Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 122578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 409(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 409(@300wpm)
Caleb took the contract and tucked it into his jacket, dipping his head in parting before he walked toward the door. When he heard his father’s voice, he paused, fighting the irritation that cracked through his nerves. “And take Donovan with you.”
Donovan was a prick. Couldn’t be trusted. Yet, his father did, cutting him a percentage of each dirty deal they hustled.
“Fine,” he grated low, knowing it was no use arguing with him.
He tapped out a message to Donovan as he walked out into the hall.
Caleb
We’re on.
Donovan
Address?
Caleb sent it to him, then entered the elevator, dizziness buzzing through his head as it sped forty floors down to the basement parking.
His chest tight.
The sickness of who he was twisting his stomach in knots.
The elevator doors swept open, and he strode to his bike. He started it then flew from the lot.
The back door crashed open, banging against the wall of the sleeping house. He moved through it like he’d been invited in, a storm of darkness that had descended.
Frank Aston tore open the bedroom door, breaths heaving as he gripped a bat to his chest.
Caleb reached out and jerked it out of his hold, then he took him by the back of the neck and forced him down the hall toward the kitchen.
The man stumbled as they went, crying out through fear and fury. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get out of my house or I’ll call the cops.”
“Try it.” Caleb shoved him down onto a chair at a small table beneath the window.
Donovan turned on the light.
It glared, spotlights on the monsters who’d come to collect.
“I was told you’re being unreasonable,” Caleb hissed at his ear.
“I have the right not to sell,” the man wheezed.
“Of course, you do. We just want to make sure this deal is in your best interest. That this deal lands in your favor,” Caleb said. It was filled with a warning.
Venom.
Evil.
Caleb tossed the unsigned contract onto the table in front of him. A picture of his daughter was on top—an 8 x 10 black and white of a beautiful girl that his father had included in the file.
Disgust burned through his being, his conscience in coils of revulsion.
“How could you be so cruel?” Frank begged. “You bastard.”
“No,” Caleb murmured close to his ear. “I’m just making this deal worth your while. Just sign the contract and you never have to deal with us again.”
With a trembling hand, Frank began to sign the dotted lines, sweat pouring from his temples as he quivered in fear and disbelief.
Gathering the papers, Caleb stuffed them back into the front of his jacket then moved for the door that still sat wide open, the cold of winter pouring in.
Donovan didn’t follow. He bashed the man in the face with his fist. Blood gushed from the man’s nose, and Frank Aston cried out as he lifted his arms to protect himself, “Please, don’t. I signed it. Just leave me and my family alone.”
Caleb fought the repulsion that scattered through his nerves.
Donovan was a bastard. Out for blood when the man sitting at the table was guilty of nothing but wanting to preserve his heritage. Bile burned on Caleb’s tongue, while Donovan cracked a menacing grin. “Just a little something to remember us by in case you get any bad ideas.”
He was laughing as they walked out.
THIRTEEN
CALEB
“What do you mean, horses got out?” I spat into my cell as I paced the floor of my office. The sun had just burst over the horizon, and glittering darts of light speared through the window to pierce the night while the darkness inside me throbbed with the early morning call.
Mert had been hired to run the ranch, to handle all issues that arose. The last thing I needed was to be bothered with its care.
I had enough to worry about in Seattle. I had a billion-dollar business to run remotely. Greyson Industries was the real-estate development company my grandfather had started as little more than a small residential broker when he’d moved to Seattle in his fifties.
My father had built it into the powerful development company it was today, of course, with the help of me and Donovan working on the backend, ensuring deals landed in our favor—by whatever means necessary.
When my father had died, I’d inherited his seat.
For years, it was the only thing that had mattered. Now I really didn’t give a shit. Wouldn’t care if it all burned to the ground.
As long as I ferreted out whoever hated me as much as I’d come to hate myself, I’d die a satisfied man.
I had to believe it was related to Donovan Paltrow in some way. Believed his older brother had to be involved, a man who was just as much of a scumbag as his brother. I just hadn’t found the proof.