“So, you let everyone think you were dead?” Donnelly said.
“Legally, I’d have to cover his expenses. Fuck that. He talked business in front of me, details he wouldn’t have shared if he’d known I was actually listening. Twenty million dollars, mine for the taking. I just had to get rid of Kenneth.”
Brock’s jaw clenched.
“Declan didn’t have it in him; besides, you would have figured it out, and I couldn’t have that,” she said, so callously. “So, you can imagine my surprise, when everything was going exactly as I planned, until the money I stole was stolen from me.”
She wasn’t just evil; she was batshit crazy.
“It was a blow, but troubled times inspire ingenuity, and it was ingenious. All that money filtered through the businesses, siphoning off just a little each time. It doesn’t seem like a lot, but when you’re laundering tens of millions of dollars, several times a month, through various corporations, it adds up. Dustin didn’t want to, but it’s amazing what you can talk a man into when you dangle sex. Declan kept me in the lifestyle I wanted, while we built up a nest egg, but the deeper we got, the more nervous Dustin grew.”
“So, you killed Dustin?” Donnelly said.
“Yes. I’m not big on sharing.” She smiled, but it wasn’t pleasant. “Money that is.”
“You’re going to rot in prison,” Brock said, and her smile died. “That’s even better than killing you. Every day for the rest of your life, no drugs, no wine, no money, no men.” Brock moved even closer. “You’ve decades of that to look forward to.”
Killian strolled up. “Johnny and Ron will escort you to the airport,” He told Donnelly.
“My crew will be waiting when you land,” Brock added.
It was finally sinking in. Ashley screamed bloody murder as she was dragged from the house.
“Feeling a little sorry for Donnelly,” Killian said.
“No one would judge you if you put her in a chokehold,” Brock called to Donnelly then looked at Killian. “Think Cedar has dinner on?”
“You’re getting awfully comfortable.”
“Yeah, I’m thinking I might move the club.”
Killian’s head jerked to him. “I need to fucking retire.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Cedar
It had been a week since Ashley Callahan had been hauled away. I wished I’d gotten a picture of that. Not that I would have hung it up, more like burned it in a ritual in the backyard. It was over. The past was finally in the past. Well, it was for me. My gaze drifted to Brock. It wasn’t over for him. He was different now that he’d gotten the satisfaction of seeing his mother locked up, but his life was forever changed, and, unlike me, not for the better. The charges against him had been significantly dropped when his, believed to be dead, mother reappeared. He was wanted for manslaughter, with special circumstances. He’d be out in two years, but he wasn’t interested in turning himself in. He was safe from the authorities in Little Hill, but he wasn’t going to be outstaying his welcome. In a week, he’d be gone.
Back to New York and his crew. I really hoped he was able to find a way to live that life and not have to give up so much of who he was because, despite everything, my Brock was still in there. I wished every day for him to find his cottage on the beach, and someone to share that cottage with. I wished for him to find what I had with Killian.
My focus shifted, and my heart swelled. I studied the tattoo on his upper arm, the one that was tribal in nature, which was fitting because this town was his tribe, and he safeguarded it. Whether he continued on as sheriff didn’t matter. He was there for his neighbors, not because he was paid to be there, but because it was who he was.
My past and my present together drew a smile. I could almost imagine us like this, moving on together, and a part of me wanted that. Maybe one day, but today, I was going to enjoy watching as the two most important men in my life dug my vegetable garden.
“You need a beer?” I called.
Brock glanced back. “Are you comfortable?”
I was. Lounging in the chaise lounge, ordered to do so by my future husband. “I am, but I can trouble myself with getting you a beer.”
“You stay,” Killian said, dropping his shovel and strolling toward me. Yeah, it was definite; I loved how he looked coming over going. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, all that beautifully muscled man, soaked in sweat, moving to me with a gleam in his eyes that had Brock not been there, would have led to us getting naked.
He stopped, bent over me and kissed me. I ran my hand down his chest, was tempted to keep heading south, but stopped myself. His eyes found mine. “One week.” Said like a promise.
“Seven days,” I said.
He kissed me again. “Want something?”
“Just you.”
He growled low in his throat. “Seven days,” he muttered, then turned to Brock. “Beer?”
“Yeah.”
Brock dropped his shovel, dragged over another chair, before settling on the edge of it, joining me. He looked at me, but before he could say anything, I asked, “Be my maid of honor?”
He rolled his eyes, but he grinned. “No,” he said jokingly, but turned serious when he said, “But I’d like to walk you down the aisle.”
I blamed
