Page 17 of Bound by Them (Rose and Dagger #1)

Troy

L ate at night, Ed Layton has called in Francis, Edmund, Caleb Morraine, and Victor Shaffer. I’m here by default, since I’m usually following Edmund around. Or maybe Ed doesn’t trust Caleb as much, since I said his security was shitty, and he wants me here as a second opinion.

So, six men in the Layton organization are crammed into Ed’s office for a meeting about?—

“You’re quite serious.” Francis Layton’s eyebrows rise high on his wide forehead, the only visible expression of shock he’ll allow. “This is about Cece?”

“What does my mom have to do with anything?” Caleb’s usually easy smile is nowhere to be found.

His mom is a sore subject because she’s Ed Senior’s mistress. No one’s going to say it out loud, though. Ed and his wife Mariana’s extramarital affairs are the worst-kept secrets of the family. Everyone knows. But somehow, no one talks about it.

Edmund grimaces and throws back his tumbler of whiskey. Wish I could do the same.

“The Aseyevs are having her followed.” Ed’s voice is hard and his eyes flash angrily as he looks at his father. “They’re targeting her because she’s connected to us. We must do something about this. First our shipments, now our people?”

Francis nods in agreement, but his reaction is more tempered. “We will increase security around Cece. Around Mariana as well. Shaffer, what do you think?”

Victor Shaffer, a skinny, middle-aged guy with auburn hair, twirls a pen around in his fingers. “Morraine, do you have men to send from Mirarosa?”

Caleb nods. “I could spare a few, but we don’t want to get too thin at the docks.”

“We could hire private security,” Edmund suggests.

“The good ones refuse to work with us.” Ed scowls, likely remembering the first and only time he’s been told no in his life. “I’ll try some of the others, but I want the best for Cece. And Mariana.”

It’s fucked up how his wife is the afterthought, but I bet Mariana wouldn’t even care.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I peek at the ID. Dani . Does she need us? Is something wrong? I meet Edmund’s eyes.

He nods toward the door. “Go ahead, Troy.”

I hurry out of the room and answer my phone in the hall. “Hey, are you okay?”

“What the absolute fuck .” Dani’s syllables drop like glass on concrete. “You had no right. No fucking right.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s one thing to run your corrupt businesses and hate my family, like, whatever. Keep on hating. But to tail my cousin? She’s sixteen fucking years old . What kind of monster does that, Troy? Hmm?”

“We aren’t tailing any teenagers.”

“You said that’s your method. Follow people around, scare them a bit. Rough them up.” She’s breathing hard. “You said that , Troy.”

“Yeah, but not kids?—”

“And if you think you’re big men for scaring my little cousin, I will show you what real wrath is, motherfucker.”

“Dani—listen?—”

Silence. Her heavy breathing, the background static, gone. She hung up.

* * *

Edmund

Last night, Troy told me about Dani’s phone call. We have to get ahead of this. If Sergey thinks we’re targeting his granddaughter, he’ll come down hard with retribution.

Troy also confessed to his night with Dani. The two of them together. Without me.

“Did you fuck?” I asked.

His silence said it all.

Jealousy still causes my stomach to drop at odd moments. It’s less that they fucked, and more that I didn’t even know about it. He’s only telling me now, two weeks later.

Troy and I stop at the gate of Sergey Aseyev’s property. Troy leans over to speak to the guard. “Edmund Layton here to speak with Mr. Aseyev.”

The guard’s thick, brown eyebrows meet in a scowl. “Layton, huh? Gimme me a minute.”

Troy and I wait while Eyebrows gets on the phone, probably calling Sergey.

I don’t like being here, but we have to talk.

Because something’s off. Danica thinks our family would have her sixteen-year-old cousin followed?

No fucking way. First off, there’s no reason for it.

Second, if we’re going to follow someone to freak them out, it would be an active member of the Aseyev family.

Someone operating on their behalf. Patrick would’ve been a good mark. Or one of the lesser guys.

Which brings me to the question—would the Aseyevs follow Cece? No. Cece Morraine is beautiful, yeah, but she knows fuck-all about the business. My father would never trust her with information because, well, he doesn’t trust mistresses. Or women in general.

Perhaps they’d follow her to intimidate us, but neither family has needed to intimidate the other. We know where the lines and boundaries are. We’ve never needed to cross them, or enforce them. If we want to fuck with each other, we go after the business operations, not the families.

Yet we have two women from two different families being followed.

I don’t think either one of our families is responsible for it. Something else is going on here.

Eyebrows puts down his phone and twirls his finger in the air. “Sorry, buddy. Turn around. Mr. Aseyev isn’t available.”

I speak past Troy. “We really need to speak with him. Please.”

“Phone him, then. But I can tell you he won’t pick up.”

* * *

Danica

I promised Isabelle I’d set her up with a fancy new tax program, and now that tax season is over, I have to make good on my promise. It takes me a couple hours past closing, so it’s dark when I lock up.

I go out the back door, where the alarm keypad is located. A quick punch of the code, and I’m out of here, ready to go home and take off my bra, put on some sweatpants, and cuddle with Cackle.

The side door to Isabelle’s Creamery faces an older building undergoing extensive renovations. Two months ago, this was a point of pride, because my granddad’s construction company is the one behind the project.

Now, I know more about “Ash Building Company.” And I don’t like it one fucking bit.

My tattoo was a mistake, banging Edmund and Troy was a mistake. Getting mad at Leah was a mistake. There’ve been way too many mistakes.

Loose plastic sheeting whips in the wind, making an eerie flapping sound. The upper windows of the building are open, newly-framed and awaiting glass. In the darkness, they look like empty eye sockets.

I shiver. I just need to get to my car, and get home.

As I round the corner of the ice cream shop, I see three guys leaving the construction site. I frown. They aren’t wearing hardhats, they don’t seem to be workers. All the other workers left at five.

The guys part ways, two going across the street to a bar, and the other hopping onto a motorcycle and zooming away.

Curious, I cross the street and step into the bar.

It’s a total dive. Smoking isn’t allowed in public spaces, but the place reeks of stale cigarette smoke. When I lift my feet from the floor, there’s a tacky, sticky feeling of resistance.

Low lights illuminate a dingy bartop and the grizzled bartender standing behind it. The two guys from the construction site plunk down on seats at the bar, so I find a table off to the side. Nobody seems to notice or care that I’m not ordering a drink.

A middle-aged guy shuffles toward me and starts off with a grin, but I give him a quick head-shake and he shuffles off again. If only it were always so easy to deter would-be suitors.

I want to know who those guys are, and what they were doing at Granddad’s site. Are they Laytons? Were they messing with things? If so, Granddad needs to know, so nobody gets hurt.

I pull out my phone and pretend to text on it. Instead, I’m watching the bar.

The guy on the left has a blond buzz-cut and tattoos all over his neck.

I bet he has a full shirt of tats. Most are faded, like they were done twenty, thirty years ago.

When he lifts a hand to take a sip of beer, a beam of light hits him perfectly to illuminate more tattoos on his arm.

The biggest one is a grotesque, winged snake, framed by a bunch of other monstrous images—four-legged guns with teeth, ropes dripping with blood, a lion ripping a woman in half.

Wow, hold me back. I’m so turned on right now.

His friend is just as unappealing, with more disturbing tattoos.

His are especially misogynistic, mostly featuring women screaming, running, and being torn apart by beasts.

He, too, has a winged snake prominently displayed all the way down his forearm.

The tail ends in a clever little twirl on the back of his hand.

I take a photo. I don’t know who these guys are, but every one of my senses is saying they’re bad news.

Unfortunately, my phone’s shutter clicks loudly.

The bartender’s head whips toward me and he frowns. “You takin’ pictures?”

“No! No, of course not.” Shit. I quickly silence my phone, reverse the frame, and take several selfies.

The bartender throws his towel down on the bartop and starts toward me.

I scroll back to my photos and delete the one of my tattooed heartthrobs. Then I hold up my phone, turning it around so the bartender can see the screen. Putting on my biggest, ditziest impression, I say, “I was taking selfies, look. Do you want to tell me which one is best?”

“You gonna order a drink?” He stands above me, menacing.

I shake my head.

He lifts a thumb and points it over his shoulder. “Out.”

I slide out of my seat and skedaddle, hoping the tall, tattooed, and terrifying twins don’t follow.

Once outside, I gulp in the cool night air. No time to wait around, though. If those guys were Laytons and hoping to mess with Granddad, they might have recognized me. I wish I hadn’t called attention to myself.

My heart pounds as I walk quickly toward the parking garage where I left my car.

“There she is,” a voice calls from behind me.

I risk a glance behind my shoulder. It’s the Terror Twins. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I scramble to find my phone, but it slips past my fingers to the bottom of my bag. Well, this wouldn’t have happened with the smaller Baciarvita bag, that’s for fucking sure.

The second guy answers the first. “Get her.”

I don’t look back again—I run.

But not fast enough—not faster than a car. Because the next thing I know, a black truck pulls to a stop beside me. The door opens and strong arms yank me inside.