Page 41 of Kingpin's Secret Baby

Chef Marcel didn’t come in at his usual time this morning. I can only assume he was turned back by the men surrounding the house, probably offered some good money- or a stern warning- to keep him from going to any authorities. We can’t expect any help on that front.

When the sun gets high enough that we can see more than shadows under the trees, Piers and I go to the small window above the toilet and look outside. It takes a minute for us to be able to differentiate the shapes of bodies and tree trunks, neutral-colored clothes and budding branches. But the more we stare into the undergrowth, the more people begin to emerge.

From the bathroom, we count four men. Out the smaller window in our bedroom, we see three more. We circle the house, peeking carefully through curtains and blinds and grimly counting. Approximately a dozen men surround us, and those are just the ones we can see through the treeline.

Interesting too is that not all of them are Crowes and not all of them are Ashwoods. Perhaps the scuffle we heard the night before was the clashing of these two groups, and now they’ve formed a tense standoff with our sanctuary in the middle. For a moment, I feel some vague hope that these tensions will break, and the two sides will attack each other before they manage to starve us out.

This hope dies almost as quickly as it was born.

Because through the thin glass of the window, I see them move.

Not toward each other, in aggression- but in understanding. Two figures, one from each side, meeting at the tree line with careful, measured steps.

Piers stiffens beside me, his breath steady but sharp. I feel it too- that moment where everything tilts. The brief possibility of their animosity working in our favor shatters as I watch them exchange a few short words. A pause, then a nod.

My stomach turns.

“They're talking,” I whisper.

Piers doesn’t reply. He just watches, unmoving, as the two men linger in quiet discussion.

One of them I recognize. He’s an Ashwood, unmistakable in the sharp angles of his face, the wiry build, the predatory way he holds himself. The other man is different—taller, broader, with striking red hair and the kind of stillness that only comes with power. A Crowe.

“Shit.” My voice is barely audible.

Piers finally speaks. “What the hell did you do to piss off the Crowes?”

I bristle. “Nothing. I’ve never had any dealings with them.”

“Who’s the other guy?”

“Harold Ashwood.” I swallow, shifting my weight. “This isn’t good.”

The conversation between them doesn’t last long. There’s no handshake, no dramatic display of unity. Just another nod—sharper this time. More decisive. And then they turn, walking back to their respective groups, their intentions clear.

I pull away from the window, my pulse ticking higher. “They’re working together.”

Piers doesn’t move for a long moment. Then, with quiet precision, he lets the curtain slip back into place and turns to me.

“Well, that was our best shot,” he says. “And it’s gone.”

I know. If they had fought, if the tension between them had snapped, we might have had an opening. A chance to slip away in the chaos. But now? Now, we’re nothing more than a problem they’ve mutually agreed to solve.

Silence settles between us, heavy and suffocating. It’s Fantasia who finally breaks it, her voice low and steady. “They’re not going to rush this. They’re going to wait us out.”

Piers’s jaw tightens. “How much food do we have?”

I blink, thrown by the question. I hadn’t even considered that. I force myself to think back, to the cupboards I’d barely glanced at when we first arrived. We hadn’t needed to stock up; Chef Marcel had been spoiling us with meals. “A few cans of soup. Some crackers. A few roast potatoes left over from last night's dinner. Maybe enough for a couple of days if we ration it.”

“Water.” Piers mutters a curse under his breath. “If they’re smart, they’ll cut the power or block the pipes.”

I sink onto the couch, my shoulders slumping, eyes fixed on the floor. “We’re trapped,” I mutter, the words brittle and hollow. “They’re going to starve us out.”

Chapter 20

Piers

We’re well and truly fucked now, and it might just be my fault.

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