Dukes of Madness: Chapter 3

I don’t drive away from the tower. The thought of sitting in a car, waiting on traffic lights, trapped in the silence of my own breaths makes my skin feel too tight. Instead, I walk, heading south on the Avenue, fighting off the tug of two equally destructive and kinetic magnets. The one latched to my back threatens to pull me back West, to the Dukes, to family, toward Lavinia.

To the people that hate me.

I left so fast, I didn’t even think to put on a shirt, and the October air is getting crisp. Hell, I barely remembered to grab my shoes before rushing down the stairs, the thought of being in that tower one second longer makes my stomach roil. Even though my jaw still smarts from Remy’s punch, he wasn’t the reason I ran away like a bitch.

It was her. Lavinia. My Little Bird and her broken wings.

The sight of her on that couch, skin sallow, purple and bruised, ribs visible, packed a harder punch than Remy’s fist ever could. It was the thought of her opening her eyes and looking into mine, because I’ve spent the last four goddamn days trying to forget them, and fine.

Fine, I’m a pussy.

I don’t care who knows it.

My fingers curl tight, emotions rocking through me, wild and furious. When I left her with her father, I knew it was a punishment. I just didn’t think…

Yeah, asshole, you didn’t want to.

“What was that?” A junkie asks, and I skid to a stop. He’s propped up against the chain link fencing rolled over a store window, left eye twitching. “You call me an asshole?”

“Nah,” I say, jolting at the realization I’d spoken the words aloud. For a second, my muscles tense and shiver, eager at the prospect of a brawl. But it hadn’t helped to throw fists with Remy and I doubt whaling on some tweaker is going to do much, either. “Sorry, man.”

I pick up my pace, striding down to the corner, ignoring the pull at my back. Going back will result in another beatdown. I’ve never seen Remy so livid, so wild, in my life. Not even after Tate. Back then, he was desperate and broken. Tonight, he was like a terror. Another round will come my way if I try to get back in the tower. That much is obvious.

I bite back a scream, slamming my fist into a hard metal street sign.

Slam! Fuck Lucia.

Slam! Fuck Perez.

Slam! Fuck North Side.

Slam! Slam! Slam! Slam! Slam!

I hit, and I hit, and I hit, until the sign is dented and smeared with blood. If my knuckles ache, I don’t feel it through the numbness. Only one person deserves a punch. One. And I can’t very well bash my own fucking teeth in, can I? So I allow the other magnet, the one that’s provided me with a sense of purpose for the past two years, to drag me toward it. My other home.

South Side.

The walk is long enough that I’m no longer shaking with rage when I see the neon light of the Hideaway buzzing overhead like a beacon. It’s cold, but despite the fact I’m not wearing a shirt, all I feel is hot and impatient. I weave through the cars and walk up to the front door. This place and I go way back—the Velvet Hideaway. I was here when Daniel erected the sign. I was here when we were moving in beds by the dozen, installing the security system, digging the foundation for The Pit. In some ways, this place is more my legacy than the tower in West End ever was.

I spend a second looking up at it, all its windows and empty places. There was a time I’d be buzzing differently at the sight of this house, electrified with the anticipation of going down to the basement. By the time we’d moved Lavinia into this place, Daniel had already laid down the law where I was concerned. No more time alone with her. He said I was getting too interested, too invested.

“Never let your dick write checks your ass can’t cash, Bruin.”

Daniel was always good at that, making a threat sound like sage advice. It hasn’t really hit me until this exact moment, but I possibly—maybe—sort of miss sitting in his office, surrounded by the sharp scent of cigar tobacco and liquor. Daniel was full of himself, but he also wasn’t stingy with his praise. A job well done never went over his head. He had a way of making all this feel… right.

Briefly, I wonder what he’d have to say about what I did to Lavinia.

I don’t really need to, though.

He’d tell me that’s business. I offered her something special and she spat in my face. He’d tell me that’s what I get for catching feelings, as if she had the right to them. He’d tell me to pull on my boots and get to work, because there’s plenty of pussy out there in the big, bad world, and the finest is located right here.

The bouncer, Frank, stops me before I cross the threshold. He’s a massive motherfucker that Killian recruited from the Forsyth football team after blowing out his knee. He casts a wary glance at my face, my bare chest, and then down to the blood dripping off my hand. “Nick,” he says, tone even. “You’re hurt.”

“Ran into a street sign on the way over.” I hold up my hands, palms facing out. “I’m not looking for trouble. Just here to let off a little steam.”

His eyes tighten. “Augustine isn’t going to let you near any of the girls looking like that.”

Internally, I bristle at the thought of being turned away. I helped build this fucking place with my own two hands. Some of these girls were sent up from the Avenue based on my own personal fucking recommendation. “You don’t need to worry about Auggy, and you sure as hell don’t need to worry about me.” If he doesn’t let me in, where will I go? To my parents? Jesus. Not a chance. I’m all out of homes. “I’ll be chill, promise.”

He sighs and says, “I’ll let you in, but only because you did me a solid during Mardi Gras.” He turns and reaches behind him, returning with a black suit jacket in his hands. He throws it at me. “Put that on. You can’t go in there without a shirt.”

“Thanks, man,” I say, shrugging it on, wincing when my busted knuckles drag across the fabric. “Owe you one.”

“Yeah, yeah, just clean yourself up before you get any action.” He opens the door and gives me a last hard look before letting me pass. “Show your ass and I’m dragging it out of here. Killer doesn’t tolerate bullshit.”

“Noted.” I slip by before he has a change of heart and walk under the crystal chandelier, toward the main room. I still remember how this place used to look like before Daniel gussied it up into Forsyth’s best and tackiest whorehouse. His son, Killian, has kept it running, but already I see the difference in how father and son operate their business. It’s less of a sleazy lounge and more of a modern playground. On the patio out back is a bar, packed with both men and women who are here more for the atmosphere than the pussy. The Pit I’d put so much of my blood and sweat into is notably dark and vacant since Killian got the keys and his Lady demanded it be shut down. No secret as to why. Story Austin’s public show with Rath last year pulled some serious numbers and she’s still not over being blackmailed into doing it.

Other than that, everything seems to be business as usual. There are still dozens of girls roaming around the lounge wearing sexy little outfits that leave little to the imagination, but at least the current King’s girls look healthy and clean.

My eyes skim past the tits and ass to the familiar door that leads downstairs. Used to be a time that was all I cared about. Getting down to Lavinia, smirking at her petulant little scowls, tossing her something sweet just to see the spark of satisfaction in her eyes. It wasn’t the same, though. Back in the early days, all of her frantic energy contained in one shitty motel room, there had been an energy between us. Sure, she still hated me. And yeah, she still kicked me. And it’s true that she still tried to run and hit and scream. But—

But what?

There was just this feeling. Like we were all each other had, two prisoners of South Side—a strange, dirty place that both of us were alien to. Back then, the hatred was just part and parcel of it. The contempt, the rivalry between west and north, was a little piece of home for us.

So why does it feel like I lost her the second she crossed that threshold to the basement?

That’s where I went last time I was here, pretending I wasn’t the one who’d violated her hours earlier. That the ink in her flesh wasn’t Remy’s skilled work. That my own brother didn’t watch, getting hard at the thought of shoving that telephone pole between his legs into her pretty cunt. It was the morning Killian and I made our deal, one that I’d set into motion months before. Ultimately, I had to fight for her, win her against Perez, but that wasn’t a hardship. That was me marking my territory. Lavinia Lucia was the love of my goddamn life, and I would have done anything for her.

Or so I thought.

Maybe I don’t even know what love is. Or maybe I’ve been saturated with the rot of South Side for so long that nothing comes out and nothing gets in. Or maybe my love is just like the rest of me.

Ruinous.

Mangled.

Selfish.

Fuck if I know. I only know one thing, and it’s that rejection isn’t a sting. It’s a goddamn amputation. 237. Mayhem. I gave her everything in my power to bestow. I showed her my love, and she showed me her hatred. I stole for her, bartered for her, carved her out the best place in the only life I’ve got, and it didn’t even scratch the surface of her skin.

As I take a seat at the bar, I hear her words ringing in my ears. “I’ll never love you! I’d rather die in that fucking elevator than be with you. I’d rather be with Perez!”

Bitterly, I think, Called that bitch’s bluff, but the satisfaction that should accompany it was lost days ago to the wetness of her eyes as she got down on her knees and begged.

She begged me.

For once, she looked at me and saw someone worth appealing to.

And it was out of desperation.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Without really meaning to, my gaze makes contact with Auggy’s down the bar.

“Pretty Nick,” she says, eyeing me with a coldness I’m not expecting. “Looks like your day’s been as shitty as you are.”

In the mirror behind the bar, I get a good look at myself for the first time since leaving the tower. She’s not wrong. Even in the shadowy light, the pulpy shiner and split lip Remy got in before Sy broke us up looks like I went three rounds with a cranked-out gorilla and lost.

“Feel like it, too,” I admit. “Isn’t this where men go to make their shit days better?” I glance back at the room, assessing the merchandise. My eyes linger over a pair of twins sitting by the fireplace. I’ve seen them around here before, but we’ve never been formally introduced.

“Sorry, we’re all out of shit-day improvement plans.” She gives me a small, fake smile. “But I can make it worse if you’d like.”

My eyes narrow. Auggy is a tough bitch who’s never been anything but civil to me. “What crawled up your ass and died?”

She shrugs, rubbing a glass between a towel. “Maybe I just don’t like you anymore.”

“I don’t need you to like me, I need you to serve me,” I toss back, shoulders straightening. “I’ve still got a shitload of credit in this joint, in case you’ve forgotten.” Daniel only ever let his best men run free on the merchandise, and I was always one of them. Doesn’t mean I always took him up on it. I’ve got enough credit here to fuck my way through the first two floors.

“I haven’t forgotten. Around here, we seldom do.” She slams the glass down in front of me, never breaking my gaze as she reaches for a bottle of water, uncaps it, and pours it in. “There. Service with a smile. And look at that, it’s free.”

I hold her stare, unblinking. “I’ll take two shots of whiskey and both brunettes.” Jerking my chin toward the twins, I send Auggy a dark grin. “Don’t fuck with me, Augustine. I know who really runs this joint, and he won’t—”

I hear a snort behind me, accompanied by a familiar, rasping cackle. “I doubt you know who runs this joint, shit-for-brains.” Mrs. Crane circles around the bar and stands next to Auggy, hunched in that ancient way of hers. Fuck. I’d somehow forgotten that there’s someone in between Auggy and Killer when it comes to the operation of this place. She gives me an unimpressed look, from the shiner I’m sporting to my bloody knuckles. “So you and your limp ballsack finally crossed the wrong person, eh?” She flicks the lighter and presses the tip of her cigarette against it, taking a slow drag. “Or that’s what I heard.”

I narrow my eyes at her, annoyance flickering through me at the way they’re both regarding me. Like I’m the trash someone dragged in on the bottom of their designer shoe. “What did you hear?”

Mrs. Crane sniffs. “That you finally got your dick into the Lucia girl and dumped her at her daddy’s feet like a used condom.”

I press the cold glass to my knuckles, lowering my eyes to hide the flinch. “Who told you that?”

“Sonny, I’ve got forty-years in this town. There’s nothing that happens in any cobwebby corner of it that I don’t know about.” She clucks her tongue. “It’d be smart of you to start thinking with your brain and not your fists for a while. As you can imagine, our expectations are low.”

My fingers tighten around the glass, tearing at the cut on my knuckles. “Maybe I wouldn’t have had to if your golden boy, Killian, hadn’t given me a raw deal.” Lurching forward, I point my finger at her. “She was never the Dukes’ to take.”

With the speed of a viper, the old woman slaps my finger out of her face and sneers. “Point that finger at me again and the next place you’ll find it is sitting next to your prostate.”

I stare at her. Delores fucking Crane. Everyone knows she’s a true G, and she’s never had to say it. She’s just got this spirit, this hardness, this fire. There’s only one other woman I know that could walk through so much hellfire and come out stronger.

Fuck. Fucking fuck!

I swallow the water and slam the glass on the counter. “So, what? You going to deny me service because of some gossip?”

Auggy and Delores share a look, and the older woman shakes her head. “I’m not some low-rent pimp, Pretty Prick. My girls fuck who they want for the price they want.” She sweeps a hand out, saying, “Whoever will have you is welcome to whatever disappointment you’ve got swinging between your legs,” and then vanishes behind a door.

“Come on, Auggy.” I’m too tired to put on any charm, and it galls me to know what I must look like, a man on the edge of breaking. “I just need a drink and a good fuck. The best way to get over someone is by getting under someone new, right?”

She looks away, face tense. “I told her it’d be good with you. Did you know that?” She nods to the door leading down to the basement. “I stood in that room and told her it wouldn’t be so bad. That she should feel lucky to snag the position of Duchess.” Jerkily, she retrieves a bottle of whiskey, splashing it sloppily into my empty glass. “You made a goddamn fool out of me, Nick. But I’m about to do you a favor.”

I take the glass when she’s done, throwing it back and savoring the burn. “Oh yeah? And what’s that?”

“Little piece of advice.” She swipes the empty glass out of my hand before it even touches the bar. “Learn how to get down on your knees for something other than licking pussy because this is going to take Olympian levels of apology.”

“I’m not apologizing to anyone,” I say, voice rising. “Not that it’s any of your goddamn business, but I didn’t do anything wrong! She’s the one who rejected me! She was riding on my brother—in public—just to provoke me.” I told her that I loved her. I can’t bear to admit it. I sneer, wrenching the bottle of whiskey from her grip, ignoring her flinch. “Why is everyone so surprised it worked? If anything, everyone should thank me. I saved the Counts a trip across town.”

“Nick,” she says, hand dropping beneath the counter. She keeps a pistol under there. I know. I’m the one who supplied it. “I think you need to go.”

But I’m not ready to leave. I came here to fuck this… this sick fucking feeling out of my system, and I’m not leaving until that happens. I walk toward the fireplace, making eye contact with one of the twins. Up close, she’s pretty enough, different enough. Short, dark hair. Small tits. Thick gold chains looped around her neck and wicked, razor-sharp nails studded in jewels. I can do this—her—them. I can fuck it away. I can make them scream.

But at my nod, she whispers to her sister, her perfect carbon-copy, before standing up and leading her pointedly away. And just so I can’t possibly misunderstand, they get three steps toward the staircase before shooting me matching icy, steel glares.

I snarl, taking a swig from the bottle. “Your tits are too small, anyway.”

The next girl I approach is more Auggy’s style, sleek and full of presence with her black hair, almond-shaped eyes, and bronze skin. She’s draped over a settee, looking bored.

I tip the neck of my bottle toward her. “What about you, beautiful? Got some time for—”

“Nope.” She has the guts to look me right in the eye as she says it, which is the only reason I grit my teeth and leave without telling her she’s not even that great.

But the third girl I try is just the same, rebuffing me with a tart scoff. “I’m all booked up,” she says, inspecting her nails, as she very clearly is doing fuck-all for the foreseeable evening.

I save the fourth girl in the room for last. She’s a little too blonde, a little too curvy, a little too shrewd-looking. The moment I approach her, I know it’s a mistake, that all of her delicate yet hard features are just going to drive the knife in deeper. And yet…

“What about you?” I move to graze her cheek with my dirty, blood-stained hand, but before I make contact, a massive hand clamps over my shoulder, dragging me back.

“Touch any of these girls without permission, and you’ll wish you were back in the fight with whoever gave you that beatdown.” Killian looks down at the blonde. “Sorry about that, Candy. He won’t bother you anymore. Right, Nick?”

I snatch my shoulder from his grip, jaw tight. “I have credit.”

“And nothing to spend it on.” I don’t miss his balled-up fist, or the gun holster strapped against his side. I briefly wonder if Lavinia would be sad to find out I’d been shot and killed by the Lord King. “Keep your mouth shut and leave, and I’ll think about not adding to that nice collection of bruises you’ve got there.”

“I’m not leaving until—”

“Buy a clue, Bruin! None of them are going to fuck you. Not after what you did to your ‘Little Bird’.” When all I do is stare dumbly at him, he snorts a laugh. “Maybe loyalty isn’t something you’re familiar with anymore, so let me spell it out for you.” Harshly, Killian explains, “Birds of a feather flock together. You fuck with one of them, you fuck with all of them. You’re persona non-grata around here. They wouldn’t fuck you for all the money in the world, let alone for free.”

Pushing forward, I demand, “So make one of them! You’re the big bad boss, aren’t you? Baby Payne, finally all fitted in his crown.” I look him up and down, in his expensive wingback shoes, pressed trousers, and black button-down, sleeves rolled up his forearms to reveal his tattoos. “Your dad—”

“Why are you still speaking? Didn’t I just tell you to shut the fuck up?” He reaches out to grasp my arm, dragging me toward the door, and I’m not saying I make it easy, but Jesus. This motherfucker is strong. We’re halfway to the door—to Frank, who’s waiting on his boss to hand me over. I’m ten feet from being thrown back into the night where I have nowhere to go—no one to go home to.

I twist until I’m out of his grip and jump back. “Killian, wait. Seriously, don’t throw me out.”

He whirls to bear down on me, barking, “You come to my territory, my place of business, my people, and throw around your weight like it means something?” His eyes are fiery and full of threat. I’m not scared of anybody—I lost that instinct a long time ago—but I know a lost cause when I see it. Killer Payne can live up to his name if he’s pushed far enough. “Give me one good reason!”

I look over to Auggy and Mrs. Crane, who clearly was the one to tip Killer off. Fucking narc. But that’s not what makes my fists curl. It’s the Hideaway. South Side. His territory, his business, his people. It’s the way Killer fits into it like he’s always been here—even though I know he hasn’t.

Killian Payne has it all.

And I have nothing.

“If you send me back out there,” I tell him, knowing he senses the plea in my stare, “then Killer, I’m not going to come back. Do you get me?”

Someone behind me scoffs, like it’s funny to think me never coming back to the Hideaway is any kind of big loss. But Killer doesn’t laugh. Some of that steel seeps from his features, the hand on his holster falling away. That’s how I know he understands. Right now, I’ve got a broken heart and nothing to lose.

Someone will die.

Could be Lionel, could be Perez, could be me.

Killian sighs, “You’re a walking fucking disaster, Bruin,” and waves Frank off. “Come with me.”

The bag of ice lands on the table with a loud plop right before Killian eases into the creaky leather chair formerly owned by his father. That and the large, framed rendering of South Side’s footprint, a blown-up map of each street and building, are the only things that remain from Daniel. If I found myself nostalgic for the atmosphere of his father’s company earlier, then I won’t find it here.

A photo of Killian and his Lady is on the desk, the two of them dressed nicely, like it was taken at an event. Neither are looking at the camera, their eyes focused on one another. I look away, ignoring the pang in my gut. His framed Forsyth jersey is mounted on the wall. Over on the bookshelf where Daniel kept his prized Cuban cigars, is a football encased in a clear box, signatures scribbled across the smooth rawhide. A cut glass award—Forsyth Student Athlete of the Year—sits next to it. I narrow my eyes, and I’m not sure, but it looks like a bit of blood has stained the etching. A row of championship rings, embedded with diamonds and other jewels, is displayed just beneath it. The ring he actually wears is a King’s ring, the Lord’s skull shiny and gold.

I look down at my own, the brass Bruin already losing its luster.

Yeah, Killian’s got it fucking all, hasn’t he?

“We’ve all heard the rumors that you took the Lucia girl back to her father,” he says, leaning back and propping his elbow on the arm of the chair. “They were probably spreading word of that the second you turned your back.” I open my mouth to speak, but he gives me a hard look and holds up his hand. “I’ve also become aware that my father withheld some of the information about that…” he grimaces, “transaction. I didn’t know about the deadline. I apologize for that.”

I raise my eyebrows, wondering if I can speak now. He sighs and waves me on.

“To be fair,” I say, “he kept that information from me as well. She didn’t even fucking tell me until it was too late to do much about it.”

“That’s your excuse for kicking her back to that snobby psycho?” Killian looks unimpressed, just as Mrs. Crane had earlier. Clearly, they spend too much time together. “Do you have any idea how weak the Dukes look now?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I reply, still nursing the bottle of whiskey I’d snagged off Auggy. “She’s back now.”

Killian freezes, and then sits up. “She’s what? Since when?”

I shrug. “Since my brother went and stole her back, about… oh, say, three hours ago.”

There’s a tick in his jaw, nostrils flaring. “Oh, you fucking morons. Are you trying to turn Forsyth into your own militarized dick measuring contest?”

If we’re measuring dicks, my brother surely would win.

My cheek lifts in a sneer. “Like you wouldn’t do the same for your Lady.”

Instantly, he argues, “Perez tried to rape her! You didn’t see me gunning anyone down. How fucked are the three of you that I have more restraint? He kidnapped Story!”

I tilt my head. “And what did you do?”

Killian pauses. “Well, I went and got her.” I raise a hand, as if to say ‘There you go’, but he shakes his head. “No one kidnapped Lavinia. You gave her up. You sold her up the fucking river and then you reneged.”

Nothing is as hard to say as this: “Actually, I didn’t have anything to do with it.” I give him a tight, joyless smile. “It was all my brother and Remy. They wanted her back.”

“Jesus Christ, Nick.” Killian’s shoulders curl, like he’s suddenly got the weight of Forsyth on them. And then he strikes out to snatch my bottle of whiskey, taking a long pull. “The deal was that I gave you a shot at getting into the Duke’s tower, which would bolster my position with Saul, which would get all of us one step closer to ousting him. But now all you’ve done is put a target on your back.” He levels me with a long stare. “What good is it having an inside man if he’s dead?”

“I told you back then, and I’ll say it again. I don’t want his position. I never, not once, wanted a shot at being King.” But the words are only half true, and from the way Killian is eyeing me, he knows. I might not want the crown, but it felt good to be back at home. Back with my boys and Mama B at the gym. Back in the ring, fighting for the right reasons. Back in the West End. Back with the stone and the metal of it all. That’s what the West End is. It’s hard and unyielding and old, made of the sturdy bones of the earth. Everything in South Side is flimsy and disposable. There’s nothing here to really lean on.

There may still be some pull for me back to South Side, but it’s nothing like the call of West End.

Killian takes another long swig of the whiskey and sets it carefully, thoughtfully, onto the desk. “People like you and me… we don’t get a choice about our destiny, Nick. It’s in our blood. It’s in the soil we walk on, the air we breathe.” He shifts, the chair creaking from his weight. “I could’ve killed you a dozen times over. Do you know that?”

I snort, but deep down, I know it’s true. I was a trespasser in his world, only invited in because I was willing to do anything and everything his father asked. I only wanted in to investigate Tate’s murder, but he doesn’t know that. I lift my chin. “So why didn’t you?”

“Thought about it a few times.” He admits this openly, unflinchingly. “Not because I felt threatened or anything. My dad’s plans for me were set in stone. As you can see,” he wryly adds, gesturing to the office. “But sometimes it was like…” He taps the bottle, face pensive. “Sometimes it was like you got the best parts of him. The trust, the praise, the renown. You got all of that, and you never had to deal with the other bullshit. The fights, the way he had to control everything—”

“Him trying to sell your girlfriend.” On second thought, “I got that, too.”

Killian looks up, scowling. “Maybe I didn’t kill you because I saw something familiar in you.” He shrugs and spins the bottle, staring into the amber liquid. “A kinship. Not like the one I have with Tristian and Rath. No matter how close we are, they’ll never understand what it’s like to come from Royal blood.” He looks like he may say something more about the two of us, his reason for not taking me out, but he shifts gears. “Tell me about the girl.” He points to my face. “The bruises. What brought you crawling back down here tonight looking for pussy and trouble? How bad, exactly, did you fuck up?”

I inhale, trying to push a full breath of air past the rock that’s been lodged in my chest since I saw Lavinia on that couch. “I think they really fucked her up, Killer.” I swallow down the taste of bile. “Her dad… he hurt her. He’s been doing it for years, and the thing is? She pretty much told me. I just didn’t listen.” All that shit about the elevator. The screams. The paranoia. She laid herself bare, as much as possible, and I fucking walked all over it, too worried about my own dick and my own needs to care. “Or didn’t want to listen, I guess.” Shrugging, I try to avoid the thought swirling through my mind. Sy said he found her in a chest. I’d bet everything I have—which is exactly fucking nothing—that it’s the same one I saw in her room, when I broke in weeks ago. “Sy brought her home. He and Remy are taking care of her now.”

He points to my face. “And your face?”

“Remy. He just fucking… unleashed.”

His lips quirk. “He has feelings for her?”

“Feelings?” My laugh is half scoffed. “Remy needs things. He needs his special sheets, and fancy paint brushes, and designer fucking shoes. He doesn’t get feelings; he gets dependent.” I roll my eyes, but a part of me twists at the truth of it because this isn’t the first time I’ve been responsible for ripping one of those dependencies away. Clearing my throat, I shift, uncomfortable at the thought of sharing so much about Remy to an outsider. “Let’s just say they weren’t exactly happy about me handing her back over to the Counts.”

“I bet not.” He snorts. “I can’t imagine if I unilaterally made a decision like that about our Lady, even back at the beginning. The guys would have slit my throat.” He crosses his arms over his chest, the dark twisted ink creeping up his arms. “You may be in line for the throne, Nick, but they’re still your equals for now. You don’t interfere with a Royal and their woman. Ever. She belongs to them as much as she does to you. You knew the stakes going into this.”

“But she—” I start, the tirade building, but the glare he gives me shuts me up.

“This isn’t about Lavinia, or your brother and Remy. It’s not about Lionel or Perez, or the fact you look like you barely escaped a tornado. It’s about you. You’re at a turning point, Nick. We all get there. I’ve been there, and it almost swallowed me whole.”

I rub the bridge of my nose, exhaustion sneaking up on me. “The fuck are you on about?”

“It’s time for you to decide what kind of man you’re going to be,” he says, pressing his palms onto the desktop. “Are you the South Side mercenary my dad wanted you to be? Or are you the West End protector your family needs you to be? Because you can’t be both.” He stands, looming over me, and for a second, I think I see it. The ways we’re alike. The kinship.

There for a while, we shared a dad.

We hated him. We learned from him to make being at his side seem worth it, but we looked into the abyss and it looked back, leaving its mark on us just as sure as the ink on our skin. It made us a little bit of what we couldn’t stand about the man, and now we have to pick it all apart, find the stuff worth keeping.

I want to ask him, How do you even fucking begin?

But he speaks first. “You can’t come here looking for an escape every time things get rough, and you can’t just throw away your problems. The sooner you figure that out, the sooner you get back on top.” The adrenaline has finally worn off and I’m left exhausted and aching all over. He circles the desk. “Come on, let me find you a room and you can sleep it off.”

I lift myself up, wobbling and catching myself on the desk. “What if it’s too late?” I ask. “What if I fucked this up for good?”

It’s the first time I’ve really considered it. What if I’ve lost them—and her?

“You’re a Duke. Fighting is in your blood.” He opens the door and the fast-paced music from the lounge pours in. “The question is, what—or who—are you willing to fight for?”