Page 68 of Hurt

They took their seats, and Grant took a moment to study the situation.

The Vegas were creatures of desire. Even their father had been known to take what he wanted and damn the consequences. Always struggling for more, they were never satisfied. It was a tragic, if cliché, story. Every ounce of power, every acre of land they acquired, was done through force. The Vega Cabal had no problem taking. The issue they had was keeping. They could never keep their new acquisitions because they lacked the political savvy. Incredibly isolated, the Vegas rarely made alliances or pacts with other families.

Much like the Weavers’ estate, the location of the Wen family home was a secret. Pretentiously, they called it The Catacombs. An unspoken agreement between the gangs was that homes were off-limits. Regardless of what was going on, their homes were where they kept their families and civilian support staff. Accordingly, the Weavers had never tried to find the Vega Cabal fortress.

Grant assumed it was as gauche as its inhabitants.

“Must be nice to be holding the leash of an attack dog,” Ezra sniped, gesturing to Jackson.

Grant’s lips curled. “Jackson, are you an attack dog?”

Jackson didn’t move. “If I need to be.”

The Vegas snickered, but Grant noticed they refused to meet Jackson’s eyes. They might think that the Weavers held Jackson’s leash, but that’s not how they operated. The Weavers didn’t coerce people to do their bidding.

“Are you so afraid of us that you had to call him back?” Asher seemingly found his courage and was able to ask.

Roland finally caught his eyes and held them for a moment until Asher couldn’t take it and glanced away, looking down at his feet.

“You misunderstand,” Grant said pleasantly. “He’s not here for us. He’s here for you.”

Kurt arrived with a tray of drinks then. Without looking at any of them, he set them down on the table between them. Two sodas for the Weavers and two bottles of generic beer for the Vegas. That unreadable expression was still on his face, and Grant hated it.

Ezra reached for the beer and popped the top on the table. He reached forward with the cap and slid it into Kurt’s back pocket, hands lingering longer than necessary.

Kurt stiffened but didn’t say anything.

“So, the esteemed Weavers wanted to meet with us. What can we do for you?” Ezra asked as he took a long drag from his beer, smacking his lips obnoxiously.

The Weavers ignored their drinks. “Elijah.”

Elijah stepped forward, withdrawing a set of photos from his jacket. He slapped the glossy stack on the table.

Ezra glanced at them. “From your private collection?”

“Look at them.”

With a sigh, he caught Kurt’s wrist. Thumb pressing into his pulse point, he jerked his chin at the photos. “Bring them to me.”

Grant gritted his teeth. For the first time in the meeting, he found himself off center. His eyes stared at that hand on Kurt, and his fingers dug into the armrests of his chair.

Kurt swiped the photos, handing them to Ezra. Rather than take them, he wrapped an arm around Kurt and pulled him into his lap. Two arms around him, he trapped the man while he flipped through the photos.

Blood rushing in his ears, Grant watched Kurt’s face. The unreadable look faded to something he was equally unfamiliar with but understood: Fear.

Kurt was trembling.

Grant’s eyes narrowed, and he inhaled sharply. Jackson’s eyes bore into the back of his head, but he didn’t react. He had to keep calm.

“Those are photos we took during raids. Your people selling your drugs in our territory. Not just one or two rogues, but multiple cells.”

Ezra snorted and tossed the photos to the ground. “You know as well as I do how difficult it is to control your people.” He was looking at Kurt’s back, finger idly tracing something on his broad back. Kurt winced.

“We do not,” Roland said.

Their chatter faded out while Grant watched Ezra’s finger trail along Kurt’s back. It opened up a pit in his stomach, and he felt his heart drop.

No one knew about Kurt’s back injuries save him and Molly.