Vendetta

three

DEVON

I shouldn't have brought her here. The thought echoes in my mind as I sit in my uncle's office discussing this new turn of events regarding my parents. Everyone's putting their two cents in about what should come next, the excitement palpable in the room. But I'm not listening to any of it; instead, I'm wondering how I got myself into this mess.

Over the years, I’ve had many theories as to who it was that killed my family. Apart from us Andres, there are three other big families in Boston—two more Italian, and an Irish one.

We’re good with the Potenzas, but that’s a recent development. Seeing as they operate outside of the city at their headquarters in Rhode Island, I never even suspected them. Either way, they have their own worries. A couple of months ago someone set up a bomb in Anthony Potenza’s car. No one important died, only the driver, but there were rumors it was an inside job.

The Fermis are a Jewish-Italian family. Word is, they have been lying low after a bust a couple of years ago, but I still see their men doing business. Neither family had any reason to want my father dead. If anything, we co-existed peacefully in this city, our paths crossing a couple of times, but nothing mention-worthy ever happened between us.

The Moore clan, Leighton’s family, is a different story. There’s been some bad blood between them and the Andres even before I was born. Mostly it comes down to one thing: the warehouses, all over Chelsea. During the Prohibition the Moores controlled them, using them as storage for smuggling alcohol, until one of their bosses lost the control in a poker game. Pat Moore, Leighton’s great grandfather, lost them to a young Mario Andre, my grandfather.

It didn’t go down so well. Pat ordered a hit on my grandfather, but was taken down himself—by his own men, leaving a wife and two sons behind. They’ve been under our control ever since, but the Moores still claim warehouses belong to them.

It’s a pride thing.

It made the most sense that Leighton’s father, Keith Moore, would act on it. According to Stevie, my uncle’s right-hand man, who’d worked for my father as well, the feds were busting left and right during that time. No one was paying attention to what the Irish were doing.

“Devon,” my uncle says. I snap out of my musings, and look around to find three sets of eyes looking at me impatiently. Not my uncle, though. Frank's face gives nothing away. I focus my attention on him. “I need to talk to you after we're done here.”

You wouldn't think much of it, the way he says it in a monotonous voice, but everyone knows not to assume anything by the way he talks or looks at you, even more so if there are other people around, like his men. It could be a big deal, or maybe it's not. My mind wanders to that room on the third floor.

It might be a big deal.

“Yes, sir.” I don't call him Uncle. When my parents disappeared and he came to get me from school, on the way home he said things would have to be different now. He wouldn't be my uncle anymore, and he couldn't play favorites. I'd be one of his men and soon, I would have to prove myself.

I was thirteen years old. And I'd only seen him a handful of times before that.

His two men take this as their cue to leave and I watch them retreat, but Stevie doesn't move.

People underestimate Stevie. He may not look like much—short, bulky, and not threatening at all—but then again, neither does my uncle. Stevie is lethal when he needs to be. That's why my uncle keeps him close. That was why my father kept him close, too.

I throw a wary glance toward Stevie, unsure if I should speak about Leighton in front of him, but my uncle gets straight to the point.

“The girl?” he asks, not looking at me when he says it. He busies himself reading over the papers, the gory details of my family's demise.

“Third floor, the big bedroom,” I answer.

Stevie gives me a strange look, and then exchanges a meaningful one with Frank. I feel like I just failed a test. “That isn’t exactly prisoner accommodations,” he says dryly.

“It’s secure,” I reply, keeping my voice flat.

“You know, I didn’t think you had it in you,” my uncle says, giving me a once over and nodding. “I wouldn't think you'd bring her here, straight to the vultures.”

I shouldn't have. Normally, I wouldn't have, either. I don’t give him an answer, and he doesn’t seem to expect one. He never does.

“She’s a looker, that Leighton Moore,” Stevie says, studying me. His gaze doesn’t waver. I want to squirm under it, but I stand still and lift my shoulder in a shrug.

“Her beauty doesn’t change her blood.”

Stevie chuckles, and it's a chilling sound.

“Don’t be swayed by her looks. She’s just a woman,” Frank says. “If you want to get her out of your system, then by all means have at it. But don't fuck this up.”

The fact that he assumes I’m attracted to her has me worried. Someone must have said something to give him that impression, because there's no way he knows me well enough to make that assumption by himself. Maybe one of his men has seen me eyeing her in the past, because God knows I've probably done it. I need to nip this in the bud before it goes any further.

“A pretty face is just a pretty face, you should know this better than anyone,” I say, keeping my expression serious. His face sours at my words.

Izzie, Frank's wife, had to be taken care of because Stevie had her followed and it turned out she worked for the Moores. My uncle didn't seem too broken-up about it, but who knows? I think, more than anything, his pride was wounded.

“That it is,” Stevie adds, as if he read my thoughts. Frank keeps his eyes locked to mine, searching for something. I hold his gaze, giving nothing away. Seemingly satisfied, he slides the papers my way across his desk, pointing with his fingers toward them. I take the papers, hoping my fingers don’t tremble, even though I read this over and over the night before.

Unidentified skeletal remains. Wedding rings. A red toy car. I read the words. I repeat them in my head so many times I start to feel sick.

“This is who she is,” he finally says, gesturing to the report. I nod, because I know what he's saying. She's a Moore, and they're poisonous snakes. “I expect you'll handle it when the time comes.”

“Yes,” I say, but my voice falters. I clear my throat. “You have nothing to worry about; I'll take care of it.”

I don't know why I knock on her door before I unlock it. She's nowhere in sight but I hear the shower running. I put the bag of takeout down on the bedside table, and then sit in the chair in the corner.

I scan the familiar room. Nothing looks out of place, but I'm sure she turned it upside down trying to either find a way out, or something else to attack me with. It pissed me off this morning, but now I'm just amused. I'd never have thought of the mirror.

A couple of minutes later she walks out wearing a silky bathrobe, every curve of her body perfectly outlined in it, the hem reaching just under her ass. I should have gone and got her the clothes myself, because I'd never have picked out something so revealing. Her wet hair is hanging all the way to her waist. It’s a tangled mess of ebony as she runs her fingers through it, and then twists it up and over her shoulder. My fingers itch to follow hers.

Her back is turned to me and for a second I just take in the elegant way she moves, her feet making no sound as she makes her way across the room. My eyes trail up her toned calves and higher to the hem of the robe, hungry for more.

She stills for a moment when she sees the food, but she still doesn't acknowledge me at all. She unties the sash, letting the material fall down her shoulders. My eyes linger on the curve of her neck, and then follow the robe as it slips further down, revealing a body that could bring a man to his knees. She trails her fingers down her side, her every move so deliberate. I can almost feel her soft flesh under my fingertips as my eyes follow the path of her hands.

I hate what it does to me. I should never think of her body as something so perfect. I know there’s a reason I should just stand up and walk out of the room, but for the life of me I can’t remember what it is right now. I was always forgetful of things that matter in her presence.

I'm hard in less time than it takes me to get up and walk over to her. Somehow I find myself standing behind her as I tangle my fingers into her hair, pressing myself into her back. She spins around, placing her palms on my chest, and pins me with her icy blues, unashamed that all of her is flush against my body, the only thing separating us my clothes. Her hand fists my shirt, her gaze unwavering from mine. I recognize the look she’s giving me, daring me. Go on, she says with those eyes. Touch me.

I want to touch her, so bad.

I relax my fist in her hair, then clear my throat and avert my gaze, hating myself for this moment of sudden weakness. I inspect the white wall to my right while she releases me and walks over to the bed and puts some clothes on.

Game over.

“Devon.” My name on her lips grates on my nerves. It’s the first time I hear her say it. She sounds a lot more composed than she did last night and this morning. Either she's putting up a front, or she actually realized her theatrics won’t get her far. I wouldn’t expect anything less from her.

“Leighton,” I say, trying to put some venom in it, but even to my own ears it doesn’t sound like a curse. I shift on my feet uncomfortably, and her eyes snap to my crotch. My erection is still clearly visible, and draws a satisfied little smirk on her lips. I walk over to the door and open it to leave.

“It’s safe,” I say, pointing to the food on the bedside table before I walk out and lock her in again. I lean my forehead against the coolness of the door and pull my phone out of my pocket.

“Hales,” I say after she picks up. “I really need your help right now.”

I’m staying the hell away from this room.

LEIGHTON

I can’t stop the smirk that curves my lips. Devon may try to appear unaffected by me, but I know otherwise.

I walk toward the food he brought in: a club sandwich and fries. I don’t ask myself why exactly I believed him the instant he told me the food was safe, I just have a feeling that it is. I try to pace myself, but my hunger takes over, and I end up inhaling the whole thing. I sip the water, and then put it down, exhaling heavily.

What next? I am so damn bored in here, there are only so many hours that I can sleep and plot revenge. I wish I had a book, a music player . . . something. I’m going crazy. I stretch out my arms above my head. I realize that I need to stay active somehow. I know that the second I get the chance, I’m going to run, and I’m going to need to keep my strength up.

My mind drifts back to Devon. Aside from scaring me to death last night with that knife, he hasn't done me any harm. George hit me, not Devon. I know that doesn’t mean Devon isn’t planning something. I’ve quickly realized he’s no choirboy, but at least it gives me a little hope.

Watching him over the years, hearing rumors about him, I’ve learned a thing or two about Devon. When he turned eighteen and his uncle finally gave him more familial obligations everyone expected him to fail, proclaiming him the spoiled, good-for-nothing nephew. For some reason, he was never in the business before, at least, not in a way anyone knows about. Now he’s both feared and respected, running their operations without a hitch.

I never doubted him for a second.

And women—they love him. I was always curious about why he's not much of a man-whore as his looks and position would allow him to be. He lets them down easy, politely, but he doesn’t engage them. Word is he likes quality, not quantity.

I try to keep the bitterness out of my thoughts. If he weren't keeping me locked up in this stupid room, I'd almost respect him.

I take the hairbrush from the bathroom and run it through my hair, not wanting to deal with the inevitable knots if I were just to leave it. The side of my face still hurts, but not as much. At least that’s what I try to tell myself. The truth is I’ve never been hit before. I run my hand gently down from my temple to my jaw. Since he took the mirror, I can’t even check to see how it looks, or if it’s getting any better.

My dad would flip out if he saw me like this. They must be out looking for me by now. If anyone would notice I’m gone, it’s Dom. I wonder how long it will take him to find me, to figure out that George is a fucking traitor and that he’s planning something with the Andres.

I walk to the bed and sit down, tapping my foot on the ground. The silence is killing me. How long are they going to leave me like this? I should be grateful that I’m here, not locked up in the basement or getting tortured or killed, but I assume they’re going to try something eventually, so why wait? I really need to figure out their game plan. Is Devon the only one I will see? Or will there be others?

I hate this.

Not knowing.

Being at his mercy.

Being weak.

I squeeze my eyes shut and swallow hard. Hold it together, Leighton. I quickly wipe away the lone tear that drifts down my cheek. I refuse to let him see me like this, let him know that he made this of me.

I'm a Moore.

I’m sure as hell not going to make it easy for him.

Hours later, the door finally opens, and I am fully expecting Devon to walk through. Instead, a tall slim girl enters. I eye her warily, not knowing what to expect. She seems familiar somehow, but I can't put my finger on it.

Neither of us moves. She tucks her curly blonde hair behind her ear, her wide, blue eyes trained on me. She's wearing black jeans paired with a white blouse and black boots. Stylish, yet casual, and all designer. The floral scent of her perfume drifts through the room.

“You must be hungry,” she says in a soft voice as she places some food on the side table. She picks up the bag of trash from the last meal and puts it on the floor outside the door, pushing it further away with her foot. I think she's going to leave, but she comes back in, closing the door behind her and looking as if she wants to say something. My gaze rakes over her, sizing her up.

I could so take her.

“Whatever you're thinking, you better stop it. There are two guards standing just down the hall,” she says, amusement dancing in her blue eyes. “Men everywhere.”

Of course there are.

I stare at her for a moment, watching her body language, the expression on her face. She’s not bluffing.

“I’m Hayley,” she says, taking a seat in the same wooden chair Devon sat in earlier. She places her arms on each side of it and studies me.

“Make yourself at home in my humble prison,” I say dryly, leaning over to see what food she brought me. A burger and fries.

“I just thought you could use some company. You must be bored out of your mind,” she says, watching me as I eat the burger.

“And who are you, exactly?” I ask her, picking up my burger. I don't bother denying the boredom.

“Hayley,” she repeats. I lift my head up and stare directly into her eyes. They’re clear and friendly and I see no anger or hate lurking behind her calm façade, but some people are good at faking that sort of thing.

“I meant who are you in the grand scheme of things, Hayley?” I ask her, taking a bite of the burger.

“I’m a family friend of the Andres,” she says, glancing around the room curiously.

“Whose room is this?” I ask her, continuing with my meal. Her curiosity has piqued my own.

She shrugs, but doesn’t answer my question, so I continue. “Do you know what’s going to happen to me?”

“I don’t know what they plan on doing with you, Leighton Moore, but the least I can do is drop by and keep you company now and again,” she says.

“Can you bring me a television?” I ask hopefully. I hate to ask for anything from these people, but I need something to amuse myself. And Hayley doesn't seem so bad. I stop that thought. She must know I'm here against my own free will.

Hayley purses her lips. “I’ll see what I can do.”

With that she gets up and leaves, offering me a sympathetic smile before the door locks behind her. Her sympathy pisses me off.

I finish my meal, forcing myself to eat everything offered.

With nothing else to do with my time, I have the longest shower in history. Looking through the clothes I’ve been given, I choose a pair of yellow sweats and a snug T-shirt. Who chose these clothes? I have so many questions, and no freaking idea about any of them.

The next time I see Devon, I’m going to demand some answers.

DEVON

“So, you're holding Leighton Moore locked up, eh?” Hayley says when she finds me in my uncle’s library, my head in my hands. It’s the only place in this mausoleum of a house where I can actually think, and after what happened earlier I need to clear my head.

I say nothing. She knows who Leighton is, just like I do.

“God, Devon. What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking, Hales, that I’m almost there. And she was in the way.” It seems like a plausible excuse. Hayley knows all my theories about who's responsible for my family’s disappearance and, well, death. I'd hate to admit to her I only brought Leighton here because I didn't want George killing her just like that—it seems stupid when you think about it. She's not any safer from me.

“Hey.” Hayley puts her hand on my shoulder and I look up at her, a golden halo around her head from the lights behind her. I always thought she looked like an angel with her beautiful blonde hair and those baby blue eyes. “What's going on?”

“They found them,” I say, my voice breaking. “The new high school construction site.”

“So? This is nothing new,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone, sitting next to me. If it was anyone else I might have been offended, but Hayley accepted the truth long ago, the same way I did. “This is what we needed. Do we have a plan?”

I'm not surprised that she's including herself in these plans, whatever they are. My uncle is letting me call the shots on this one, as they discussed this morning. Because it's personal to me. Like they weren't his family, too.

This is the ultimate test. I know what he expects, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't want it, too. And even if I didn't, he wouldn't let it slide.

“An eye for an eye,” I tell her, letting the words settle around us. I don't feel any different for finally voicing my plan.

Hayley nods, squeezing my shoulder harder. She was always supportive of my decisions, whatever they were. It's what best friends do. Or, best friends and ex-girlfriends, in Hayley's case. She's the only person in this world I'd trust with my life.

I met her in front of her father's office the day after my parents disappeared. Her dad is the DA, Mackenzie Fletcher. My father and he grew up together. When my uncle got me from boarding school, the first place we stopped was their house. I sat on the hallway floor, my arms limp at my sides, when she approached, carrying some chocolate in her hands. She shared it with me, and held my hand while they talked inside, not saying a word.

We've been inseparable since, though I never felt her father approved. I’m not exactly the kind of person someone like him would want his daughter to associate with.

For a while we just sit there in a comfortable silence.

“If you can't let it go . . . ” she says.

“I can't let it go. It's not right, and I owe it to them,” I say, my voice gaining more conviction with each word.

“She wants a television.” Hayley changes the subject, amusement lacing her voice. “The girl is held prisoner by the nephew of a sworn enemy, and she wants a television.”

“I'll get her something. Will you help me out with her?”

“Why, are you scared of that little girl?” she asks.

“She’s not that much younger than you. And, if you were me, you wouldn't go in there either.” I give her a pointed look.

“Oh my God,” she says in mock outrage. “She didn't?”

I groan out in exasperation and lean my head on the wall behind me, looking up. “Oh, she did,” I say as a vivid image of Leighton's naked little body plays in my head. I swallow hard, hating myself for the pang of regret I feel for walking out of her room.

“Wow, I'm actually impressed she'd dare to try and seduce the unattainable Devon Andre,” she says, thoughtful. She turns to me, and her lips curve into a smirk. “Like you'd fall for that. Doesn't she know anything about you?”

I swallow hard, remembering my weakness.