Even if she’s nothing more than a defenseless mouse caught in a trap we didn’t set, she’s got Roman’s blood pumping in her veins. I’ll make it a point to make fucking sure Sean starts to see it that way because his assurances are getting weaker by the day.
Stalking through the graveyard of cars at the back of our shop, I spot the one I have in mind. I head over to it, pissed I didn’t drag a shop light out with me as the sun threatens to set—the need to keep my distance taking precedence.
With Cecelia, I don’t like who I am or the effect she has on me when we’re around each other.
She’s a rare type of flame far too close to my fuse—which is shortening by the day, some because of her invasion, most of it due to the constant nightmares looping in my mind.
Despite my actions, I take little pleasure in how I’ve treated her. Like Tobias, I see women as innocent bystanders of our cause. This makes them an inconvenience after we use them for our selfish purposes—which is why I don’t hook up often. My progression in that department is stunted because of what I have to offer—what I’ve always had to offer when it comes to women—nothing.
At this point, it’s about protection. Cecelia’s allure is just as fucking dangerous to us as it is to her. Opening the hood of the Buick, I add another task to my list—to prove it to Sean before she does.
“An alarming number of warehouse robberies have taken place in downtown Charlotte in the last three days, costing freight shipping mogul, Anthony Spencer of Export Execs an estimated 1.8 million dollars in merchandise,” the radio anchor reports as I pull up to the warehouse.
Idling in my Camaro, I scan our bustling compound as the reporter drones on. “Authorities believe that Spencer is being directly targeted, but the police have no leads at this time. They ask if anyone has any information—”
Killing the engine, I exit as Peter backs his Fleet van into the warehouse next to Jeremy’s, which is being unloaded to add Spencer’s merch to our stock of goods.
Loaded dollies are carted toward the warehouse as Denny stops them taking inventory before they’re hauled in. Russell pulls the last van up as satisfaction runs through me, and I shoot off a text to Tyler in wait for Sean.
All birds safely in the nest.
Jeremy exits the driver’s side of his van and makes his way toward me, pride evident in his eyes. Peter is on his heels, and his expression is lit with the same sentiment. It’s earned because it’s one of Peter’s first major scores while being a part of our secret.
“Where’s Sean?” I glance back at the open security gate.
“Cecelia asked him to teach her how to drive, and they took off,” Jeremy supplies stalking toward where I stand just outside my driver’s door. “We grabbed the vans and came just after . . . but did you see her in that fucking dress? I don’t think I’d show up for roll call if I had that ass in my driver’s seat, either.”
Russell joins us with Peter on his heels, both seemingly just as high from the take—as they should be. Everything we stole was lifted without sounding a single fucking alarm until after the fact.
Just after, each bird drove the loaded vans to different safe houses to lay low for a few days until we could get them here without detection. Just in case they were spotted in conjunction with the robberies and suspicions were raised.
The extra steps are necessary since the local police are still in Roman’s palms due to years of overgenerous contributions. But our time is coming. This latest long-awaited egg is finally hatching as Sean resumes digging at Horner Tech—inevitably coming up as empty as he did the first time he worked there.
To me, we’re continually beating a dead horse with that route. Any evidence of Roman’s cover-up was no doubt destroyed and swept up the night my parents perished in that fire. So, while Sean being back at Tech is a waste of time, all isn’t lost because his current station has him keeping an easy watch on Cecelia.
It’s Roman’s chokehold on her regarding her inheritance that’s making it hard for Sean to gain full access to the house. Roman berated her by email on day two for having Sean over, stating that visitors are to be kept to a minimum. We’ve decided not to press it because we don’t want him investigating the company she’s keeping.
In the last few days, I’ve made peace with the fact that Cecelia will be more of a fixture at our garage until the right opportunity strikes. That was until Sean decided to invite her tonight of all fucking nights—prolonging our delivery to the warehouse. Which is why we were having words before and after she rolled up.
For now, we have no choice but to allow her into our space and mix her in where we can. This means exposing her to all of us and keeps her curious, noticing too much for my comfort.
Which reminds me . . .
“You hear the news?” Jeremy boasts, stepping up to me as I eye the ski mask still hanging from his back pocket. “It’s every-fucking-where, and they don’t have shit.”
“The news,” I nod, “Yeah, okay, let’s start there.”
Jeremy’s brows pull in confusion, as does Peter’s, and Russell stiffens when I turn to him and hold my index finger at eye level.
“What are you doing?” Jeremy asks, darting his eyes between me and Russell, a goofy grin plastered on his face.
“Think of my finger as the news, Jeremy,” I utter, moving my pointer back and forth just in front of Russell’s nose. His eyes follow, his own expression confounded.
“Watching the news, Jeremy?” I snap, slowly running my finger back and forth along Russell’s line of sight.
“Yep,” Jeremy says. His quick reply is jovial, as if he’s in on my joke.
I run it past Russell one last time and hold it before sucker-punching Jeremy with my free fist.
“Mderfucker!” Jeremy grips his nose as Russell and Peter burst into surprised laughter.
“Da fuck, Dom?!” Jeremy groans, tone muddled, eyes watering.
“See what happens when you pay attention to the diversion instead of what’s going on in your own fucking reality?”
Jeremy examines his bloody fingers. “You could have used a different tactic to get your point across, dickhead.”
“I could have,” I say, snatching the ski mask from his back pocket and holding it out to him to reiterate my point, “but now you know why I didn’t.”
Guilt-filled eyes lift to mine as he draws the conclusion intended.
Cecelia spotted the ski mask hanging out of his back pocket earlier while they were shooting pool and spoke up about it. A conversation I hadn’t gotten to have with him yet, and just made unnecessary. Even if Jeremy played it off expertly, it drew more suspicion from her.
“Sorry, man,” Jeremy grits out, “I fucked up.”
“You think?” I draw out in monotone.
“Won’t happen again, hand to God, man. My fucking bad.”
“Yeah, next time, leave the fucking uniform at home, especially when you didn’t even need it . . . and you know who the news is controlled by,” I remind him. “You’re better off believing conspiracy theorists at this point. At least there’s some merit there.”
“So, Tupac is alive and well and living in Cuba?” Jeremy snarks.