Page 19 of Black Sheep

Her gentle touch continues to soothe my ravaged skin. “And that prosecutor who wants six black cats eating sushi off his naked body? Yeah, that doesn’t work for me. I’m not into bestiality,” she states dryly, her mouth twitching in a ghost of a smile.

“Sure.”

She nods and carries on listing the pros and cons of applicants without referring to the file, a testament to how good she is at her job. All I want is for her to be done.

“Okay, great. Two more came in this morning. I recommend we approve both of them. One is a girl who wants a replica of her boyfriend’s old bedroom—”

“Enough.” Taking the gauze from her hands, I throw it back into the kit and rise. “You’ve done what you came to do. It’s time for you to leave.”

“Axel…”

I shake my head, my patience at an end. “I meant what I said earlier. You’re good at what you do, which is why you’re in charge, but you’re still expendable.”

She takes a deep breath, stands, and gathers up the file. “Got it. But even at the risk of getting myself fired, I have to say this. I know a thing or two about paying penance. You spent six hours in the chair. And yet you’re still wound up as tight as a fucking drum.”

The reminder amps up my cold rage. “Watch it, B. You’re two blinks away from becoming the sacrificial lamb in a chaos-fest you didn’t ask for. Walk away. Now.”

She tries to stare me down. “I hear you, although you should be warned that the last thing I am in any scenario is a lamb. All I’m going to add is this. Something isn’t working for you. Find a way to take care of it. Before it eats you alive.”

* * *

I tell myself that those parting words aren’t the reason I’m standing against the wall that guards Finnan Rutherford’s Greenwich, Connecticut, mansion at midnight when I should be at XYNYC. The outer perimeter alarm was ridiculously easy to disarm. In the darkness, I pet the pair of Doberman Pinschers trained to tear intruders apart but that are instead licking my hand, and I stare at the towering colonial mansion. A fuck-off house to end all fuck-off houses, built to impress those easily fooled by loud and shiny objects.

I never called it home because it was never my home. It was a place of depravity, of misery and humiliation. A demeaning arena where brother was pitted against brother and blood was forced on unsuspecting hands.

I could end it all tonight. Walk into his den or bedroom in the east wing and wipe the man who sired me from the face of the earth.

But taking a life, no matter how necessary or secretly relished the act, is a burden that would drag my damned soul deeper into hell. I accepted that burden a long time ago but I’m not ready to make my move yet.

Not when the game is getting interesting.

Is that just an excuse?

Perhaps I want to make him suffer a little more? It could be this is the only thing that anchors me to this world. I haven’t decided yet one way or the other. So I turn my attention to the south wing, where she sleeps.

Cleo.

Her name explodes in my mind like the deadliest IED. Beneath my hand, a dog whimpers, sensing my altered mood. I soften my caress and take a breath.

I linger for another ten minutes before making my move. And it’s not back where my Spider is parked two streets over. The dogs accompany me, along with the devil that’s been riding me for two long fucking weeks, as I head for the house.

The pool house where my false bliss started and ended is shrouded behind box-cut mulberry hedges to my far left. I don’t spare it a glance. My focus is fixed on the kitchen doors located beneath the south wing terrace. To my knowledge, Finnan has never used that particular room in his house, believing it to be a woman’s domain. It’s the easiest point of ingress, the half a dozen or so bodyguards tasked to protect the property currently playing cards in the carriage house above the five-car garage, past one garden and a tennis court over to my right. With the abundance of cameras, guns and four-legged guard dogs surrounding them, they’ve grown soft.

I let myself inside and stop. I tell myself I’m acclimatizing to my surroundings, but despite the clinical purpose to my visit, I can’t stop the influx of familiar scents that hit me. Tulips and orchids from the flower room adjoining the kitchen where Ma spent hours cutting and arranging flowers and prepping bulbs. I’m surprised the smell still lingers considering she’s been gone for nine years. The scent of polished leather from the mudroom next to the flower room. Kippers and cured ham from the butler’s pantry. The remnants of carbonara sauce. Bolton’s favorite.

My favorite.

Jaw clenched, I shrug off the memories.

“Sit,” I murmur to the dogs. They sag onto the checkered tile, heads on front paws, eyes on me as I cross the room. Quick, silent strides take me to the north hall. I stop and listen for signs of life. Nothing. I head for the security panel set into the wall. The screen shows empty galleries on all three floors.

I’m neither excited nor agitated as I climb the stairs to the second floor. Even the idea of discovery doesn’t escalate my heartbeat as I make my way to the master suite.

Confronted with the huge double doors that once symbolized fear and oppression to me, I slow my steps, savor the moment. Reaching into my pocket I take out the pouch and the two items I need.

Wealth grants me access to gluttony and excess. Occasionally, it also grants me access to unsanctioned gadgets available only on the dark web, like the small tool in my hand that gives me a clear image of what lies behind the doors.

I pick up the outline easily.

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