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Ace

There are always firsts. I’m the first son, first grandson.

The first to know bad news. The first to deliver it.

The first time I watched a man bleed from his stomach and die on the bathroom floor, all I could think of was that being another first. Part of me knew that it wasn’t going to be the last and only, not with the way my father rushed past me, shouting for Griz to get his ass in there.

Firsts had value and meaning more tangible than the rest. Lines are as gray as the morals deciding what’s inherently good or bad.

It took me a long time to understand the role I would play in all of it.

This is the first time someone asked me to marry them.

I blow out a breath, letting a smile escape while thinking about it. She fucking asked me to marry her. Like that would be a perfect solution and not the source of an even bigger mess.

“I suppose you’re not making me breakfast anymore,” Griz interrupts, sidling up to the long kitchen counter. I pluck a clementine from the fruit drawer and roll it to him.

His shoulders jump with a laugh that never surfaces from his mouth.

I cross my arms over my chest, head tilted his way. “Change the fucking stipulation.”

“Look at that. It’s Wednesday. Hooch’s does a mean stuffed French toast on Wednesdays,” he says as he meanders out of the kitchen, whistling a Bob Dylan song instead of answering my demand.

People don’t make stipulations on inheritances or businesses based on marriage—it feels like a bad 90s movie that my sisters-in-law would watch.

“Fuck!” I whisper-shout, dragging my fingers from the front of my hair to the nape of my neck. I’ve gone nearly forty-three years without wanting to be married. It wasn’t a part of my story—I didn’t want to settle for someone I didn’t want.

“You will not go near her.” Wheeler’s threat has replayed in my mind over the last ten years, and every time, it’s chipped away at the idea of wanting someone for keeps.

Shaking my head, I run my thumb along my lower lip, where she nipped and kissed.

There isn’t going to be another first like that one—and I’ve been at war with what I do next.

The smart, logical part of me knows I made the right call.

As fucked as it was, pulling away from her was the only thing keeping me from ripping her clothes off and fucking her right out in the open, in that spot.

“We need to talk about what happened,” Lincoln interrupts as he walks into the kitchen.

“We don’t,” I clap back. “You just show up now?”

“What’s for breakfast?” he asks, looking at my cup of coffee and jar of overnight oats.

“Not making you breakfast,” I mumble over a bite.

“In a great mood this morning, I see...” he mumbles as he grabs one of the jars out of the fridge.

He takes a seat, lounges back, and then stares at me like it’s my turn to talk.

Truthfully, I’m not ready to talk to either of my brothers about it, because I don’t have a solid plan or a response that’s not completely reckless—like marrying his best friend.

“What?” I bark out.

“You just had a whole conversation in there, didn’t you?

” Smiling, he points to his temple. He pulls off his glasses and rubs along the bridge of his nose.

“We’re not going to push you out or try to run this place without you, Ace.

You don’t honestly think Grant and I want to box you out of what is basically your show. ”

Releasing a heavy breath, I lean on the counter. “That’s not the point. He wants to tie things up, but for what reason? And yeah, I want my piece of this place, but that part I can handle.” It’s a confident response wrapped in a lie.

Lincoln steeples his fingers in front of him, looking at me as if that’ll get me to say more.

A thought dawns on me, my mouth going dry, knowing that my brother and Hadley rarely have secrets between them. “Have you talked to Hadley?”

His brow furrows at the out-of-left-field question. “I talk to her just about every day. Why?”

If she told him about what transpired, he wouldn’t keep it to himself. I stare back and think through how I’m going to navigate everything.

“Why are you asking?” Lincoln asks again. Great.

My phone lights up on its charging station across the room. It’s a good distraction, but when I swipe it, I notice the wall of unanswered text messages.

THE JEWELER

There’s an interesting development with a New York-based group.

Alright, no answer. I’ll be more direct. There are some pissed-off Russians making heart eyes at some investments with your little bird’s last name connected to it.

Still not interested?

I’m fucking interested. I look up at my brother, who’s still waiting for an answer. Maybe she mentioned this to him, because she sure as hell hadn’t mentioned it to me.

“She seems off, that’s all. Heard a rumor about angry acquaintances of her father’s who are looking for payment,” I say, trying to play this off as a casual conversation.

THE JEWELER

Fine. I’ll be at Midnight Proof tonight. If you don’t show, I might have to shoot my shot.

Julian knows exactly what to say for me to respond, and I hate that he’s aware of my weakness.

We’re on the same side of things, a history of knowing how to clean a crime scene and erase people from existence.

A forced friendship, if you could call it that, simply because we bend the same rules and connect the right and wrong people.

Griz knew his father, who taught his son both trades as well.

Jewelry making and “cleaning.” A family business a lot like ours—secrets, lies, and erasing the proof that either of those things existed.

ACE

What do you want?

THE JEWELER

Showing your hand, old man. I didn’t think you were that easy.

ACE

Fuck off.

THE JEWELER

See you tonight at 10 p.m.

There have been a number of organized crime families sniffing around in the past couple of years.

Shortly after Laney’s arrival was the first time, but that was deflected with a few favors I had collected.

Any organized crime that came close to Fiasco anymore had more to do with buying some extra cases of bourbon or getting prepared for some big betting with the Derby fast approaching.

Liquor, horses, and money bring all levels of trouble.

But it isn’t anything new. And it rarely warrants my attention, but this has it.

Lincoln gets up from the chair after it’s obvious I’m distracted by my phone. He stops in the doorway and turns fast. “She asked me if I had talked to you too.”

I look up, my eyes meeting his immediately. Shit .

He rubs at the back of his neck. “What happened?”

“None of your business,” I answer flatly.

“If something happened...” he says, watching me curiously as I try to get the hell out of the kitchen, “it wouldn’t be the worst thing?—”

“Don’t,” I cut him off. I don’t want him to finish the statement. My brother caring about me hooking up with his best friend is laughable. Honestly, he’d probably cold-cock me if he knew how I left her. If he knew what she asked me and how I flat out said no...

I shake my head and take a breath. Yeah, Lincoln would throw a pile driver without thinking twice.

“Don’t ask me questions about things that you’re not going to like the answers to, Linc,” I say in a measured, stoic tone. “I know she’s been getting hassled about her affiliation with Finch & King Racing. Just wanted to know if she’s gotten any more threats regarding her father.”

It’s a half-truth, but the only half he’s going to get today.