“Ask me anything,” I whisper as she regards me carefully, mulling over her thoughts before she finally speaks.
“Is the truck…with your things, still idling?”
I dip my chin.
“Then have them brought here.” Lifting to hover above her, I grip her face in my hand, searching for the sincerity in her words. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“You know what you’re saying?”
“I’m adequately scared, Tobias, and I’m not playing immune, but I like to think that my na?veté died a long time ago. I know who I am now. Next time, believe me,” her eyes flash with residual anger from the night her innocence was truly stolen, her tone sharpening with hindsight bite, “I won’t hesitate.”
She’s finally on guard the way I need her to be, and that brings me partial relief. Leaning in, I draw her lips in for a kiss. She breaks it, her voice an icy warning. “I’m expecting huge fucking dividends on my investment, Mr. King, a big payoff. You break my trust, my fucking heart again, and I’ll put a bullet in you my damn self. I’m still angry. I’m still trying to get used to the idea of you being here. All is not well with us, yet, but facts are facts, and the facts are, we’re in this together, no matter what. There’s a lot that hasn’t changed and never will. And sadly, I do love you, too.”
I can’t help my chuckle, and I kiss her again, this time more aggressively, and she latches on, kissing me back because we both know time isn’t on our side, never has been. These seconds are precious, and she lets me draw on her as much as I want because she feels it too. We’re forever on borrowed time, our opponents faceless, a whole new board, but this time we’re making all our moves together. When she finally pulls herself away, keeping closer to the edge from the free fall she used to allow herself when we got swept in our emotions for the other, I allow her the retreat. It’s when she pauses at the doorway to the bathroom, looking back at me for lingering seconds with the same longing, that I feel a shift between us. It’s small, but it’s there.
And it’s enough.
Finally.
Progress.
Age Twenty-Four
Parlay.
I read somewhere it takes three lines of solid income to make a man rich, six to make a man sustainably wealthy. Between the last few years of keeping tabs anonymously online—due to Dom’s help—as campus bookie at HEC, the scraps of profit I take from Antoine’s legitimate business deals. My cut of white-collar crimes my brother’s spearhead, and the fluctuating income from the garage—that makes four.
A rich man, I’m not. And sustainably wealthy is where I need to be.
As of late, we give almost as much as we take to keep our consciences clean and our hands heavy with loyalty. We’re gaining strength in numbers, but it’s not enough. Money and stature are the last hurdles I need to clear to get myself into a position to take Roman down.
With my masters earned from one of the best business schools in the world—as soon as I have the capital to start my company—I can declare war on my unsuspecting nemesis.
So, parlay, it is.
Today’s the day, and I’ve been on this board far too long.
It all comes down to a wildly expensive bet. A gamble capable of setting me free of being a slave or victim to any other man’s whims.
At this point, I stand to lose as much as I gain, having paid as much for the intel as I have to gamble with, but that’s the nature of the beast. Money has always been an obstacle for me, a necessary means of getting from point A to point B. And while some men let it drive them, let the abundance or lack of it corrupt or destroy them, I refuse to become a slave to it. Instead, I’ll obtain enough of it to wield its power, its sway, to open avenues and help level the playing field for men like me and my brothers, our parents, and whomever else’s fate rests in the hands of men like Roman Horner.