Page 53 of The Demons We Hide

We have? As the man speaks, I’m rifling through my memories, picking up and discarding potential names to go along with his words and the subconscious facts I’m picking up. He knows my name—first and last. He has my number. He’s older, for sure. His voice is far past the crackle of adolescence and he sounds confident.

“Let me try another question then,” I say. “What do you want?”

The stranger hums, the sound vibrating over the line as I lean back on my heels and stare across the lot to where Lex has disappeared around the corner towards the side entrance we’d used to get in earlier.

“Not ‘How did you get this number?’” he asks. “I’m surprised.”

“Congratu-fucking-lations,” I snap. “Are you going to answer or am I hanging up?”

“You can do whatever the fuck you want,” the man replies. “Or is that not the motto of life you and your friends subscribe to?”

My friends. There’s not a question as to who those “friends” of mine are, and the fact that he mentioned them only tells me that he’s offering me the thinnest of threats. I push away from Lex’s SUV and stalk across the parking lot.

“If you?—”

“Stop.” The man’s voice no longer comes across the line, but closer, and my body immediately follows the command. The phone hangs limply between my hand and ear.

The memory comes back, sparkling clear, and I curse myself for how long it’d taken me to realize who he is. When I turn to face him, lowering my phone and hanging up the now useless call as I do, I spy the man from Ma-Ri’s club. Tall, broad, and dressed in a suit that blends into the darkness of night.

Mitchell Vikson.

He strides towards me, and as he does, I watch him slip his own phone into the pocket of his perfectly pressed slacks. I narrow my eyes but don’t back down as he approaches.

“Let’s have a talk, Nolan.”

His words brook no argument, yet I find myself glaring up at him and daring him silently to force the issue. Vikson, to my surprise, doesn’t get angry at my obvious defiance. After working for Darrio Vargas for the last several years and being raised in a place like Silverwood where any man with a sliver of power expects automatic respect, his amusement at my contempt is confusing.

Vikson blows out a slow breath. “I’m not here to hurt you or threaten Lex and his friends.”

“Don’t say his name.” The words escape me before I can call them back. Inside, my logical mind is warring with protective instincts that I haven’t needed to use in a long damn time. Lex is more than capable of taking care of himself. Hell, I trust him to watch my back, but this man wants something from him and it pisses me off that I still haven’t discovered what that is.

Vikson arches one dark slash of an eyebrow. “Is that really where you want to draw the line?”

I scowl. “You don’t know him,” I snap back. “You don’t get to talk like you understand him or us for that matter.”

“Fair enough, but you should know.” Vikson stuffs both of his hands into the pockets of his slacks. A casual way to make himself appear more friendly and not nearly as much of a danger as he actually is. It’s a lie. “I’m not going away. It’s important that I talk to him.”

“And why is that?” I shift on the balls of my feet, turning slightly, not to flee, but to prepare in case this man has any intention of attacking. I’ve seen his type before—watched them go from smiling, laughing regular joe men to unhinged street brawlers. There is nothing this man could say that would give me adequate reason as to why he wants contact with Lex.

Vikson’s lips curve as if he can read my mind and knows what I’m thinking. His next words prove that I can still be so very fucking wrong.

“Because Alexio Medicci is my nephew.”

There’s fucked up and then there’sfucked beyond all recognition.The difference between the two is that the first can be fixed, adjusted, somehow overcome. It might take getting some blood on your hands, but in the end, it’s an obstacle to be conquered. The second, however, is far worse.Fucked beyond all recognitionis the universe’s way of shoving you into an active volcano and laughing at your ass as you sink beneath the waves of lava and perish in a fiery pit of agony.

Mitchell Vikson’s appearance is firmly in that unfortunate second category.

“What the hell do you mean, he’s your nephew?” I demand, shaking my head. “His only family is?—”

“Gemma Watson?” Vikson asks with a sympathetic pucker to his brow. It makes me want to punch him. He blows out a breath when I go quiet. “My father was like a lot of them in Silverwood,” he goes on. “Fucked out and had multiple kids by multiple women. It might be more accurate to say that Alexio Medicci is the son of my half-sister. We weren’t raised together and we had nothing to do with each other while growing up.”

“Okay.” I stare at him. “Then why the fuck are you here now? Why do you want anything to do with Lex now?” I clench my hands into fists and repress my final question:Why are you coming to me instead of him?

I’m sure he can read the silent inquiry on my face, but he doesn’t answer it. Not yet.

“It’s come to my attention that it’s his and his friends’ desire to attend Eastpoint,” he states. “I can make that happen.”

“Not out of some false sense of obligation.” My words are a statement, not a question.

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