Page 7 of Vow to Protect
Tilly’s wide grin hugs my heart, gifting me the reassurance that our messed-up family unit will work out okay. In that split second, I think about Raen again. If she is telling the truth, then I should keep my enemies close, and by that, I mean Blaine Casey.
Short arms stretch upwards. I bend down, lifting her into my arms. “Where are you going today, Daddy?” I love how her soft palms feel against my scruff when she pats my cheeks and presses her perfect tiny lips to the tip of my nose. That’s our thing, a minor intimate act that brings us closer together as father and daughter.
“Business as usual, Shortie.” I nudge forward and nuzzle my nose with hers.
“Will you see, Uncle Kaleb?”
“Probably.” I’m attending a meeting with the Vertus Circulo members. It’s our monthly meeting, which used to involve too much alcohol and financial negotiations. Kaleb became an honorary member, since Calvin Beaumont, the leader of our club, became heavily invested in his future and welcomed him in.
“Oh, wait, let me down, Daddy.” She squirms. “I drew him a picture of Champ.” The second her soles hit the floor, she dashes along the hallway and returns with a page covered in black and brown blotches. “I signed it too.” She rubs her palms together triumphantly.
Crouching down, I pinch the piece of paper and grin at the best dog blob I’ve ever seen. “WOW!” I flick a curl over her shoulder. “Promise me you’ll never stop drawing. This looks like Champ’s twin. They’re identical.” It doesn't matter that Champ’s double has unusable sausage legs or that his body is a barrel with uneven ears and long whiskers like a cat—the effort is everything.
“Do you think he’ll like it?” Her nose wrinkles.
“He’ll love it, and Auntie Freya will stick it to the fridge door with the others.”
Folding the page, I tuck it inside my suit jacket. “Butterfly kiss?”
My daughter tips her sweet face closer, resting her long lashes on my cheekbone and bats them quickly. The small movement strokes my skin like the wings of a colourful butterfly, with love, with gentle laughter, with the lightness of our life together.
* * *
I stare into the crystal cut decanter filled to the belly with golden temptation, wondering if one glass will lead to a weekend binge.
“Stop eye fucking the booze, Brett.” Alexander sneaks in the door and pats my shoulder from behind. I’ve been alone in his library with the taunt of sweet whiskey for the past ten minutes.
By tradition, the monthly VC meetings take place in a member’s home, and this time, it’s the penthouse apartment of the youngest member of the club, Alexander Lynch. We have known each other for years, family friends through our fathers. He's a bit younger than me, at twenty-eight, acting like he’s twenty-one. The guy has no concept of responsibility. Why would he when he’s worth over a billion in stocks, shares and an ancestral inheritance?
Alexander can do whatever the fuck he wants, and with the VC behind him, that pretty much means anything.
I had that freedom once upon a time. I lived like a rockstar. Now my life revolves around princess parties, family dinners and bedtime fairytales that lie about happy endings. These days, that's all I need to survive.
It’s mostly the next generation of VC members who show up these days. The elders more or less take a back seat, reaping the rewards and leaving the financial meetings to us. Each member supports the other, under the alliance of an unbreakable pact that only death will relinquish. We’re strategic building blocks, elevating each other to the next level, keeping our social impetus intact and our eyes above the game.
The Vertus Circulo has the world in our hands.
Gods of secrecy.
Gods of knowledge.
Gods of power.
Gods of war.
Gods of wealth.
Yet I failed to understand why the Gods of punishment were kept at bay after Syrah’s murder. That reality left a bitter aftertaste. We have ruthless men on the ground and undercover. Any number of them could have scattered his worthless body with a few rounds. But her father, Calvin Beaumont, our respected leader, ordered peace with no retaliation.
Bullshit.
In my world, it’s an eye for an eye, a life for a life. Those are the fucking rules.
Calvin commanded a ceasefire in the name of his beloved daughter, Syrah. He offered an inadequate reason—she wouldn’t want war, and he’s responsible for the wellbeing of his other daughter, Freya. Death doesn’t equal happiness.
He’s seen how revenge can wilt a man’s soul. We all have. Kaleb was coined in hell until the truth set him free. Now, he battles demons with a strong woman by his side, and I’m left to wrestle mine with a six-year-old daughter in my care.
Where he can shed the shackles of hate by casting Freya’s radiance on his darkness, I struggle to find the fucking light switch.
