Page 49 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Graham

The address Preston gave me leads to a shithole apartment building in Brooklyn that looks like it's been apologizing for existing since the Carter administration.

Cracked concrete steps, windows that haven't been cleaned since the last century, and the kind of security system that consists of a broken buzzer and a door that doesn't quite close.

I'm leaning against my car, checking my phone for the third time in five minutes, when Beckett's BMW pulls up behind me. He and Sebastian get out, both of them wearing the kind of serious expressions that mean they've been having conversations about me during the drive over.

"So," Beckett says without preamble, "why exactly are we breaking into the apartment of a guy who just got arrested for kidnapping?"

"How much do you know?" I ask.

"All of it," Sebastian replies. "Preston filled us in on the drive."

"Probably not all of it."

They exchange one of those looks that tells me they think I'm about to say something that's going to complicate their evening significantly.

“Sophia’s real name is Delilah Monroe. She's a professional con artist who's been running from a mob boss, Stanley Torrino, for the past two years. She cost him two million dollars and made him look like an idiot in front of his associates in Philadelphia. He's been hunting her ever since."

Beckett immediately pulls out his phone, fingers flying across the screen. "Stanley Torrino, you said?"

"Yeah. And before you ask, yes, he's the one who hired Pemberton. Yes, he's the reason she was kidnapped tonight. And yes, he's the reason we're standing outside this building instead of drinking whiskey and pretending to be civilized."

I glance at Sebastian, who's been unusually quiet since they arrived. He's got that look on his face—the one he gets when he's processing information he doesn't particularly like.

"The fuck is up with you?" I ask him.

"What do you mean? Nothing's up."

"Don't bullshit me, Ashford. Something's eating at you."

"Don't get the way you get," Sebastian says, but there's no heat behind it.

"What way is that?"

"The way where you assume everyone's keeping secrets just because you're paranoid about?—"

"Shit, Graham," Beckett interrupts, looking up from his phone.

"This guy's legit. Stanley Torrino, fifty-three, Philadelphia crime family.

Multiple arrests, no convictions. Known associates include half the city council and at least three federal judges.

The FBI's been trying to build a case against him for fifteen years. "

"Great. So we know what we're dealing with."

"Do we? Because what we're dealing with is a man who could have us disappeared without breaking a sweat."

"Which is why we're going into Pemberton’s apartment to collect every piece of evidence we need against this guy. Phone records, financial documents, anything that proves the connection. Then we track him down and end this permanently."

Beckett stares at me like I've just suggested we take up synchronized swimming. "Okay, or—and hear me out here—other idea. Maybe we don't do that. Maybe we take the win. You got your girl back, Pemberton’s in custody, Stanley knows you're not someone to fuck with. Maybe we just let it go."

"Let it go?" I’m incredulous.

"Yeah. Walk away. Move on with your life. Don't go after a fucking crime boss for no reason."

I turn on him, every muscle in my body suddenly tight with fury. "If this happened to Luna, would you not move heaven and earth to end any guy that came after her?"

Beckett's face hardens, his entire posture shifting into something more dangerous. "Are you trying to tell me that this girl means that much to you?"

"Yeah, that's exactly what I'm fucking telling you."

Beckett and Sebastian exchange one of those wordless conversations that comes from years of friendship, the kind where entire arguments get settled with raised eyebrows and subtle head tilts.

"Okay," Beckett says finally. "If that's how it is."

"That's how it is."

Sebastian nods slowly. "Then we do this right. No mistakes, no loose ends."

We're about to take our first step toward the building when a black limousine glides up to the curb like something from a funeral procession. The window rolls down and a man clears his throat with the kind of politeness that makes my skin crawl.

"Gentlemen," the voice says. "Looking for me?"

All three of us turn toward the car. The man inside is exactly what central casting would order if they needed someone to play a mob boss—silver hair, expensive suit, the kind of face that suggests he's never had to ask for anything twice and the sort of body that suggests he eats a lot of carbs.

"Oh, I'm being rude. Where are my manners?" He opens the door and steps out, straightening his jacket. "Stanley Torrino. And you gentlemen are?"

The tension ratchets up so fast I can practically taste it. This is the man who's been hunting Delilah. This is the face behind every nightmare she's had for the past two years.

"I was just coming here to follow up with an associate of mine," Stanley continues conversationally, "but it seems like he was arrested earlier this evening. You three wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

I'm already moving forward, my hand instinctively reaching for the gun under my jacket, when Sebastian's voice cuts through the red haze building behind my eyes.

"Graham, don't."

"Don't tell me what to do, Ashford."

Stanley's gaze shifts to Sebastian, and something changes in his expression. Recognition, followed by what might be amusement. "Ah, Senator. I didn't recognize you at first. It's been quite some time."

I freeze. "You fucking know this guy?"

Sebastian's jaw tightens. "Maybe we should all just sit down and talk about this."

"No." The word comes out louder than I intended. "We're not fucking talking about this. This piece of shit threatened what's mine. He had someone put their hands on her. Like hell I'm ever letting this go until he's in the ground."

My hand closes around the grip of my gun, but Sebastian moves faster, catching my wrist and stopping me mid-draw.

"This is not the place," he says quietly, nodding toward the security cameras mounted on every corner of the building.

Stanley chuckles. "I agree completely. Why don't we all go for a ride? I'm sure this is all some big misunderstanding, and we can talk it out like civilized men."

"The fuck I'm getting into a car with you."

"Look," Sebastian says, his voice taking on that diplomatic tone he uses when he's trying to prevent international incidents, "why don't you let me and Stan talk? I'm sure we can come to an agreement that we'll all be happy with."

Stan? I’m about to tell him exactly what he can do with his agreement when Beckett speaks up.

"That's fine. We'll reconnect later."

Before I can process what's happening, Beckett's hand is on my arm, pulling me away from the limo. I watch in stunned silence as Sebastian gets into the car with Stanley, the door closing behind them.

"The fuck are you doing?" I demand as the limo pulls away.

"Letting Seb work his magic. You need to go back to Delilah."

"We're not done here?—"

"Yes, we are. At least for tonight." Beckett's voice carries the kind of authority that comes from being right about things more often than anyone has a right to be.

"You left her locked in your penthouse, Graham.

If she's anything like I think she is, she's going to literally kill you when you get back. "

"This isn't over."

"No, it's not. But it's not happening tonight, and it's not happening the way you were planning." He studies my face in a way that makes me want to punch something. "Come on, we've been friends for how long? Just let the man do what he was literally born to do."

The logic is sound, even if I hate it. Sebastian has connections I don't, diplomatic skills that make my approach look like a sledgehammer trying to perform surgery. If anyone can negotiate our way out of this mess, it's him.

But that doesn't make walking away any easier.

"Fine," I say through gritted teeth. "But if Torrino so much as breathes wrong?—"

"Then we'll deal with it. Together. Like we always do."

I get in my car and start the engine, but I don't pull away immediately. Instead, I sit there watching the taillights of Stanley's limo disappear into Brooklyn traffic, carrying Sebastian toward a conversation that could either solve our problems or create entirely new ones.

I put the car in gear and head back toward Manhattan, toward the penthouse where Delilah is waiting, toward whatever reckoning is about to unfold between us.

Because Beckett's right about one thing—if she's half the woman I think she is, she's going to have some very strong opinions about the way I handled tonight.

And I'm going to deserve every word of it.