Who are you fucking kidding?
Okay, I was intentionally downplaying the agony in my head and the terrifying sludge where my intelligence used to be. But I couldn’t handle hurting her even more with a weakness I couldn’t control.
She didn’t need to fret. And I had the power to stop her worrying by simply withholding tiny details.
It was a worthwhile trade.
I stepped into the foyer with strong convictions that I’d done the right thing keeping her in the dark. My body wasn’t nearly as tense as it was yesterday, my eyes not nearly as bruised.
That was until I saw the letter.
Then I tensed up like a fucking fist.
The mail had been delivered.
Hardly a life-changing event, if it wasn’t for the very common and familiar envelope sitting on top of my utility bills.
Moving calmly, I stole the mail as if it was any other day.
My hand stayed steady as I took the correspondence into my office and sliced the paper with a letter opener.
The stationery brought back so many memories. Memories of scribbling equations after equations, committing to memory Wallstreet’s famous trading sequence. Memories of jotting down names of newspaper editors, friendly police officers, and most importantly eager politicians—all so I would know who to contact when I found freedom.
Looking over my shoulder—never able to shake off the feeling of being watched—I unfolded the note from Florida State.
Wallstreet’s swift font indented the page.
Kill,
All plans change and ours have done just that. You received the one thing you thought you’d never see again and in return I want you to finish our ultimate goal.
It’s time.
Up until now you’ve been playing with inconsequential affairs. That was your training. Consider this your graduation.
You know what to do.
Wallstreet
He was right.
I did know what to do and I’d been expecting this letter for months. Having Cleo come back from the dead only expedited the inevitable.
And regardless of my concussion, I was ready to take on a new challenge. Ready to complete my final task. Ready for more.
To the outside world, I was just a biker.
To my brothers, I was just a president.
To Cleo, I was just Arthur the mathematician from her past.
But everyone was wrong.
Only Wallstreet knew the real me. He knew me because he’d groomed me into what I’d become.
We both knew I had bigger dreams, loftier goals. It wasn’t that I didn’t value my success or ranking within my Club—it was just … not entirely what I wanted.
I wanted retribution. I wanted to live in a world where evil and corruption didn’t win over love and togetherness.
I wanted a great many things and not all of them achievable in the lifestyle I lived now.
And that’s why I need to become someone else … someone more equipped to deliver my promises.
My obsession for more had threatened to cripple me with my never-ending desperate drive. The pressure for more money, more security, more freedom.
More. More. More.
Wallstreet had seen that. He said that was what made him choose me—even over my intelligence and gift with numbers.
To him I was an entrepreneur, harbinger, and founder all in one.
Because inside me resided not a man who could take orders and make them a reality, nor was I employee who obeyed what his commander told him.
I was so much more than that.
I had a goal. A goal that mirrored Wallstreet’s. One that made us a match made in heaven.
He wanted more, too.
In fact, he wanted everything.
And the only way to get everything was to rule everyone.
And who ruled everyone?
The men who made the laws.
The motherfucking government.
Chapter Thirteen
Cleo
Would he ever be satisfied?
I’d never admit it aloud, but I was afraid I wasn’t enough for him. I wanted to give him everything. He already owned my heart and soul—I had nothing else to give. Most of the time, it seemed like enough. But then there were the other times. The times where I’d catch him watching me with hunger in his eyes. Hunger that had nothing to do with lust or friendship. Hunger that I didn’t understand. —Cleo, diary entry, age fourteen
“Where did you learn to cook?”
I perched on the marble countertop in a singlet and panties as Arthur moved swiftly and surely around the pristine kitchen. His boxer briefs left his legs naked and seductive—the redheaded mermaid inked into his thigh twitched her tail with his every step. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the delicious sight he made with shaggy, bed-mussed hair, tight boxers, and the charcoal T-shirt he’d thrown on highlighting his toned chest.
As much as I loved his mermaid tattoo and the Libra star signs hidden in the whitewash of a wave, I was glad his T-shirt covered his full-back tattoo with its Dagger Rose emblem drawn over by Pure Corruption. It spoke of two responsibilities and oaths. Two sentences and obligations. The ink cast a terrible premonition that Arthur wasn’t free—that he was bound to others.
He’s bound to me, no one else. Even if Arthur is so loyal to Wallstreet.
I didn’t know why, but whenever I thought about Wallstreet I grew temperamental. Arthur explained a little about why he was so steadfast to that man, but to me it seemed like Wallstreet was the biggest user of all.
I won’t stand for it.
Especially after everything Arthur had done for him.
“I never learned. Self-taught I suppose,” Arthur replied, pulling out bowls and chopsticks. “I don’t do it often. Too busy.” His eyes darkened. “And what’s the point of cooking when it’s only for one?”