Page 1 of Freeing Denver

Prologue

ALISTAIR

Wilder Harland and Finn McEwan are dead.

Two explosions tore apart brick and bodies. Two lives were lost. Two families found themselves without leaders.

Colt Harland and Ronan McEwan are in comas, and there’s no telling when they’ll wake up, or if they even will. The structure of two of the most powerful families is falling to pieces, with only me to hold it together.

Well—me and Denver Luxe. A woman I believe would grab at this opportunity for the power and presence it brings.

But it was her or let the McEwan businesses get picked apart, and I couldn’t do that to Finn’s memory or Ronan’s legacy. And despite Denver’s reasons for agreeing to step up, a weak link by marriage but still a link, it doesn’t change the fact that she can do it, and she has been for the past few days. Even with a concussion, a dislocated shoulder, broken ribs, and countless other injuries, Denver is by my side, ready to be judged by the most feared men in New York.

And she’s fucking trembling.

“If you need pain relief, take it,” I say, adjusting my cuff while attempting to mask my irritation. We’re sitting at the dining table of one of our safe houses, an extravagant townhouse, stylish and modern, kept tidy and well stocked in case of emergencies, but it doesn’t feel like home. Helena’s cookbooks aren’t stacked in the kitchen; Holly’s crayons aren’t strewn across the coffee table—it feels cold, almost clinical, and Denver’s constant fidgeting is wearing on me.

“I’m fine,” she says, but she closes her eyes briefly as she shifts her shoulder.

“Then act like it. You’ll make the family look weak if you’re wincing throughout the entire meeting.”

Denver pauses her gentle shoulder movements and glares at me. “Says the man who was lucky enough to avoid a fucking explosion. Apologies that my brain and body aren’t healing to your timeline, asshat.”

I resist baring my teeth and look toward the archway, willing the guests to start arriving.

Taf is leaning against the far wall and gives me a look—one I can read easily.

Show a little fucking compassion.

He likes Denver. Everybody fucking likes Denver. It escapes me how we’ve come this far when my friends are clearly so damn naïve. She’s a fucking chameleon when it comes to befriending people, and I don’t understand how nobody finds that strange.

“Wear your sling,” I say.

“It doesn’t go with my outfit.”

I clench my teeth. “Are you being serious?”

“I never joke about fashion, Alistair. Which is why you should believe me when I tell you your suit is ill fitted.”

Fucking—

The doorbell sounds, and she smiles brightly and stands. “Here we go. Try to smile, Al.”

I’m going to murder this woman.

We’re meeting the heads of some of the families—something that was already in the works before the explosion. Cancelingwould have raised more questions than Colt not being here. Besides, the disaster has been all over the news, and someone leaked Finn’s death, too. Either way, the best way to deal with this mess is to clean it up quickly.

Taf stays in place as one of our other men, Keto, answers the door. Keto is the first impression we want. He’s wiry and has a habit of glaring a little too openly at people, even if he has no issue with them. While he doesn’t look strong, he sets a tone with his chilly exterior—I have zero patience and a gun. Do the math. And true to that, patience really isn’t his strong point. He got his nickname after vowing to go keto, something that lasted a total of four hours.

His gruff voice floats down the hall, and I hear a name: Capelli.

Vincenzo Sr. is here.

This could be tense. Vincenzo recently had words with his grandson, Vincenzo Jr.—or just Vince, as we call him—about the recent attempts on Colt’s life. There’s every chance the explosions were Vince’s doing, but something tells me they weren’t. He isn’t smart enough, and given how much it’d piss off his grandfather, it wouldn’t be worth the risk.

But he was also the last person to call Colt.

That’s either a big fucking coincidence, or evidence.