Page 13 of Hurt

“Excuse me,” Elijah said softly. “Your grandfather has called an emergency meeting.”

Roland nodded. The move of his head was barely perceptible.

The Weaver estate was massive. A sprawling manor tucked away into the woods. If you didn’t know where to look, you wouldn’t find the narrow dirt driveway that led off a back-country road. Surrounded by a limestone fence, there were two guard houses and more security cameras than you could count.

Roland and Grant had their own homes on either side of the estate, but their grandfather Wallace lived in the main mansion. Greek columns were evenly spaced on the front portico, a grand entryway built decades ago by the founding Weavers.

Elijah navigated the sleek black car around the circular driveway and parked in front. Roland didn’t wait for him. He stepped out and strode up the large marble steps to the massive oak front door. Elijah was only a few steps behind him. As they entered the foyer, Elijah had to adjust his eyes to the brightness.

Hanging from the tall ceiling was a massive chandelier—made of white gold and crystal, it sent kaleidoscopes of colors splashing around the dual staircases. Portraits of past Weaver leaders decorated the walls—every one of them imposing and critical. Dark hair and alabaster skin trademarks that followed the Lan family. Traits that pushed through Grant and Roland’s mother’s Asian genes to give the boys the trademark Weaver looks.

Neither of them looked at these paintings. They took the stairs to the second floor and found Wallace’s office. The door was open, and they stepped in.

Jamie was loitering in the back of the room as far from Wallace as possible. Arms crossed, he looked dejected, and Elijah assumed the elder Weaver had already chastised him for something.

“Roland,” Grant greeted his brother. He was leaning against his uncle’s absurdly large desk. Perhaps it wasn’t that it was so large, but that there was nothing on it. Nothing personal. Not even a pen rolled around the tabletop.

Grant had changed as well. He was wearing his usual white shirt with the top two buttons undone, and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His dark hair was pulled away from his face, and he looked tired.

Wallace gave them all a brief glance.

“The Vegas are becoming problematic,” Grant began. “We cannot allow their actions to go unchecked.”

Wallace sighed. “What do you propose? An all-out war?”

“Isn’t that what they’ve done?” Roland asked.

Wallace glanced at his youngest grandson. “The Vegas have always tested limits. They know their place.”

“That was when Gerard Vega had a handle on his group. He’s either grown complacent or greedy. Asher and Ezra have been running rampant. Now they’re selling drugs in our territory, but what’s next?” Grant complained.

“I agree with Grant,” Roland said stoically. There was no trace of his earlier discomfort. “A message needs to be sent.”

Wallace leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “All right. I agree something needs to be done, but I am unwilling to start a war. Not when things are unstable like they are.”

Elijah listened closely. While the Weavers were secure financially, they were always susceptible to legal action. They had plenty of legal businesses to hide their illegal activities under, but that alone wouldn’t fool authorities. To that end, several high-ranking police officers and politicians were in the Weavers’ pockets—whether, through bribery or black mail, it didn’t matter.

“We just lost Congressman Thomas. His support was invaluable.”

Jamie sat up. “We what?!” he snapped. “I worked for weeks to get him! I watched that guy fu—have amorous relations with prostitutes from all over the state. The pictures I got were priceless. How could we possibly have lost him?”

Wallace arched a gray brow at the young man. His goatee twitched in irritation.

“It would appear someone else has something better. He wouldn’t accept bribes, so we can only assume another organization had something more illicit.”

“More illicit than paying a Madonna look-alike to give him a Rusty Trombone? I still can’t get that image out of my head!”

“Apparently,” Grant said as he rubbed his temples.

Jamie looked like he was about to protest, but Elijah slapped a hand over his mouth. “Do we suspect the Vega Cabal?”

“Or the White San Mesa’s,” Roland said. “They’re the only ones with enough influence.”

“The Mesas have stayed neutral for generations. They have always been comfortable in their territory,” Wallace pointed out.

“That was before they lost all their heirs,” Grant pointed out. “Michael Elliott died years ago. Luther has been running the group, but he has no children.”

“There’s a nephew,” Wallace said.