“Don’t—”
Not letting him finish, I storm out of his office and into the entry, my boots biting into the polished floor. My helmet hangs on the peg, and I snatch it down, then shrug on my leather jacket in one sharp motion.
Flinging the front door open, I leave it ajar until cold evening air rushes in, sweeping through the house in my wake.
Outside, my BMW motorcycle waits. I swing a leg over the frame, the weight of it familiar between my thighs. One twist of the key and the engine snarls awake, low and eager.
My Glock rides warm against my waistband. I slide the chamber back until the metallic click confirms the round. Loaded and ready.
Wind knifes across my face. I slam the shield down as I gun the throttle and tear off into the dark, straight for Gnarled Pine Hollow.
“Can you state your name?” the guard asks, half hidden behind his hut door as if he’s expecting a shoot-out. I mean, there may still be one. However, if Ace Donovan knows what’s good for him, he’ll let me into his compound.
I could always sneak into the back like I did a few weeks ago when I kidnapped Ashlyn…
“I told you. Aiden Cardell. Mr. Donovan sits on the Board of Trustees at Northview University with my father.”
“And your business is…”
“With Ace Donovan.”
His jaw tightens like he isn’t sure about me, and really, he shouldn’t be. But he makes a call from his security booth outside the high-glass gate to the modern Donovan mansion. Clear as day, I hear Ashlyn’s mom say, “Is that the boy I saw at the drugstore? What does he want? Let him in.”
As if annoyed he has to do the right thing, the guard presses a button, and the walls slide open for me.
I flip him off as I rev the engine to an annoying pitch, jolting toward the house. Letting the back tire skid to a stop, I dismount, pull off my helmet, and march up the driveway.
The entire first floor and half of the second are walled with glass. Straight sight to inside. Enough so I see Ashlyn’s dad hovering at the front door with his wife peeking around him.
And he’s got a shotgun at his side that he’s not trying to hide.
When I reach the door, he doesn’t open it. I lift my shirt, flashing my gun, then widen my arms to show I’ve got nothing else. He nods, then lets me in.
“Aiden?” he asks.
“Yeah, that’s the one,” Mrs. Donovan says. “Xavier Cardell’s son.”
I tug off my gloves and stuff them into my helmet before sticking out my palm. “Yes, that’s me. I came to discuss an issue with you, Mr. Donovan.”
Despite accepting the handshake, he keeps hold of the shotgun. “Sure. This way.”
“It’s pretty late, Asa. Do you think we should talk tomorrow?” Mrs. Donovan glances at me. And now I see where Ashlyn got her lack of height. But their similarities end there. She’s dark, voluptuous, with curves that could kill a man.
Ashlyn’s golden and compact and spicy. Probably a perfect combo of the two people in front of me.
“I’ll see what he wants.” Ace makes a secretive motion toward his wife, as if warding her off to safety.
I get it. They don’t know me, and this town is riddled with mafia connections. Owning a casino is a dangerous job, one marred byfamilybusinesses.
He leads me into a clean, minimalistic office. One side of the room is covered in a light-green painted bookcase, but there’re very few books on the shelves. Mainly titles likeOne Path to Victorious LivingandGet Rich and Keep Your Money. Family pictures line the row behind his desk chair.
My heart squeezes at a picture of a younger Ashlyn with her dad standing behind her. She’s probably around the age of fifteen…and it’s summer. Ashlyn wears a brave smile. Ace beams, hands on the shoulders of his daughter, holding her in front of him. But behind her eyes, I can see pain. Because she probably just returned from Crest. And because I know that look from the one I had every time I’d glance in the mirror.
“You know Ashlyn?” he asks, waving to a couple of chairs near the floor-to-ceiling windows in the back of the room. They look out onto a giant covered pool that takes up most of the backyard. A separate glass building features a full boxing ring and gym nearby. The room smells like expensive cologne and new leather—the kind that’s never seen a scuff.
“Yeah, I do. And that’s what I wanted to discuss.”
He kicks back in his armless chair, shorts riding up. Tank top showing off his cut biceps. Ink spread all over his body. White-blond hair pristine and frozen in place like he has a personal barber waiting to style it every morning. Dressed as if this is vacation weather and not the beginning of winter.