Page 57 of Taking Denver

When Denver doesn’t object, I head downstairs and into my office. I pour myself two fingers of whiskey, sit in my chair, and close my eyes.

I finish my first and only drink of the evening quicker than I like. I only ever allow myself one, refusing to fall victim to a beverage like my father had. After staring at the empty glass, I pull back my shirt cuff, unfasten the clasp of my Rolex, and place it on the desk.

Hidden beneath the watch is a thin, braided bracelet. It’s made up of black, white, and gray thread and is the result of one of Denver’s many hobbies. In the process of deciding what she wants to do in life, she tries everything. In the past, she’s taken up bookbinding, crochet, archery, baking, and even a class on how to make coffee art. She’d liked that class the most, and every coffee she made for me months after had featured a skull and crossbones that gradually became more recognizable over time. But one of her first hobbies was bracelets, and she’d given one to every person she met, including me.

“Men like me don’t wear bracelets, Denver,” I’d pointed out dryly as she’d sat on this very desk and tied it to my wrist.

“Hush up, Grim Reaper. Look how nice it is on you.”

I’ve never taken it off. I’ve killed men wearing this bracelet. I’ve made backroom deals with governors and state attorneys with this small, handmade piece of jewelry on my wrist. I run the tip of my finger over the faded colors and wonder if she’ll make me another one for our wedding day. Because we are getting married, whether she likes it or not.

My phone rings.

The name on the screen has impatience bubbling in my chest. It’s one thing for the police to hound me, and they’ve been all over me after the incident with Rose on the plane, but this guy is something else.

I answer. “This is a sure-fire way to die, Wilder.”

Wilder Harland laughs. “Hey, you fucking answered, though. We’re making progress.”

“The only progress we’ll make is when I’m washing your blood from my hands,” I say, leaning back in my chair. I twist my wrist, still admiring the bracelet.

“Aw,” Wilder croons. “Why so moody, big guy?”

“Not moody,” I say simply. “Just thinking about everything the McEwans told me.” Wilder falls silent, and I bask in quiet amusement. “You failed to mention they’re running you out of New York.”

“Because they’re fucking not.”

Ah, there’s the nerve I’ve been searching for.

For two months, Wilder Harland has harassed me with calls and attempted visits. He wants to partner up and promises me more money than I could ever dream of. I already have more than I could spend in twenty lifetimes, even with Denver’s shopping habit. But Wilder’s gun running is lucrative on the East Coast because his routes are solid. Reliable. Untouchable.

It made no sense to me that Wilder Harland and his brother would suddenly be so interested in California. Until I called one of the Irish families in New York, a family I have tenuous ties to that even I’d rather not acknowledge.

“You turned down the McEwans’ request to use your routes,” I say. “All because you have this…aversionto drugs. What is it you think we’d be partnering up in? Flour delivery?”

“You do what you have to do, and my guns can run alongside it.”

“Then stick with the fucking McEwans’.”

“I’m not working with them,” Wilder bites

78out.

I sigh. “I won’t pretend to understand where your moral line is, Wilder. The point is, I don’t give a shit. I’m not bailing you out.”

Wilder huffs a laugh. “Scared of the McEwans?”

“You clearly are,” I say. “Even if the McEwans weren’t involved, you’re a loose cannon. You created this mess by burning the McEwans’ routes in the first place.” Silence. I’m almost gleeful. “Didn’t know I knew that, did you?” More silence, and I know I’ve hit the nail on the head. McEwans’ shipments have been intercepted by police numerous times, and it was through old contacts and favors that I discovered that little nugget of information. “Back off, Wilder, or I’ll let everyone know just how much of a fuck-up you are.”

“Do that, and I’ll cut out her fucking heart.”

My blood becomes a roar of thunder in my ears. I lean forward, palm resting on the desk. Threaten me. Threaten my business. Threaten my power and my place. But not her.Never her.

“Everyone knows she’s your weakness,” Wilder continues down this path that will lead nowhere for him. Nowhere good, anyway. “If I delivered her head in a fucking box, you’d crumble.”

My voice becomes that of a devil’s promise, a deal Wilder has now signed in blood. “You just bought yourself a slow and painful death, Wilder Harland. Congratulations.”

I hang up.

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