Page 16 of Haunted

His file indicates that he graduated at the top of his class at Harvard Business School. And yet he’s renowned for riding his motorcycle around town and the ink covering every inch of skin—something I learned from a vacation photo snapped of him on the beach. No criminal record. Not even a parking ticket.

“Everyone has secrets,” I remind myself, jotting down names of associates from the photo’s caption.

The longer I stare at his face, the more I recognize a disturbing truth: Xavier Blackwood isn’t dangerous because of what he might be hiding. He’s dangerous because part of me is drawn to him. And he knows it—I’ve seen it in the way his lips curl when he catches me watching him.

Exposing the Blackwoods means more than evidence and headlines. It means facing the pull I feel toward the one man I should want nowhere near me—and figuring out what scares me more: what he’s hiding or how much I want to find out.

7

XAVIER

Steel trolleys clatter against concrete as crates shift from Tyson’s trucks into our vans, fast and clean. Remy’s barked orders cut through the space. The air stinks of oil, sweat, and tension that no one speaks aloud.

Knox leans against a stack of crates, tossing his switchblade into the air and catching it. “Seems like our carnival friends came through after all,” he says, smirking in Tyson’s direction.

“Did you doubt them?” Landon asks from beside me.

Knox doesn’t respond.

Tyson walks over with the easy confidence of someone who thrives in chaos. His carnival might be a front, but there’s nothing staged about the way he carries himself.

“Product’s all accounted for.” He hands me a manifest. “Had to take a detour through Ridgeway when thestate troopers set up a checkpoint on the main route. Cost us twelve hours, but better late than never.”

I scan the numbers, and everything matches our agreement. “Your problem-solving skills never disappoint, Ty.”

“That’s why you keep me around.” He grins. Even in casual conversation, we remain aware of the weight of our business.

“How’s fatherhood treating you?” I fold the manifest and tuck it into my jacket. “Still getting sleep?”

Something genuine flickers across his face. “Sleep’s for people without a ten-month-old who has the lungs like a carnival barker. Little Anthony’s got his mother’s looks and my volume.”

Knox snorts. “God help us all when he’s a teenager.”

“I’m building a panic room for that exact situation,” Tyson counters.

Lars, who’s been silently overseeing the loading process, approaches. “Last shipment’s secure.”

I nod. “Your son’s going to inherit quite the operation someday, Ty. Let’s make sure it’s still running when he’s ready.”

“If he’s anything like his old man, he’ll be running circles around all of us by the time he’s ten,” Landon adds.

“Speaking of running operations,” I say, maintaining eye contact with Tyson, “we’ve established a new supply line with Ilya Orlov.”

The shift in Tyson’s demeanor is immediate—jaw clenched, shoulders squared.

“Orlov? Russian?” Tyson’s voice drops to a dangerous octave. “You bringing in outside suppliers without running it by me?”

Around us, I notice Lars and Colt’s attention subtly shifting. Phoenix pauses his work on a laptop.

“It won’t affect our arrangement,” I assure him. “The carnival remains a major distribution network. This is supplementary.”

Landon steps closer to my side, a quiet show of support.

“Then why didn’t you come to us?” Tyson demands. “We could’ve worked something out, expanded routes, increased frequency. We’ve been partners for eight years, Xavier.”

I shake my head. “We’re not looking to adjust margins, Ty. We’re scaling operations. Even if you dedicated your entire supply chain to Ravenwood, it wouldn’t be sufficient.”

“Try me,” he challenges.

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