Sweet Retribution (Ruthless Games Book 2)

Over the next three days, my head and hand both begin to heal. The nasty knot on the side of my skull fades, and the cuts on my knuckles scab and heal over.

But my heart only seems to grow more and more broken, infected with a pain that refuses to ease.

Ryland and Theo, filled with the same sense of urgency I am, spend nearly every waking minute of every day searching for answers about what happened to Marcus. Ryland goes to see Dominic, which scares the fuck out of me despite their reassurances that no violence will erupt in this period of peace.

But Dominic continues to insist he has no idea who shot Carson or who might’ve taken Marcus.

Just that it wasn’t him.

“Do you believe him?” I ask in frustration after Ryland returns and gives us a run-down of his conversation with Dominic.

“I don’t fucking know.” He shakes his head, his hazel eyes hard. “His story didn’t change. And he claims he didn’t know about any third person working with Carson. Seemed really fucking pissed about it when I told him, actually.”

The three of us are gathered in Theo’s kitchen, which has become our de facto war room. It’s a big house with plenty of other rooms, but this seems to be the one we all gravitate toward no matter what. I’m still staying in the guest room upstairs. Clothes showed up in the closet one day—a variety of outfits in a style that matches my old clothes—and I know Theo or Ryland had them delivered.

Ryland is staying here too. I think he’s only been back to his own house once since we arrived here on the day the game ended, to get some of his own clothes and bring them here.

None of us seem to want to be far apart from each other.

I’ve called in sick to work the last several nights. The idea of going back to Duke’s and serving drinks to rowdy college students as if nothing is wrong makes my heart constrict painfully. I’ll have to figure something out long term, since I know Duke isn’t going to buy my excuses for too much longer. I’ve only called in sick once before since I started working there, and that was only for a single shift.

“Too bad we can’t fucking ask Carson. He got put in the ground yesterday,” Theo says, pulling me from my thoughts. “Police have ruled his death a homicide but have no suspects.”

I wonder how much of that is Luca’s influence. The fact that all that security footage was erased has to hamper the police’s investigation as much as it does our own, but it’s also pretty likely that he used whatever influence he has to nudge the cops toward back-burnering the case.

“Yeah. Dominic was at his funeral.” Ryland drums his fingers over the marble island. “He told me Gabriel and Michael were there too.”

“Two other players in the game,” Theo explains when he sees my confused look. “Both come from old mafia families.”

I blink. “So they spent seventy-two hours trying to kill him and each other, and then they went to his funeral?”

“Yeah. And they’ll probably be invited to…” Theo’s voice dies. His jaw tightens as he clears his throat and continues. “To Marcus’s wake.”

My stomach seems to drop out of my body. The room around me blurs a little, my vision going fuzzy around the edges as I press my palm against the countertop. “His… what?”

“The Constantines are having a wake for their son on Saturday,” Ryland says quietly.

My gaze flies to him, then back to Theo. I shake my head, the movement wild and desperate. “No. No, they can’t. We’re still looking for him. They can’t—”

“We’ll keep looking, Ayla.” His hazel eyes burn with inner fire. “We won’t stop. But we can’t keep them from doing this. They’re his family. They get to call this shot.”

“On Saturday?” I repeat, feeling like I’m asking when a guillotine will fall.

He nods. “You don’t have to come with us. It—”

“No. I want to.”

It’s a lie. I don’t fucking want to. I’d rather eat glass than go to a wake for a man I’ve been praying isn’t dead. But there’s no way in hell I’m letting Theo and Ryland face it on their own. I can still remember the haunted look in Theo’s eyes when he told me that the prospect of losing Marcus felt worse than losing his own father. I can still see Ryland’s grief in the taut lines of his face and the tension he carries in every part of his body.

As wrecked as I am by Marcus’s disappearance, so are they.

And if they can face going to his wake, so can I.

I’ve never believed in fate or destiny. I still don’t think there was any kind of divine intervention that led my path to cross with theirs on that night two and a half years ago when I got shot.

But it doesn’t really matter what brought us together. Because these men are in my life now, in my heart in a way I never expected anyone to be. Our lives are forever entwined.

And I will never let any of them go.

The black dress I pulled from my closet is a flattering a-line that gently hugs my curves. A bias-cut neckline shows off the pale skin of my throat, and my arms are bare. I secured my dark hair into a messy ponytail, but the messiness looks intentional somehow when paired with the dress.

I look classy and elegant, refined and understated—except for the bold tattoo that covers my arm and the scarred stump of my forearm.

Fuck it. And fuck anyone who doesn’t like it.

My prosthesis was destroyed in the fire, and I haven’t had time to get a new one made. We’ve been busy with other things, distracted by concerns that matter more than a fake arm. And considering that this dress showed up in my wardrobe a day ago, another gift from one of the guys, I’m guessing neither of them have a problem with me wearing something sleeveless. Hell, they picked it out for me.

I glance at my reflection one more time, dragging a little mascara through my eyelashes before screwing the cap back on one-handed.

I look… okay.

More okay than I feel, honestly. There are dark circles under my eyes, and the small bruises I got during the game have faded into unflattering greens and yellows. But I look functional. Normal, almost.

I don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing that a broken heart can’t be seen on the outside.

“Ayla. You ready?”

There’s a soft rap at the bathroom door, and I open it to find Theo standing there. He’s wearing a perfectly tailored bespoke suit in a dark charcoal color. His hair is styled, and the lines of the suit make him look even taller than usual. He looks older like this—or maybe it’s just the matching circles under his eyes that give that effect.

His blue-green eyes spark with warmth as he takes in my appearance. I feel his gaze drift over my tattoo and my scars, but the attention doesn’t make my nerves prickle with discomfort like it normally does when people look at my ruined arm. Instead, it sends a small spark of heat shooting through me.

Nothing has happened between us since the morning we found solace and comfort in each other as he kissed away my tears.

But the way he looks at me sometimes… the way I feel when I look at him…

It scares the fuck out of me.

Because it feels real.

As if drawn by my thoughts, Theo steps closer to me. His arm goes around my waist as he tucks a small, escaped strand of hair behind my ear. It’s an embrace that walks the fine line between platonic and so much more, and I find myself leaning into his touch, turning my head to chase the brush of his fingertips.

His hand lingers at my face, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw as he gazes down at me. His blue-green eyes hold more than I could ever hope to decipher, and the silence between us fills with things neither of us are ready to say.

The version of Theo I’ve lived with for the past week is more serious, more somber than the charming man with the laughing eyes I met at Duke’s all that time ago.

I miss that version of him. I hate seeing the light in him so dimmed.

Maybe it’s that thought that spurs me to reach up and grab his hand, cradling it in mine as I turn my head to press a kiss to his palm.

He makes a noise low in his throat, and that small sound somehow manages to travel all the way through my body. When I look back up into his eyes, he threads our fingers together, giving my hand a squeeze.

“Come on. It’s time.”

Ryland meets us downstairs. His suit is pure black, and it fits him perfectly, setting off the deep, rich colors of the tattoos that crawl up his neck all the way to his jawline. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, and a shadow of scruff dusts his jaw, making him look just a little disheveled.

His gaze flits down to where Theo’s and my hands are still clasped, and something passes behind his eyes. I can’t quite tell what it is, but it makes my stomach flip over.

Is he angry?

Fuck, I hope not.

Whatever the emotion is, it’s gone before I can identify it, and he nods to both of us before leading the way out to the garage. He takes the back seat with me while Theo gets behind the wheel, and we arrive at a large church in downtown Halston thirty minutes later.

People are already starting to arrive. Well-dressed men and women in expensive-looking black clothes walk up the wide steps leading into the church, and Ryland and Theo fall into place on either side of me as we join them.

Inside the church, the pews are filling up. We end up in one near the front, and as I settle onto the seat, a man with dark hair catches my eye.

Dominic.

He’s on the other side of the aisle, sitting next to an older couple—his parents, maybe?

My pulse jumps, adrenaline flooding my bloodstream as my body prepares for a fight that won’t come. Violence isn’t permitted right now. I know that logically, but the animal part of me looks at Dominic and sees only a threat.

The last time I saw him, he aimed a gun at Ryland. He almost shot Ryland, and it’s impossible for me to think of anything else as I stare at his angular face.

Theo rests a hand on my knee, probably feeling the discomfort pouring out of me. I force myself to draw in a shaky breath as I drag my gaze away from Dominic, sweeping it over the rest of the crowd.

“Michael and Gabriel,” Theo murmurs, inclining his head toward two other men who sit in the middle of the crowd. They’re the ones he said belong to mafia families, and both have dark hair and dour looks.

“And Victoria.” Ryland’s voice is a low rumble, heavy with dislike. I turn my head, my gaze following his.

The woman sitting several rows ahead of us has auburn hair that’s caught in a half-updo. Several long strands tumble down around her shoulders, and when she turns to survey the crowd herself, I get a glimpse of her profile. She has a long, elegant neck, a perfectly straight nose, and high cheekbones. Her face is stunning, honestly, but there’s something cold about her that gives a sharpness to her features. Like she’s been carefully carved out of ice.

“She’s the only woman competing to be Luca’s successor,” Theo tells me quietly.

My eyes widen a little, and I examine the woman more closely. She’s probably not more than a few years older than me, maybe twenty-five at the most. But I wonder if she ever looked childlike or innocent, even when she was an actual child.

Music begins to play, stealing my attention away from Victoria. The song continues as the last several people make their way to their seats, and when it stops, a priest steps up to the lectern on the raised dais.

“Ladies and gentleman, friends and family, thank you for being here with us today as we celebrate the life and mourn the death of Marcus Evan Constantine. He is survived by his loving parents, Norah and Gideon, and although he is no longer with us, his memory will endure in our hearts.”

At the mention of Marcus’s parents, I scan the crowd again. When I see them, I freeze. They’re up at the front, sitting on the other side of the aisle. I can only make out their profiles, but I can see the family resemblance between them and their son—particularly Gideon Constantine. The strong lines of his face and the set of his jaw reminds me so much of Marcus that my chest constricts painfully.

They’re both sitting rigid and still, their gazes fixed on the priest at the front. Neither of them are crying, and a sudden blinding rush of fury fills me.

They did this.

They condemned their son to death.

They should be wailing, sobbing, beating their chests and tearing their hair. They should be begging for forgiveness—from god or the devil or whoever might grant them absolution.

I know heartbreak isn’t always visible on the outside, but in this moment, I desperately want theirs to be. I want to know that Marcus’s loss has destroyed them. I want to know that they’re fucking sorry.

Gideon’s brown hair blurs in my vision, his features going out of focus as tears well in my eyes. My hand is barely recovered from the last time I punched someone, but I feel my fingers curl into a fist, clenching so tightly that my nails dig into my palm.

A large hand settles over mine, and I jerk slightly, pulled out of my thoughts. When I look over at Ryland, his jaw is set so tightly that the muscles in the side of his face bulge. Tears track in a silent stream down his face, slipping off his chin to disappear into the black fabric of his suit.

Something about witnessing his pain brings my own pain closer to the surface, and I close my eyes as the priest goes on with his eulogy.

The words the priest is saying mean little to me. The life he’s describing, the picture he’s painting, doesn’t fit what I know of Marcus’s life. There’s no mention of the game, no mention of the night he almost died two and a half years ago. It’s a sterilized, curated version of his life.

It’s not real.

Anger churns inside me, and to keep myself from leaping to my feet and screaming at the entire crowd, calling them out as hypocrites, liars, and murderers, I focus on the feel of Ryland’s hand over mine. On the warmth of Theo’s arm as it brushes against mine.

The feel of them sitting beside me doesn’t lessen my anger, but it sharpens it.

Focuses it.

Marcus’s parents signed him up to play Luca’s deadly game. They gambled their son’s life on a shot at incredible power, and they lost.

I won’t let the same thing happen to Ryland and Theo.