulder, dragging over the thin straps holding up the sheer dress. The fabric is thin—almost transparent—and only just barely a shade darker than the color of my skin. If it didn’t have tiny, shimmering beads embedded into it, I’d probably look naked at first glance. It’s provocative, yet strangely elegant, and Remy keeps sending me these looks.

Still, he moves just as fluidly in a suit and tie as he does when he’s barely dressed in the tower, loping casually through the gallery as he guides me toward a set of stairs. Around us, people turn to look, doing double takes, although it’s hard to say which of us stands out more.

Remy has a theory, apparently, bending down to press it into my ear with a drawled whisper. “Every bastard here wishes they could swap places with me tonight.”

He directs me up a set of stairs, through the double doors and into a fancy room. The plaque by the door says ‘The Alexander Room’. Remy nods to it and says, “When I was a kid, I used to call this the Santa Room.”

I laugh. “Why?”

“Because they’d have this big Christmas party in here every year, and Santa would come and take pictures. There’d be games and cookies.”

“And your parents brought you?”

“Sometimes,” his eyes dart around the room, “or a nanny.”

There’s no Santa in sight tonight. Just a room full of rich men and women sitting at round tables. It’s such a familiar sight that I half expect my father to be here, but that’s just paranoia. He’s not the country club type. Forsyth has all kinds of nooks and crannies for the wealthy elites, and he prefers dark, exclusive back rooms that people only dare whisper about.

Wait staff weave through the crowd with glasses of champagne. Remy seamlessly snags two and hands one to me. The other, he swallows in one gulp. After, he looks at the empty glass, mouth twisting. “Yeah, I’m going to need something stronger than that.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tiny packet of pills.

I’d notice North Side junk anywhere.

They’re stamped with a viper logo.

“Where do you get that?” I hiss.

He shrugs. “That guy, Cash Money. Gave him a call this morning.”

Sy’s demand rings in my ears. I’d hoped to avoid it—talking to Cash. But I can see now that Sy’s fears weren’t unfounded. To someone like Cash, a lowly nothing trying to rise up North Side’s ranks, a customer with pockets as deep as Remy’s is too juicy to ignore, no matter the rivalries. I know how it goes. He starts him on stimulants. Nothing too extreme. Build a relationship. Offer him a sample of something new, something stronger, and wait for him to come back for more. Wash, rinse, and repeat, until Remy’s so strung out on the most expensive shit—Viper Scratch, a dope so powerful, it’d end your life just as soon as ruin it—he might as well just sign his trust fund over. It’s a funnel that’s been tried and true since as far back as I can remember.

I rest my hand on his. “Don’t you dare get high and leave me to deal with this on my own.”

He gives me a long, annoyed look, but when all I do is glare back at him, he rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he grinds out, tucking them back into his pocket. “But that means you’ll be the one keeping me even all night.” His eyes land on a table across the room. Even with a finely groomed beard and dark hair, there’s no mistaking Remy’s father. Green eyes, hair graying at his temples, expensive menswear. The genes are strong.

In front of him, laid out on the table, are four phones. They each look a little different, one in a red case, another in a white, one in silver, one in black.

Maddox men and their colors…

Remy follows my gaze, scoffing. “Yeah, you can guess where I got my compulsive behavior from, can’t you? The man needs to be reachable twenty-four-seven, across multiple lines. God forbid he leaves a phone in his pocket—or worse, at home.” He slides me a long-suffering look. “So don’t expect more than half his attention.”

I take this in, nodding. “Noted.”

“Guess we need to get this over with.” Sliding our palms together, he leads us to the table, where his father is already sipping a drink. There’s only one other chair at the table.

“Dad,” Remy says, fingers reflexively squeezing mine.

He’s frozen stiff as we approach, and when we pause in front of him, I get a better look. His eyes are a darker green than Remy’s. More hazel, really. They’re also pointed right at my tits. “Remington,” he replies, eyes flitting over his son to me and then down to his phones. I see it then. The compulsion. The way his eyes flick over each black screen before returning to us. “I didn’t know you were bringing…” I can practically see him editing the words in his head. “… a date.”

“Well,” Remy caresses the small of my back, “you never said I couldn’t.”

Instantly, his father waves over a waiter, and after a tense moment of silence and standing, the man returns with another chair, squeezing it beside the one that was meant for Remy.

“This is Lavinia,” Remy says, surprising me by pulling out my chair. I take it, easing down, fighting the urge to run. “She’s the Duchess.”

If his father’s eyes weren’t affixed to one of his phones—the one in a glossy, crimson red case—I think he would have rolled them at the title. “Of course. I should have known.”

My muscles tighten at whatever implication that was meant to convey.

Remy sits next to me, draping that long arm over my shoulder. Again, his father gestures to the waiter. Like before, it only takes a few minutes for him to return with three drinks. I shouldn’t be surprised at the lack of being given a choice, but I’m still on the heels of that shopping trip, and suddenly, I find myself unwilling to be told what to eat or drink. Not by another entitled man.

Remy, on the other hand, looks at that glass like it’s water in a desert, immediately lifting it to his mouth. I pin him with a look. He grimaces but only takes a small, measured sip. Under the table, I squeeze his thigh.

His father begins, “Normally, I would have welcomed the thought of you bringing a date, but tonight, I’d planned to discuss your treatment.” He leans back in his seat. “I’m not sure that’s appropriate discussion in front of your… friend.”

Maybe the champagne is already going to my head, because the words are out of my mouth before I even have a chance to grasp him. “His Duchess.”

His father shoots me a nasty look. “I don’t care if you want to call yourself the Queen of England. It’s a private matter.” Mr. Maddox is smaller in stature than his son, but you wouldn’t know it by the way he holds himself. Aloof, assured, that special jut of his chin that all the powerful men in this city seem to favor.

“Whatever you say to me, you can say in front of Vinny.” Remy grabs my hand from his thigh and lifts it up, kissing my knuckles. “Actually, she’s the reason I’ve had a breakthrough.”

“A breakthrough.” Mr. Maddox laughs. “Is that what you call having an outburst in Dr. Weatherby’s office?”

“You mean the doctor you’ve been conspiring with?” he asks, smiling crisply. “I know you’ve been paying her off to manipulate my therapy.”

“Is this some new fixation, Remington?” His father looks unconcerned by the accusation, reaching out to adjust his row of phones before sitting forward to pin Remy with a stare that drips of condescension. “I’m paying her fee, a hefty one at that, because that’s what it takes to get your head on straight.”

Remy shakes his head. “Drop the bit, dad. I know what went down at Saint Mary’s.”

His eyebrows rise. “Do you, now? I’d certainly like to hear about it. No one would tell me a thing.” At Remy’s scoff, his dad leans back, frowning. “I don’t know what kind of narrative you’ve spun, but my memories are perfectly clear. My son was troubled, and I wanted him to get the best care available. Is that such a crime?”

“Don’t do that.” Remy’s fists clench so hard that I fight a wince, my fingers still entwined with his. “Don’t twist everything around.”

“What am I twisting?” He raises his palms, and there’s an unavoidable exhaustion in his eyes. “You always do this, Remy. You latch onto some absurd suspicion and build it up in your mind until it makes you crazy. This is why you need to see Weatherby.”

Remy’s nose flares. “You told her not to let me talk about Tate.”

“Why would I do that?” he asks, convincingly dumbfounded. Even though he glances at his phones again. “What would I possibly have to gain by paying someone to stop you from talking about a troubled, lonely street urchin who killed herself?”

“Don’t talk about her like that!” Remy snaps.

His father tosses me a look, as if to make sure I’m watching the spectacle. “Now who’s preventing whom from talking about the poor girl? Because if you want to talk about her, then we can at least be honest. Tatum’s death was a tragedy. But she only hung around you and your friends because she was a leech, and deep down, you’ve always known it.” His eyes flick over to me before narrowing on his son. “And she doesn’t matter anymore, Remington. She’s dead. What more is there to talk about?”

I wait for the explosion. For Remy to jump out of his seat and make a scene. I’m about to jump out of my seat and make one myself, but Remy leans forward and speaks in a low, even tone. “You’re right. She is dead, but she sure as fuck didn’t kill herself.”

“Here we go,” he says, reaching for his glass, “more delusions. That’s what I’m paying Weatherby hand over to fist to put a stop to.”

“It’s not a fucking delusion. It’s a goddamn memory,” Remy hisses, and when his father looks down again, louder, “Would you stop looking at the goddamn phones! You know what I saw that night—what triggered my break—and that’s why you had me locked up. You were afraid I’d be tied to it, and even worse, it’d create a scandal. That’s all you care about. Image and prestige. Not giving a shit that one of my best friends was murdered—in front of me!”

That last line is loud, rising above the chattering voices. The room stills, eyes swinging our way.

Mr. Maddox’s eyes flare hot. “Do not,” he whispers, voice clipped, “make a scene!”

I take a deep breath and say, “Mr. Maddox, Remy’s telling the truth.”

“Is that so?” The man watches his son, disappointment hardening his features. “I knew it was a mistake to let you attend Forsyth. You’re just getting worse, using the people around you to validate your psychosis. You do realize that’s what he’s doing,” he asks me, specifically. Mr. Maddox gestures to Remy. “He’s using you to give these figments life. It’s what he’s always done. Or,” he adds, turning to Remy, “have you not told her exactly what Tate was to you? How she helped fuel your delusions? How she’d encourage you to throw away your meds? To give in to your sickness?”

I glance at Remy, surprised to hear this. The way everyone talks about Tate, she comes off like the second coming. But from the way Remy’s eyes darken, I sense there’s some truth to his father’s words.

“She wanted me to be myself,” Remy says, voice tight.

His father scoffs. “She wanted you to be unstable. To spend money, party, do drugs—”

Remy’s hand comes down on the table—hard. “You didn’t know her!”

“I know enough,” he hisses back, barely keeping composure. “She wasn’t good for you. If you’d rather remember her differently, I have no problem with that. But I will not have you spinning her suicide into some elaborate conspiracy to further—”

“Tate wasn’t alone that night on the cliffs,” I cut in, because maybe Mr. Maddox is right. Maybe I don’t know the full story. But there’s one thing I’m completely sure of. “My sister was with her.”

“Your sister?” he asks, giving me a hard look.

“Leticia Lucia.” There’s not a soul in Forsyth that doesn’t know that name. Not just because our father is powerful and well-known, but because when she went missing, a call went out in the community. If Leticia Lucia was seen, she was to be returned home. Immediately. “My father is—”

“Don’t insult me. I know who your father is,” he says, the disdain clear on his features. Being under the weight of his gaze is just as intense as being under his son’s, and because of that, when he tilts his head, assessing me with a lazy, pompous scowl, I already know what’s coming. “Last I heard, he’d sold you off to the flesh trade. I didn’t realize the Velvet Hideaway rented out by the night. Is this something new Daniel’s son is trying out? Because if I’m bankrolling your appearance here,” he tips his glass to his lips, eyes crawling down my body, “we might as well head to the parking lot so I can get my money’s worth.”

Remy bolts up, rage clouding his eyes. His arms are halfway across the table when his father slowly shakes his head. “You touch me, son, and I’ll have you sectioned in a heartbeat. You’ll be locked up, away from your friends, your Dukes, and your precious little Duchess.”

Remy shows his teeth, tendons straining. “Keep pushing me, old man.”

“You know, my son doesn’t like liars,” Mr. Maddox tells me, looking far too casual. “Now might be a good time to drop the act.”

I eye him. “What act?”

He gestures to the space between us—me and Mr. Maddox—and smirks. “This act where you pretend we’ve never met before. The introduction, the forced ignorance…” He mockingly grimaces. “It’s all a bit flimsy.”

Remy’s green eyes swing to me, wide and angry.

My jaw drops at the implication. “I’ve never met you in my life!”

His father just stares at Remy. “This all makes sense now. My son, all cozied up with one of Lionel’s daughters. The lesser one, granted. Has she told you why everyone suspects her of murdering her sister?” He looks at me, flashing a placid grin. “Oh, I suppose she hasn’t. I’ve heard whispers, though. Sibling rivalry can get rather ugly, can’t it, Miss Lucia?”

Remy cuts in, “She didn’t kill her sister.”

Mr. Maddox shrugs. “Maybe. But how do you know? If I remember correctly, this little delusion of yours has never featured any actual suspects.” He dips his chin toward me. “Who’s to say it wasn’t her? She is a Lucia, after all. You know as well as I do what they’re capable of. Or have you already forgotten what triggered your first episode?” He spins the stem of his wineglass, eyes full of a polite malice. “Truthfully, I think I preferred Tate.”

I shoot upright, hand on Remy’s back. “Come on, this piece of shit isn’t worth it.”

Moving my hand to his bicep, I get a feel for how tense and coiled he is, every muscle in his body ready to leap. Of all the versions of Remy I’ve seen, this is one I haven’t experienced yet.

The fighter.

I lower my voice to a whisper, soft and coaxing. “Remy. I need you to look at me now. Can you do that?”

He obeys, eyes sliding to the side, meeting mine through a fog of rage. Immediately, it begins to fall away, leaving a man who’s just a touch too raw—too lost. “Vinny…” I can practically see his throat closing around what he wants to say, but his eyes are screaming it.

“Let’s go,” I decide, pulling him away.

I feel every eye as we walk out of the room, but honestly, I don’t give a fuck. I stand by him, shoulders pushed back, chin raised high. Let these entitled assholes think what they want. Maybe they see Lavinia Lucia, daughter of North Side. Maybe they see its cast off, South Side’s gem-studded whore. But I make damn sure I leave as the Duchess to West End, hand-in-hand with my Duke.

Neither of us speaks until we’re outside the nearest door, huddled under a curved awning. Remy presses his back against the wall and grabs for me, wrenching me so fast and hard that my shoulder gives a protest at the force. His fingers push frantically at the hem of my dress, shoving it up until it’s bunched around my waist. I know what he’s looking for and I won’t deny him. Not when he has that look in his eye, wild and vicious.

His fingers count the points of the star, one after the other, over and over. His lips move as he counts, but there’s no voice to it, soundless yet rushed. On his fifth pass, he finally gulps in a large lungful of air.

“Remy…” A tremor runs through me at his touch. For once, it soothes me as much as it does him. “You know I believe you. Sy and Nick believe you.”

His eyes snap up to mine. “Have you fucked my dad?”

“What?” I shriek, fighting to lower my voice. “No!”

But I can see the doubt in Remy’s eyes, the swirling suspicion. “He said you’ve met.”

“He’s lying,” I insist, flinging my arms out. “Where would I have met him? When I was a kid? When I was at the motel, under constant supervision? Or at the Hideaway, where even Nick had to break in to—” But the word gets trapped in my throat—the reminder of what the three of them did. How they claimed me.

I can see it land on Remy’s face though, eyes darkening. “You promise.”

“Yes.”

“You swear on your fucking life.”

“Yes!”

His eyes fall closed when I cup his cheek, finally letting my dress flutter back down my legs. “He does this, Vinny. He twists everything around until I don’t know up from down. Fuck, he makes me so fucking crazy!” He runs a hand through his hair, pulling too hard at the roots. “It’s bad enough that my brain can’t decide which way is up sometimes—that it thinks it’s a rollercoaster—but he makes it worse. He does it on purpose. He knows I can’t—” His teeth slam shut with whatever he wants to say, and I don’t like it. Ever since we arrived here, Remy’s shut himself up, pushed it all down. It’s not like him.

My thumb rubs a soothing circuit against his cheekbone. “Fathers suck, Remy. Something in this town poisons them.”

Still tense, he reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone. He clutches it tight, and for a second, it looks like he’s about to hurl it across the parking lot. And then I realize it isn’t Remy’s phone.

It’s his father’s.

The red case is distinctive, and Remy glares down at it. His rebellion. “It wasn’t true,” he demands, eyes flashing angrily. “Those things he said about Tate were a lie. She didn’t know—she didn’t understand my diagnosis. There was never a time she didn’t want me to be okay.”

“I know,” I say, even though I don’t. It’s just that I can see the storm brewing in his eyes, and I don’t think I can handle it alone. “Let’s go home. To Sy.”

But he breaks away, pacing a tight, frenetic path back and forth. “You can’t lie to me, Vinny. Not ever. When you lie, it lets him in. You understand that, don’t you? He’ll use it.” It’s only then that I notice the parking lot, the rain pelting the pavement, the flashes of lightning in the distance. “You weren’t there. I know you weren’t there. I saw you, but I didn’t see you. I know I didn’t. I know it.” But I see the seed of doubt in his eyes, and it doesn’t matter that he’s trying to fight it back, to keep hold on what he knows to be true.

“I can call him,” I stutter out, digging into my tiny clutch purse for my phone. “Sy can come and get us, so you won’t have to drive the bike in the rain, and then we’ll—”

“No.” His hand closes over my wrist, and when I look up, his eyes are black. “I’ve been patient, but you’ve been ducking my questions, Vinny. You need to tell me all of it—everything. About your sister, about that night, about what happened after.” I don’t even notice the sharp, resentful thing in his eyes until it suddenly morphs into a steel resolve. “And I know where I need to be when I hear it.”