Page 19 of Man of Lies (Vendetta Kings #2)

Chapter Nineteen

SILAS

The road was open, dark, and mine. Exactly how I liked it. The rumble of the engine beneath me was all I needed to stay grounded, the world around me fading away, leaving only the hum of the bike and the rush of cool air across my face. But I wasn't really feeling it. Not tonight.

Mason was splashed across every wall of my brain, painted into every corner, soaking into the building blocks of my body. Leaving him standing in the wreckage of that decrepit old mansion had gone against every instinct I had, and even now, it felt like he wasn't really gone. All it had taken was a solid twenty-four hours of his company, and now he was riding with me like a ghost. The expensive scent that lingered on his skin even after a shower with my cheap soap, and the feel of his hard, lean body pressed behind me as we rode. The further I'd taken him from the parish, the brighter that smile lit up those blue eyes, stripping most of the tension from his face.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

I didn't do connections. Not real ones. I was the king of keeping people at a distance, building just enough rapport to get what I needed but never wading in so far that I couldn't see the shoreline. Mason was different. His waters ran so still and deep that I wanted to hold my breath and dive head-first without looking. He made me believe that I could. That maybe this time, I wouldn't fuck it all up.

But that was the problem. Because I'd been down this road before, and I knew what lay at the end of it. I remembered what happened two years ago. I'd been living under a different name then, pretending to be someone else. Someone who could actually help people. Or maybe it was more selfish than that, and I'd just been looking for a family to fill the void left by my own after we scattered to the winds. The family I'd found had needed help, and I thought I could be that for them, that I could fix what was broken.

But that wasn't my job. I'd never forget the betrayal in their eyes when they found out the truth, and how quickly it had turned to disgust. It was the same look I saw in my reflection if I looked too hard in the mirror—disgust at the empty shell of a man I'd become.

No one wanted the true Silas. They just wanted the man I pretended to be.

And now I was here, doing the same damn thing with Mason. He'd already started to fill a hole I'd become an expert at pretending wasn't growing every day inside me. He saw straight through the bullshit facade I'd spent years perfecting. Sure, he liked it when I got bossy, but the softer core underneath kept him coming back and gave him the safety he needed. God, I wanted to be that for him. But Mason deserved someone who could settle down, someone who could offer honesty at the very least. I could never be that man. I was built out of so many lies, I didn't even know who I was anymore.

I was going to hurt him—and it scared the hell out of me.

I couldn't even guarantee that I wouldn't be coming after his brothers before long.

Especially Dominic.

The look in that man's eyes was dark, not just the look of a man who'd done bad things, but one who was used to getting away with them. I'd been around long enough to know when someone was hiding something—and when it came to Dominic, my gut was screaming that he was into more evil in Devil's Garden than his brothers could bear to admit.

I didn't hear it at first—just the quiet rumble of my bike beneath me and the steady hiss of the wind pushing past. Then a pair of headlights sliced through my peripheral vision, and the low growl of a much larger engine ripped through the night. A sleek, black Jaguar gunned it from behind a signpost on a darkened turnout, surging up to pace me, and I instinctively eased up on the throttle to allow it to pass.

My stomach dropped as the car veered into the lane with me, crowding me into the oncoming lane. The ultra-bright headlights swarmed me, blinding, and the highway warped to a narrow tunnel. There wasn't enough room for both of us, and the Jaguar wasn't letting up. It was a game of dominance that no bike could win.

The nose of the Jag cut across my front, forcing me off the pavement. My tires screamed as they skidded over gravel, and I threw myself into the skid, leaning into it with everything I had until my boots scraped the ground.

If I didn't get control, I was going down. Hard.

Gravel chewed at my tires, biting back, but I muscled the bike into a controlled slide, stopping just short of a patch of wild brambles that snagged at my jacket and scraped at my face. The sudden stop nearly pitched me over the handlebars.

The Jag idled nearby, purring like a panther, blocking me in to deny a quick escape. Behind the tinted glass, I could barely make out the figures of two men. In a blink, I had the nine-millimeter out of my saddlebag and trained center-mass on the man sliding from behind the wheel.

His face was hidden in the headlights' backwash, but I instantly recognized him. High cheekbones, angular jaw, and a Roman nose broken more than a few times. But something about his careless, controlled movements put me on edge. He was too at ease, like his anger from the earlier fight had snapped off like a broken switch. I didn't trust that reptilian calm. The guy was still a problem, but a quiet one now, the kind no one saw coming until it was tearing out a throat.

The giant in the passenger seat hadn't moved. He was big, swarthy, and built like a bulldozer; the kind of muscle kept around to clean up messes.

My finger twitched, lying along the guard, but I didn't touch the trigger. Not yet.

"You should've spent all that money you've got on driving lessons, Dominic," I said, careful to keep my anger from bleeding into the words. "You could've learned how to park that shiny toy in a way that won't get you shot."

Dominic's eyes slid over the barrel of my Glock, ambivalent enough to make it clear that I was the one being sized up—and found wanting.

"You aren't going to shoot me," he said emotionlessly, like he was stating a simple fact.

The cocky bastard.

I shifted my finger from the guard to the trigger, telegraphing the movement just to watch him squirm. "How's that?" I asked tightly, lifting a challenging brow. "How can you be so sure?"

He didn't even blink. He just stared back at me with those flat, shark-like eyes. A cold smirk twisted his lips, like he knew the game better than I did.

"Feds don't kill people in cold blood."

It hit me like a slap, right across the face. With a single word, Dominic had taken a scalpel to everything I'd built. My gut twisted, spasming around the icy wave of alarm flooding my body. No one had ever nailed me before. I'd never fucked up that badly—until now.

My pulse kicked up a notch, but the gun didn't waver.

He offered a cynical smile, like he was reading my every thought. "Well, not unless they're sure they can get away with it." His words weren't just a taunt—they were a needle, prodding for a reaction.

I didn't give him one, despite the raw panic creeping in. It was a new kind of fear that I couldn't bluff my way out of. I was a master at bullshitting. Always had been. Years of training had taught me how to spin a lie until it felt like truth—until it fit so perfectly into the narrative that no one could see the seams. There were no heroes in this job, so I'd never tried to be one. I just needed to stay one step ahead until we'd gathered enough evidence to mop up the ruined lives I left behind. It wasn't about being right—it was about control. Control the conversation. Control the game. I'd been trained to read people, adjust on the fly, and make them doubt themselves long enough for me to disappear into the background. Get in, get out.

But Dominic wasn't guessing. Somehow, he already knew.

Feds. Fucking hell.

No slick wordplay could wiggle me out of this mess, but I still had to try. "You're out of your mind," I spat.

Dominic's slow grin was all delight. He leaned back against the Jag, arms crossing with that same languid confidence, like the gun in my hand was nothing more than an annoying fly buzzing at his ear. The faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but he wasn't rushing this. He was enjoying it. Watching me squirm.

"You really think you're the only one who knows how to lie?" he drawled, each word dripping with icy calm. "I've spent a lot of time studying people. I've watched how they move, listened to how they speak, learned how they lie." His gaze scanned me, taking me in from head to toe, and one corner of his mouth curled in disgust. "You're not that good."

Anger surged inside me, sharp and bitter, rising like acid in my throat. I took a step forward, lifting the gun a fraction, aiming right between his eyes. "You're on thin fucking ice, Beaufort," I warned through clenched teeth. "You've got no idea who you're messing with."

Dominic didn't flinch. Hell, he barely even reacted, that smug bastard. His eyes flickered briefly, as if he couldn't be bothered to care whether I pulled the trigger or not. Maybe he didn't. When he'd turned his back on his brothers and walked away, he'd looked like a man at the end of his rope.

He took a step forward, the sound of his expensive loafers crunching over the gravel too loud in the stillness, and he didn't stop until his forehead kissed the barrel of my Glock. Then he went on as if I hadn't even spoken.

"Even the best liar slips up sooner or later—and you've slipped up, Donnelly."

The name hit me like a thrown knife, an attack I'd never prepared for and couldn't dodge. But he didn't stop there, and it didn't take long for the chill of his words to crawl under my skin, each syllable a blow to the mask I'd built.

"Born Silas McKenna Donnelly, July 14th, 1987. Graduated Northwestern, class of '09, and Quantico in 2011. You bounced around field offices, in and out of CID deep cover ops for years, until the last assignment went south. New Orleans, right? Three dead bodies." He clucked his tongue mockingly. "Hell of a mess to clean up."

Cold sweat was crawling down my spine, but I couldn't let him see that. The gun in my hand felt heavier now, a ridiculous show of force when we both knew I wouldn't pull the trigger. Slowly, I lowered the damn thing, letting it hang loosely at my side.

There was no point in pretending anymore. The game was over.

"What do you want, Dominic?" I demanded harshly.

He smiled widely, showing the edge of a sharp incisor, like he'd won something. "I want you to leave my brother alone."

"You made it pretty clear with that little show back at Eden that you've washed your hands of your brothers," I scoffed, hitching my chin at him in challenge. "So what business is it of yours?"

Dominic's smile guttered. His eyes narrowed, and annoyance flashed across his face before he tucked it away like a skillful actor pulling off a flawless performance. He sighed and slipped his hands into the pockets of his slacks, an effortless move designed to look casual.

"Everything in this parish is my business," he said simply. He barely looked at me as he spoke, eyes focused off to the side, like he was thinking about something far more critical than this confrontation. "My brothers only think they want me out of their lives because they don't know any better. So, I'll let them think they've won. But without me, everything they love would fall apart." He paused, letting the words hang in the air like a threat—and a promise. "I'm the one standing between this parish and the rot that has a stranglehold on it, whether they like it or not."

There was no arrogance in his tone—no grandstanding. Just an unshakable, cold certainty that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

"The drug-running," I said slowly, following a hunch that had been nagging at me for months. "That's your operation, isn't it?"

The dark, vicious smile that crept onto Dominic's face was all the confirmation I needed. My gut twisted. Months of Gator leading me around by the nose, and the answer had been right in front of me the whole time.

The realization was crushing. I could've wrapped this up months ago if I hadn't been so obsessed with keeping my distance from Mason. I'd stayed on the sidelines, stuck to my "no interference" rule, and now I was left watching the wreckage pile up. How many could I have saved?

"You're the one flooding meth across state lines," I growled. "Aren't you?"

His smile didn't falter. If anything, it grew more amused. The kind of smile that meant he had nothing to hide; he was walking on the edge of a knife and perfectly fine with it.

"You've got a good nose for trouble, Donnelly," he drawled mockingly. "But you're only half right."

"Screw you," I hissed. "Do you know how many people you've hurt?"

"Do you know how many people I've saved ?" His eyes flickered briefly, eyes narrowing like I'd said something that personally offended him. "Cornering the market allows me to keep the real animals away. My product is clean of fentanyl and keeps bodies off the streets. More than you feds ever did for us."

I took another step forward, my eyes narrowing. "You got a hand in the human side of it, too? How many missing girls are you keeping for yourself?"

The change was immediate. The smile vanished like it had never existed, and what replaced it wasn't just anger, it was fury deadly enough to start wars. His eyes went flat and cold, revealing a man who could kill without a thought.

"No." The word came out like a snap of a whip, final and absolute. "Never."

I didn't buy it. Dominic had too much to lose to be this ignorant of what was happening in his own backyard. No one in his position would let something like this slide unchecked.

"Gator and his crew have been working both sides for over a year," I pointed out skeptically. "No way you'd let that slide unless you're taking a cut."

Dominic's face curled in disgust, his lips pulling back like I was something he'd scraped off his shoe. He shook his head slowly, like I was a child without the smarts to ask the right questions.

"No man can serve two masters," he said condescendingly. "But that hasn't stopped Gator from trying."

"Why allow it?" I pressed.

Dominic shrugged and glanced over his shoulder, checking in visually with the silent bodyguard. When he turned back and met my gaze, he looked impatient. "For the same reason you've been looking the other way," he said grimly. "I want information. I want the shot caller."

I let out a slow, cautious breath. His facade was thinner than I'd expected. He didn't have the grip on this town he pretended, and he was no clearer on the truth than I was. We both might have suspicions, but we were stuck without proof. Damn near helpless to stop it.

"So, what do you want from me?" I asked roughly.

Dominic's expression shifted, and the smugness faded—just for a moment. His jaw, usually sharp enough to cut glass, relaxed slightly, and the tight set of his lips loosened into something almost like a grimace, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. The lines around his eyes, always tight with calculated control, softened, revealing a flicker of something almost human, just long enough for me to catch it.

Still calculating, but changing the approach, making it more personal.

When he spoke, I finally got the unvarnished truth, or a version of it, and that was enough to make my gut tighten. "I'm trying to help my brother," he said bluntly. "I want you to close your case, and then I want you out of my parish. You're not doing Mason any favors by playing around with him. He doesn't roll like that. You'd have to be goddamn blind to think he does."

Guilt gripped me by the chest, a jagged ache radiating out from my ribs, squeezing until it hurt to breathe. I'd told myself I could keep it all compartmentalized, blow off a little steam with Mason, and then cut and run once my job was done. But it was a lie, and I'd known it from the moment I'd first laid eyes on him. I'd just wanted him too much to care. I wasn't just watching this shitshow unfold from the sidelines anymore. I was balls deep in it.

I kept my face locked down, but Dominic eyed me coldly, weighing my expression for reactions I refused to give him.

"I'll give you what you need on the girls," Dominic said. "But you need to wrap this up before it's a mess neither of us can fix. And you leave my operation alone. That’s the deal.”

Every part of me instantly rebelled. It felt like making a deal with the devil. I didn’t trust him—I’d be an idiot if I did. But I’d seen too many girls disappear, girls whose names I remembered and whose faces I saw when I closed my eyes. Girls who had looked at my bar as a safe haven, and who’d been fed into a system like chum for sharks. I needed that location more than I needed to arrest a backwoods Louisiana drug kingpin.

So I nodded. Once.

That was all it took.

He gave me a drop site in rural Mississippi, just over the state line; one of the waystations they'd been using to move girls west. Clean. Remote. Disposable. The kind of place that vanished off maps once it served its purpose.

When he was finished, Dominic started back toward the Jag. Purpose served. But before he slid behind the wheel, he stopped and looked back.

"Get out of town, Donnelly. You've got what you came for, and you’ve overstayed your welcome. Don’t mess with Mason’s head by dragging this out."

He stared me down with eyes flat as stone.

"I saw it when he looked at you tonight. He’s in love with you."