Page 6 of Knox

“Thank you, Father.”

His hand slid off my shoulder as he moved past me toward his office—the thing furthest from a sink. “Don’t fail me, Caroline.”

My heart stuttered in my chest. That was a threat. My father had never threatened me before.

The warehouse side door slammed shut behind Church. I finally allowed my body to react with a flinch. I would never see that bloodied seventeen-year-old again.

A couple of the other men loitered around, none interested in picking up cards again.

How many of our own will fall to my father’s whims? I wondered.

CHAPTER 3

KNOX

The place was like a pressure cooker.

A moldy, humid, dim pressure cooker that smelled like weed, piss, and stale food. As soon as I took in the layout, I almost backed out of my own mission. Almost. I didn’t break promises.

Cigarette and weed smoke made the air hazy and clouded, making a contact high inevitable. There was no ventilation, of course, because why would there be? There had to be something that could stain the peeling wallpaper. No AC, either, because apparently, no one envisioned dozens of sweaty, drunk, money-hungry men slinking in here and drowning their sorrows one way or another. Pick a depravity—gambling, drinking, smoking, or pissing someone off enough to get stabbed.

I quickly scanned the stained floor. All the splotches were grayish, making it impossible to tell what they were, especially in the flickering yellow fluorescent bulbs with flies trapped inside.

Yeah, I’d totally rather be here than by Grant’s cozy firepit with my MC brothers.

There was no music to mask the click of poker chips, low conversation occasionally spiking with a roar of frustration or victory and clinking beer bottles. My gaze drifted to the bar where a heavily made-up woman was cleaning glasses with a nasty-ass rag, watching me with barely masked interest. I was probably the only self-respecting bastard in this place to actually look like a contributing member of society. I wondered what she would do if I had worn my Devil’s jacket. I’d likely be knocked on my ass on the doorstep with a broken nose if anyone recognized me as a member.

A sharp bark of laughter drew my attention to the center of the den. There were six men around the poker table of battered wood and scratched-up green felt. The game was well underway, but that was the last thing I focused on.

No, I was focused on her.

The daughter of the most dangerous man in Reno, Caroline Bates.

Several emotions curled in my gut as I took in her appearance: dressed in black leather head to toe and damn near looking like a Bond girl, which was far from the typical expensive white attire she wore to ruin the lives of my MC. The icy-blonde hair yanked into a high ponytail looked painful as fuck. But it did the job of making her look as untouchable as she was.

Her expression did that, too. Cold, detached, in control—the definition of a poker face. It was obvious to even the most dimwitted bastard that she knew every move she made was calculated. She didn’t even flinch when a man twice her size slammed his glass down in frustration. It was all in the eyes. Those blue eyes that she inherited from her sadistic father. They were on her cards, on the hands of the others, on the felt table, on every drink and cigarette.

On me.

For the briefest moment. It was only to see who walked through the door, so nothing special. And if she recognized me as her father’s mortal enemy, she didn’t show it. If she did, I wasn’t her priority.

It was this ugly lot of lowlife vultures around her. They watched her every controlled move, every slow curve of her slender fingers tipped with stupidly long, pointed red nails that glinted even in the greasy light.

I kept my eyes on her as I stalked to the bar. I only half heard what the bartender asked in a syrup-sweet purr. I glimpsed her lean over to press her tits together in her low-cut tank top in my peripheral. Either she was actually trying to flirt, or it was some con so I would think with my cock and not my brain while something important slipped right by me.

“What you want to burn your throat, honey?”

Caroline slid a fat stack of chips forward. It was performative, like the bet was more of a message than a move.

One of the guys curled his lip to reveal teeth as yellow and gnarly as the lights. He had a thick, tacky gold chain around his thick-ass neck and smudged glasses low on his crooked nose. “Careful, sweetheart,” he drawled, stroking his beard with his free hand as if it counted as making a move. “Wouldn’t want Daddy’s little girl to blow her whole allowance on a couple of bastards like us.”

The bartender’s nails dragged down my jacket sleeve. “Don’t ignore me, sweetheart. You’ve got such pretty blue eyes?—”

I shot her a silencing glare. I wasn’t pissed at her, but damn, I couldn’t let anything distract me from Caroline. I had no clue what she was doing here or why. I had to figure it out. “Whiskey and silence.”

She straightened, scowling before sloshing the cheapest bottle they had into a dirty short glass and sliding it from across the bar. “Choke on it, dickhead.”

I caught it before it flew off the bar but didn’t drink. I would have barked a laugh in a less tense situation. I turned back to Caroline and the tacky chain guy.

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