Cruel Sanctuary Page 2

  I stare at him blankly. Who are these men? This recording changes everything I thought I knew about my father. Everything I thought I knew about Chad.

  Everything I thought I knew about everything.

  “I can’t—” I stop myself, struggling to hold a thought or take a deep breath. “I can’t … That conversation … this PR nightmare you’ve created … can’t be handled.” My arms flail as I add air quotes. “Not by me. Not by anyone.”

  My father slams a hand down on his desk and I jump. “It can and it will.”

  I try in vain for the aloof, nothing-fazes-me demeanor I use with my clients. “How?”

  I’ve dealt with sex scandals and embezzlement accusations, drug addictions, and bribery claims. I know how to spin a story. Not only that, I’m damn good at it. But … this.

  Our strained relationship notwithstanding, I’ve idolized my father for my entire life. Discovering that he’s the kind of crooked politician I despise has me reeling.

  My father and Chad answer in unison. “Damon King.”

  I blink, my eyes bouncing between them. “Damon King? Are you trying to make things go from bad to worse?”

  Damon King is practically an urban legend. Rumor has it, he’s a fixer in the same way the devil is. He might offer to solve your problem, but only at the expense of your soul. Or worse.

  I pivot, wishing I could erase the last five minutes of my life. “I need to go. I haven’t—I haven’t even showered.” And now I feel so, so dirty.

  Chad catches my elbow. “Aislinn—”

  Nausea swells as I pull my arm from his grasp, another thought occurring to me. “If you already knew how you wanted to handle this, why am I here?”

  “Aislinn.” My father pastes a sober smile on his face, standing up and straightening his suit as if he’s standing before a judge. He comes around his desk. “I need you to run point on this.”

  “Me?” I jab a finger at my chest, my voice rising several octaves.

  “Yes. King requested to work with someone on my team.”

  His tone reeks of familiarity. “You’ve dealt with him before, haven’t you?”

  Neither denies it.

  I gesture uneasily at Chad. “I heard two voices on that audio and one of them was yours. I don’t want to get involved.” Not with this. And definitely not with Damon King.

  “That’s not a good idea. Clearly, there are people watching my every move. And Chad is my chief of staff.”

  “I’m your daughter.”

  For a moment, I am eight years old again, asking my father if he’ll come to my dance recital. I shouldn’t have bothered. Not then, and not now. The answer is no, just as it always has been.

  He squeezes my shoulder. “Right now, I’m your boss.”

  My skin flares with embarrassment. I am twenty-eight, not eight. And he’s right. In this situation, I am James Granville’s employee. This is my job.

  “Then I quit.” The words are out of my mouth before I realize I’ve made the decision. But hearing them explode in the quiet room fills me with relief. This problem doesn’t have to be my problem.

  “You can’t do that.” My father’s voice is strident, unaccustomed to not getting his way.

  I swing my purse and gym bag over my shoulder, then grab my briefcase before turning around to face him. “I can’t fix this for you, Daddy.” I haven’t called my father Daddy in nearly twenty years. But it’s the hurt little girl inside of me that’s speaking right now. “I’m sorry.”

  Pulling my eyes away from his furious glare, I step toward the door. Chad is now blocking it. “I promise, it’s not as bad as it looks.” He reaches for the knob at the same time as he plants a soft kiss on my cheek, murmuring. “Let me come over later. We can talk.”

  Chad isn’t just my father’s chief of staff, he’s one of my oldest friends. The kind with benefits. We met ten years ago when I was a newly minted freshman at Columbia University and he was enrolled in their law school. Brilliant and attractive, with a surname as revered as my own, Chad was welcomed into our family immediately and began working for my father as soon as he passed the bar exam.

  “I’ll think about it,” I concede, still trying to process what the hell just happened.

  Miraculously, a cab is just turning onto the street as I walk out of the building. I flag it down and am inside my apartment twenty minutes later. I leave a trail of bags and clothes on my way to the shower, set the water temperature to scalding, and duck beneath the spray. Wishing I could wash the last hour of my life away.

  But it’s not long before the cloying steam becomes too much for me. I need my coziest sweats, a gallon of ice cream, and a bottle of vodka. Not necessarily in that order.

  I’m just towel drying my hair when the doorbell rings. “Goddamn it, Chad,” I mutter beneath my breath. I should have known he would just show up rather than check in with me first.

  Although, there’s so much I want to know. I mean, how the hell did my father become one of the bad guys? Or has he always been shady, and I never knew it?

  Of the two people I can ask, I have a better chance getting answers out of Chad.

  “Hang on!” I yell, wrapping a towel around my chest and picking up my discarded clothes as I stride across the plush carpet of my two-bedroom apartment.

  I open the door just an inch before spinning back around. My nose twitches at the brief waft of a peculiar combination of scents, burned wood and old whiskey. Chad must have picked up a new cologne I hadn’t noticed earlier. I like it. “Gimme a sec—just have to get dressed.”

  “Not on my account.”

  The deep voice hits my eardrums like liquor splashing over ice, the skin at the back of my neck prickling as I come to an abrupt halt halfway between my front door and bedroom.

  The man I’ve let into my apartment … isn’t Chad.

  2

  Damon

  New York City isn’t the devil’s playground—it’s mine. You might think it’s the politicians and police that control just about everything that goes on in this city, but you’d be wrong. To bring a pail and shovel into Manhattan’s sandbox, my permission is required.

  I’m no trust fund brat. Nor was I born a Mafia prince.

  I’ve accumulated my power and fortune the only way they can truly be earned. I’ve worked hard. I’ve fought hard. I’ve taken risks no one else would dare.

  And tonight is my reward.

  My nerves fire when Aislinn’s doorknob twists, and it takes every ounce of restraint I possess not to reach for her creamy, and very naked, shoulder when I step inside.

  Wearing just a towel. Walking away.

  Fuck. The back of her is just as appealing as the front.

  My dick pulses in appreciation, my fingers twitching with the urge to grab hold of the wet tangle of golden strands hanging nearly to her waist, wrap it around my wrist, and reel her in like a prize catch.

  Of course, Aislinn Granville is already caught. All that remains to discover is how hard she fights the lure.

  I’m enjoying the anticipation.

  “Just have to get dressed.” Aislinn’s voice waves behind her like streamers at a parade.

  “Not on my account.”

  I sense the change in energy instantly, molecules breaking apart and rearranging themselves in a tense standoff. The air is suddenly sharp, biting.

  For a moment, there is nothing but silence. Then Aislinn spins to face me, clutching the towel to her chest even as she backs away. “Who the hell are you? Get out before I call the police.”

  If I was a weaker man, I would have stumbled backward from the force of her piercing blue stare. But I am not. Instead, I appreciate the view. In her bare feet, Aislinn is maybe five foot five, her figure is petite but curvy. Right now, with no makeup on, wet hair, and flushed skin that could pass for sunburned, Aislinn looks like a college kid on spring break.

  Except that her stare is swirling with terror, her full lips parting in shock.

  “You don’t ne
ed to do that,” I say slowly, not moving beyond her doorway.

  But my attempt at assurance falls on deaf ears. Aislinn disappears into her bedroom, the door slamming shut. “I mean it,” she yells from behind her closed door. “I’m calling nine-one-one right now!”

  I exhale a sigh and walk into her apartment, taking a seat in one of the chairs at the small table by her kitchen. My sightline is a straight shot to Aislinn’s closed bedroom door, and I’m well aware that the only landline in her apartment is connected to the phone sitting quietly on her kitchen counter.

  I pluck a dead leaf from the wilting arrangement in the center of the glass, just beside a rose gold iPhone.

  “We both know that’s not what you’re doing, so pull yourself together and get back out here. We have business to discuss.”

  A minute passes, then two as my fingers impatiently shred the dead leaf.

  “Who are you?” The question is muffled, her door still tightly shut.

  That’s a loaded question with several answers. Who am I? Hacker. Criminal. Murderer. A thug in a ten-thousand-dollar suit.

  I am all of those things. And I’m also the man who will keep Aislinn Granville alive.

  But I say none of this, remaining silent.

  Eventually, the knob twists. Aislinn’s head slowly emerges, the brief flare of hope doused when she sees that I’m still here. “Who are you?” she repeats.

  “You’re a smart girl. You haven’t figured it out yet?”

  “You’re Damon King,” she says with a kind of breathless trepidation.

  “I am indeed.” Only Aislinn’s face is visible, and those eyes of hers that gleam like star sapphires, each facet fierce and tempting. Her deep blue stare penetrates the thick layers of indifference I’ve acquired over the years. “If you come out here, we can get acquainted.”

  “Absolutely not,” she insists with a shake of her head. “I quit. I no longer work for my father.”

  I already know this. “Your employment status is irrelevant to me.”

  Finally, coming to terms with the fact that I’m not a would-be rapist primed to attack, her expression hardens into an icy mask of irritation. “You need to leave, Mr. King. If necessary, we can set up a meeting at a later date, on neutral ground.”

  I wonder if she’s gotten dressed yet.

  Dropping the last of the leaf, I flick an invisible piece of lint from my immaculate pant leg. Really, I’m just hiding a grin. Our first interaction is even more gratifying than I anticipated. “If you don’t get out here in the next few minutes, I’m going to join you in your bedroom.” I’ll even make the talking optional.

  For that, I’m rewarded with another door slam. It’s not quite as cute as it was the first time.

  But, less than sixty seconds later, Aislinn emerges from behind her door, stepping into the hallway wearing black leggings and an oversized gray hoodie. Pink-tipped toes scrunch on the floor. “We have nothing to discuss.”

  I stand to my full height, towering over her by nearly a foot and challenging her with an imperious gaze. “That’s because you haven’t heard me out.”

  She takes a few tentative steps forward, her shoulder maintaining contact with the wall, arms crossed over her chest, staring at me as if I’m a specimen on a glass slide. “I won’t have anything to do with that recording.”

  I nod. “So I’ve been told.”

  Aislinn’s full lips press together into a rosy-hued pout of displeasure. “Then you’ve wasted your time coming here.”

  “You might want to hold off on jumping to conclusions.”

  Her posture straightens so that she’s no longer leaning against the wall, and she walks into the living room. “Enlighten me then.”

  James Granville’s first initiative as DA was to build a criminal database, starting with chronic repeat offenders and ultimately expanding it to all arrests, whether they resulted in a conviction or not. He justified the enormous expense as necessary for “intelligence-driven prosecution.” It’s been an incredibly successful operation, resulting in lower crime rates and overwhelming public support for Granville himself.

  I needed access to that database for reasons that have nothing to do with profit—but over the years it’s become a fucking goldmine for me, a lucrative and advantageous complement to my cryptocurrency investments. The biggest criminals—the heads of gangs, drugs and arms dealers, real estate kingpins who look clean but are dirtier and more ruthless than most pimps—pay me to mine that database for any information leading back to them.

  Crime is a business like any other. Criminals know a portion of their product will be seized, some of their people will be fined, arrested, convicted.

  A certain amount of loss is built into their business model.

  I tell Lytton just how much he and Granville can skim without winding up on a hit list, in return for them looking the other way when I need them to. Which has worked well—until Granville decided he wanted more. Until he decided cracking down on Los Muertos would juice his chances of becoming mayor.

  Greed. You won’t find it listed on any coroner’s report, but in my world, it’s by far the most common cause-of-death.

  And because of her own father and his chief of staff, Aislinn is firmly in the crosshairs of the Los Muertos cartel.

  “I’ll give you the broad strokes for now. Your father’s plans have reached the cartel’s ears. They’ve made threats.”

  “Against my father?” Her brows pull together in a concerned frown.

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Against Chad?”

  I grit my teeth at the note of worry injected into his name. “No.”

  “I don’t—I don’t understand.”

  “You’re the target, Aislinn.”

  “What?” Her lashes fly open, jaw momentarily sagging before snapping shut. “That’s ridiculous. You’re lying.”

  Aislinn is now barely a foot away from me, and I can’t hold back the coarse chuckle that rumbles from my throat like thunder. “Don’t be naïve. Your father’s too valuable to hurt, he’s already proven he can be bought. Lytton is just an employee. And your mother is too ill. Which leaves you, Aislinn—the perfect bargaining chip. Leverage, if you will.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she says, standing her ground. “If that were true, my father would have warned me.”

  I shrug, knowing this next declaration is going to shock her even further. “Either way, you’ll be staying with me until this situation is contained.”

  The pulse at the base of Aislinn’s throat flutters wildly, like a caged bird trapped beneath her skin. “You’re insane.”

  She’s caught, all right. By me.

  “Maybe. But if you fall into their hands, your father’s just going to ask me to get you back.” I take a step toward her, Aislinn’s chin lifting to maintain eye contact. “I’m a busy man. There’s no need to waste my time hunting you down later when you’re standing in front of me right now.”

  She flinches at the impact of my intention. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  I ignore the question, dragging my eyes away from the sweatshirt that has become damp because of Aislinn’s wet hair, the fabric molding itself to her curves. “Pack your things.”

  She doesn’t back down an inch, impassioned fury turning her spine into a steel bar. “If I’m really in danger, I can hire my own bodyguard. I don’t need you, King.”

  A low chuckle rattles inside my throat as I stare her down. Given the difference in our sizes, it isn’t difficult to do. My answer is confident, and more than a little condescending. Some might say cocky. “Yes, you do.”

  3

  Aislinn

  My mind is still fumbling to make sense of what I heard in my father’s office and now I’m faced with another word puzzle.

  Corruption. Los Muertos cartel. Threat.

  Stakes. Target. Leverage.

  My head is exploding from all of these revelations, and King isn’t helping matters. A chill sweeps throu
gh me from the combination of his tyrannical attitude and my damp clothes. And from his dark, brooding gaze that penetrates to my bones.

  The man towers over me, his thick sable hair several shades darker than his eyes, stubble dusting his hardened jaw like fine black sand. Chiseled cheekbones bracket an aristocratic nose that hovers above finely drawn lips. Full and wide, his mouth is a dusky slash over his strong chin.

  If not for the perfectly tailored suit that makes Damon King’s impossibly wide shoulders look elegant rather than hulking, he would be the kind of man I’d cross the street to avoid.

  His stare makes a leisurely trip from the top of my head down to the toes of my bare feet and back again; a grin I shouldn’t find at all appealing doing disconcerting things to my composure. “Like I said, pack your things. You’re coming with me.”

  King’s throaty growl resounds inside my eardrums. I would consider pressing my palms against them and running from the room, except that I’d only trap his damn words inside. I want them out, erased, gone forever.

  I brace myself against the tremble threatening to shake me like a sapling in a windstorm. The man standing in front of me, with his long, blunt fingers and wide hands, would be only too eager to bend me to his will. “And if I don’t?”

  His mouth presses together. Not smiling anymore, but not frowning either. His expression is almost studious, concentrating intently on the subject at hand. Me.

  I’m practically burning up beneath the intensity of his attention. My skin is flushed, breaths turning heavy. And I can’t take my eyes off King’s lips. They are perfectly sculpted and entirely kissable. Yet I expect they would be hard on mine, punishing. The kiss of a man who takes what he wants, no coaxing necessary.

  A kiss from Damon King would be a brand of ownership. A claiming.

  I’m still staring when his mouth parts, revealing an even gate of perfectly white teeth. “I’ve been known to kill what I hunt. But in your case, watching your father resign in disgrace might be an appropriate punishment.”