Stolen Crown by S. Massery

6

Gemma

When I jerk awake,the sky is lightening.

Fuck.

I start the car and glare at the clock on the dash. It’s five in the morning—which means I slept way more than just a few minutes. Try a few hours. What was supposed to be a quick resting of the eyes turned into something much longer. I shiver, the car chilled. Dew has collected on the bottom part of the windshield.

I wipe the drool from my cheek and glance around. There’s more traffic now, but no cars that I could recognize. I drive over to the front of the building and park at the curb, making a quick pit stop inside the building to freshen up. Fucking Aiden never returned my panties, and I’m extra aware of that fact as I tug my dress back down my thighs. I grab a coffee and pull back out onto the highway.

Two hours later, my GPS is alerting me to the upcoming exit.

Bitterwood, New York.

The highway ramp transitions into a narrow road that winds through a forest. I peer around as I go, my curiosity growing. The smart thing to do would’ve been to take Colin with me. But my family is here, so it can’t be too dangerous… right?

My apprehension grows.

I drive past a Welcome to Bitterwood sign that proclaims a shockingly low population, up a hill, and then it dips down and I’m thrown back into society. A small one, anyway. Its main street is quaint, the shops packed close together. Well-maintained sidewalks and storefronts, a single blinking light at an intersection.

I slow automatically. There’s a library all by itself up another rise. A courthouse to the right. A coffee shop.

It’s still early—too early to go arriving unannounced at the address.

But I don’t really have anywhere else to go, and I’m itching to stand up and stretch my legs. So I keep driving until the GPS says I’ve arrived at my destination: a long gravel driveway that disappears into the trees.

Huh.

I turn onto it and creep down. It seems innocent enough. Eventually it opens up, and a large white farmhouse comes into view. It has a wide wraparound porch scattered with plants and chairs. The sun has made it into the leafy part of the trees, casting dancing shadows on the side of the house.

It seems… nice.

Which is weird.

I park and double-check the address on the paper, questioning my father’s handwriting.

But then the front door opens, and a woman appears. She waits for me on the porch with her head cocked to one side, just… watching. But she doesn’t seem angry that I’m trespassing. Her expression is inquisitive.

I kill the engine and step out.

Now is not the time for nerves.

So I stride across the lawn and stop just before the stairs, planting my hands on my hips.

“Gemma?” the woman asks.

I jerk back, my bravado instantly cracked. I didn’t expect her to know my name. She looks mid-thirties, her sandy-blonde hair in a braid. Her blue-and-white flannel shirt is open over a white tank top, paired curiously with navy athletic shorts and plastic flip-flops.

She grins. “Gotcha.”

“I—”

“Your family likes to talk,” she continues.

I stare at her.

A man steps out behind her, gently closing the door. A dog’s bark echoes through the house. But the guy… well, he’s gorgeous. Probably in his thirties as well, with blond hair and a body that could be carved from marble. Don’t ask me how I know—maybe it’s wishful thinking. His dark-blond beard is full but neatly trimmed.

“I’m Dalton,” the man says, grinning at my narrowed eyes. “Welcome to Safe Haven.”

“Oh, gosh. I’m usually the one with manners!” The woman smacks her face. “Sorry. I’m Grace. And we’re not called Safe Haven.”

I raise my eyebrow. “Sorry, what?”

“There’s already a Safe Haven.” She narrows her eyes at Dalton. “We talked about this. You’re copying your friend.”

He sighs, rotating to face her. Seems like an argument they’ve had a few times before. “He’s in Florida, and he doesn’t give a shit, babe. Is Safe Haven two-point-oh better?”

“No.”

“We’ll talk about it later.” Dalton winks at me. “We’ve been married for a few years, if you couldn’t tell.”

My face falls, and I automatically touch the ring still on my finger. I haven’t had the stomach to take it off, even now.

“You okay?” Grace analyses me.

I take a deep breath. “Perfectly fine.”

Now I just need them to believe it.

“My family is here?” I ask. “They’ve been…”

“Staying here,” Grace supplies. “How about you come in, and we’ll explain it? I could use a cup of coffee. Maybe some breakfast.”

My stomach gives an untimely growl, and she chuckles.

“Oh,” she pauses, her hand on the door. “Are you okay with dogs?”

“Haven’t had much interaction with them,” I confess. “So, yes?”

“Shooter is a darling angel most of the time,” she says. She pulls open the door and gestures for me to follow her. “A devil when there are loud noises—like yelling, or aggressive men. It works out in our favor, since sometimes the families who take shelter here get unwelcome visitors. He scares them off.”

“You hide people?” I imagine all the sort of people who might need to hide, and I can’t get a grasp on the concept. Hiding people from the law?

“Mostly women and children running from abusive relationships,” she confides.

We cross through the open living space, and she gestures for me to sit at the breakfast bar. The sliding glass door in front of me opens into an enclosed porch. There’s a path that leads to another house in the distance, almost a hundred yards away. Beyond that, a red barn. It’s the definition of seclusion.

She opens the sliding door, and a blue heeler comes tearing into the house. He beelines for me and stops short, head diving down to sniff my boots. His thick coat is blue-gray, with black patches on his head and a white diamond between his eyes. Once my boots pass inspection, he gives my fingers a quick lick and trots away.

Dalton comes in, his fingers trailing across Grace’s hip on his way to the coffee pot.

I take a seat and watch them warily. “Why did my father trust you two?”

They move seamlessly together. One pulls the pot free from the machine, the other produces three mugs. The kitchen isn’t very large, but it seems efficient for them.

“He knew of me,” Dalton says. “For many years, my reputation preceded me. And my retirement was seen as… well, some people weren’t happy about it.”

“Why?”

He slides me a mug. A jug of hazelnut creamer appears at my elbow.

“I was a sniper in the military, then later for a private organization. My team worked overseas. When we disbanded, our infamy followed us, and I was doing private security in Miami. That’s where I met Grace.” He loops his arm around her waist and pulls her close. “Mob bosses talk to each other, or know of each other. When I came up here, I was essentially walking into West territory.”

“Not the DeSantises?” I raise my eyebrow. I don’t want to think about the idea that I’m standing in front of an ex-sniper. And I’m not an idiot—a private organization operating in other countries spells mercenary to me.

“They didn’t give a shit,” Grace says. “Jackson—another of Dalton’s friends—met with Lawrence a year or two after we relocated to Bitterwood. He established Bitterwood as a safe zone, because we’re out of the life. We protect this town.”

We.

“You, too?”

She grimaces. “I know more than anyone how much Safe Haven helps people.”

“Catch that, Gemma? She called it Safe Haven.”

Grace shoves him, then passes me a spoon. “What are you in the mood for? Eggs and bacon? Pancakes?”

My mouth waters. I managed a poor dinner with Colin yesterday evening, but that feels like forever ago. “Anything.”

Dalton nods. “Your dad’s a smart guy. Although we haven’t heard from him in a while. He was calling from a burner phone every few weeks to check in on them…”

I swallow over the sudden lump in my throat.

“He was killed ten days ago,” I whisper.

Their faces immediately soften.

Grace puts her hand on top of mine. “We hadn’t heard—”

I yank away. Affection will lead to me breaking down, and I can’t do that now. Not when I’m so damn close…

“I was about to marry Aiden DeSantis,” I tell them. “And my brother hired a team to bring me back home. Dad had left everything to me. Not my brother, like everyone thought he would.”

I touch the ring again, twisting it around my finger. The loss of Aiden is keen in my chest, but I try to force it away. I don’t have permission to feel that ache. I don’t deserve it.

“I didn’t expect to have a big role in my family.” I sigh and lift the mug with both hands. Anything to keep myself from fidgeting. “I was hoping to speak with my aunts and get some guidance. There’s a war… It’s a long story.”

“My father was a mob boss’s enforcer,” Grace confesses. “And one of my best friends, Delia, was the heir to her family’s businesses in Las Vegas. Of course, they didn’t take too kindly to that and tried to kill her—”

I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth. “Delia Moretti?”

Dalton groans. “I’ll never hear the end of this.”

Delia Moretti was a legend, even in New York. Most of the stuff I’ve heard is probably rumor and hearsay. Still, I’m going to choose to believe that she single-handedly took down her family because they turned against her. She basically staged a coup when someone tried to take what was hers, even after she lost everything.

As I said… probably fabricated. Some stories are too fantastical to believe wholeheartedly, as much as I want to.

“We have experience with Mafia princesses-turned-queens,” Dalton adds.

I stare at them. Is that what I am?

“Mafia Queen,” Grace says, drumming her fingers on the table. “I like it.”

I think it doesn’t fit me. At all.

Dalton pulls out bowls, then items from the fridge. I watch him for a moment and try to forget about the way Aiden was always the one to cook for me. Especially after my meltdown. He said he’d teach me—

Stop it, Gem.

“Okay, so you created this place as a sort of shelter for people escaping their lives. And you know my father.” Knew, I mentally correct. “Where’s my family?”

“They’re in the house out back. Did you bring a bag?” Grace leans down to scratch her dog’s back.

“A bag?” I echo. “No. I can’t stay long.”

Dalton nods like he expected me to say that. “Okay.”

My gaze bounces back and forth between them. “Did you think I was going to stay?”

He shrugs, but it’s Grace who holds my gaze. “You can stay if you want. Maybe just for a night or two? How about this: you say hello to your family, see that they’re okay with your own two eyes, and you can decide later.”

I let out a breath. “Yeah, okay.”

“Come on.”

I shake off my nerves and follow Grace into the enclosed porch, then outside. It’s cooler here, surrounded by mountains, and I’m thankful for the hoodie now more than ever.

“Are you armed?” Grace asks.

I hesitate, then slowly nod. “Why?”

She grins. “Girls like us should always be armed.”

For some reason, that relaxes me. I return her smile. Her gaze stays on my back as I navigate the path down to the second house. I climb up the shallow steps to the small porch and once more hesitate. There’s a screen door and a red wooden door with a peephole and brass knocker. Do I knock? Do I just walk in?

My decision is staved off when the red door is yanked open from inside, leaving just the screen door between Aunt Mary and me.

“Gemma,” she cries.

I yank open the screen door, and then I’m in her arms. She crushes me to her chest, peppering the side of my face with kisses. I clutch her back, and the grief of losing my father and cousin surges up in my chest.

“My darling girl,” she whispers, “you saw my boy die. This life wasn’t meant for you. It’s only right that you’ve decided to join us.”

Now I do untangle myself from her and let my gaze sweep up and down her body. She seems okay in peach-colored leggings and a loose white blouse. Her silver-streaked blonde hair is swept up into a bun on top of her head.

“I—”

“Gemma is here!” Aunt Mary booms to the rest of the house.

She takes my hand and leads me inside, down a wide hallway to a spacious kitchen. There’s a table with at least twelve chairs around it, plus another card table in the corner with four more seats. The living area is attached, a giant sectional couch seeming like it might be enough space only if everyone piles in together.

My aunt Margaret, Dad’s other sister, is the first one down the stairs. She’s the youngest and usually the most somber. Her husband is serving time in prison, and it’s made its dent in her personality. Being separated like that…

“Your father let you come?” Aunt Margaret asks. “Last we heard, you two were concocting a plan—” She stops at whatever she sees on my face.

And I can’t hide my horror that they don’t know.

Of course no one told them. Grace and Dalton seemed unaware that he’d died, too. Maybe he called and told them about Kai, explained the incident in detail… but who would’ve called about his own death?

It was luck I got into his safe, and luck that he had written down the address.

More people pour into the kitchen. Cousins I had grown up with—albeit, a world apart—and their children. My mother’s sisters and her daughters, too. Not strictly Wests, but they operated as if they were. Most look like they were just abruptly woken up. Sleep lingers in some of their eyes, but it fades when they see me.

Excitement replaces any haziness.

“Is the war over?” someone calls.

“Did they find who killed Wilder DeSantis?”

“Gemma!” a young girl shouts.

“We haven’t heard from your father,” Aunt Mary says. “He’s been calling with news, but we haven’t heard anything in almost two weeks.”

I flinch.

“What is it?” one of them asks.

I feel like I’ve just walked into the Brooklyn house again, with enough eyes on me that I fear I might fold under the weight. But then I don’t. I straighten my spine and deliver the worst news possible.

“My father is dead.”

The room goes silent.

I meet Aunt Mary’s eyes and reach out to take her hand. “I’m so sorry.”

She shakes her head and dashes a tear from her cheeks. “My brother always was trying to look out for us, and he did. To the very end.”

I nod.

But her tears are a gateway for everyone else, and the grief in the room is too much. I let someone else take my place and slip out. I catch the door going backward and shut it gently, then bump into something.

That something barks, and I wheel around. My gaze drops lower, to the dog sitting so close, he’s practically on my feet.

“Hi,” I tell the dog. I’ve never been a dog person, so I’m not really sure how I’m supposed to act. Do I pet him? Ignore him?

He makes the decision for me.

He wags his tail and nudges at my bare legs with his head.

I hop off the porch and start back toward the main house, but the dog blocks me. I pause and meet his amber eyes, and my own widen when he herds me away from the house—toward the barn.

“Seems like a death trap,” I mutter.

He barks again.

Chatty thing.

His tongue lolls out, and he takes off, racing in a huge circle around me. I can’t help but smile.

And then we reach the doors of the red barn, which are open.

“Shooter usually knows which direction a person needs to go,” Dalton says from the shadows.

I jump. I can’t seem to stop flinching lately.

He steps into the open and beckons me inside.

“What do you mean by that?” I walk into the barn. The floor is concrete, and the interior is wide open. There’s a floor-to-ceiling metal cage on the left, a whole row of firearms lining the walls inside the cage. There’s a padlock on the door.

“We’ve been at this for the past five years, give or take. He’s an intuitive dog. Soft people, he tends to guide toward Grace. Not sure why.” He snorts and motions for me to follow him.

I ponder that. They both seem a little rough around the edges, although maybe it’s because she’s a woman? And if they’re harboring women and children who are fleeing abuse, it could only be natural that they trust a woman more. I haven’t been able to get a good read on either of them… but I’ve been here less than an hour.

Directly across from the doorway I came in is a monster-sized sliding door and sandbags on the floor.

“And who does he guide toward you?” I ask.

“Shooter, go home,” Dalton says.

The dog runs back to the main house. We watch him go, and then Dalton closes us in. He strides away from me before I can make a noise, and he slides open the other door. It opens up onto a long and narrow field, framed in by giant trees, that slopes down and away from us. It ends at a tall wooden fence, almost too far away to see. Just before the fence, though, are white posts.

He flips a switch, and a red strobe light above our heads flickers on.

“I get the kind of people who need help managing their anger,” he says. “Or directing it somewhere. People who want a fight, you know?”

I cross my arms. He picks up a stack of poster-sized papers and motions for me to follow him. I turn his words over in my head and tag along after him without complaint. Am I angry?

“Tell me about this war.”

I heave a sigh and quicken my pace to match his. “Did you know Wilder DeSantis?”

“The heir that got killed.”

I bite my lip.

He eyes me. “What, not so dead?”

“Right. Somehow. But finding him is going to be the tricky thing. I don’t know who in his family knows, but Jameson definitely does. Aiden, probably. They’ve been instigating a war between our families, and we don’t have enough manpower for a straight fight.” I grimace as we head up a new incline. My breath doesn’t come as easily now, although Dalton doesn’t seem fazed.

“Oh, and Aiden is obsessed with me,” I add. “So just add that into the mix.”

“Has he shot you?”

His question startles a laugh out of me. “What? No.”

Dalton shrugs. “I shot Grace. Well, it was sort of an accident. I was mad at her, though.”

I stop short.

He faces me. “I got her out of a shitty situation. If he’s obsessed with you, he might do the same?”

Ugh. I shake my head and march past him. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Right. Okay, so you’re here to get help from your family?”

Something like that.

We finally reach the posts. Flat plywood squares, three feet wide by three feet tall, hang at chest height. There are binder clips on each side, and Dalton quickly fastens a paper printed with a bullseye to the board. Then we move down to the next one, repeating until all four are covered with targets.

He gestures to the red flags at either end of the row. “Pay attention to these. They’re visual representations of the wind.”

“You shoot from this distance?”

He grins. “The best target is a small target.”

I think of Dad’s gun in Amelie’s car out front.

And the gun that Jameson fired at my father.

The one Aiden used to shoot the guy who almost killed me.

No small targets—just big warning signs, begging me to run away from the danger. And what’s to stop me from just continuing away? To just leave New York City and everything I’ve ever known?

The best target is a small target.

And then I think of Wilder DeSantis. Hiding. So small he’s practically nonexistent.

“You up for this, West?”

I square my shoulders. When have I ever not risen to a challenge?

* * *

I firedthe rifle until my whole body ached. My issue was bracing against the recoil—Dalton spotted that after only a few shots. I wasn’t coming close to hitting the tiny targets, and I quickly learned that relaxing when I know pain is coming is a hard lesson to learn.

An hour later, my weapon is clean, we’ve retrieved the targets, and Dalton leads me back to the main house.

“Oh, no,” he groans.

I glance at him.

“Do you smell that?”

“Um…”

He kicks at the grass and tries not to laugh. “She burned breakfast.” There’s an unspoken again attached to that sentence.

The faint sound of a smoke detector going off reaches us, and I can’t help but smile. We enter the house to find Grace standing on a stool, waving a rag at the offending device. There’s the unmistakable smell of charred… bacon, maybe?

The shrieking noise abruptly cuts out.

“How do you burn bacon?” Dalton laughs and grabs her around her middle, flipping her over his shoulder. “It was in the oven. Set it and forget it, my love.”

She giggles. “Put me down. That’s exactly what I did—I forgot about it.”

“Uh-huh. How did you survive all those years with your dad?”

She smacks his butt from upside down. “Takeout, you jerk.”

My chest hurts, but I can’t help the smile that creeps up. They seem like they’re happy.

“How about Grace shows you the spare room and I’ll make something edible?” He cracks the oven door, and another wave of black smoke drifts out. He quickly closes it and hits a button.

“Good idea.” Grace tilts her head toward the stairs. She enters one of the rooms and opens a drawer, revealing a bunch of unopened packages of underwear and socks. “We learned this trick from our friend in Florida. Basic necessities, you know? We had pretty much nothing when we showed up on his doorstep.”

My cheeks heat, but I am definitely not about to tell her that Aiden stole my panties after we fucked in a warehouse.

But she closes that drawer and slides open another one holding basic leggings and t-shirts with their tags still on.

“Get cleaned up and we’ll see you downstairs, okay?” She pauses. “Did shooting help?”

I look away. “I don’t know. I just walked out while my aunts were crying…”

Her smile is sympathetic. “They’ll be okay.”

“Thank you.”

She heads out.

I flip through the packs until I find one my size, then grab a t-shirt and leggings. It’ll be nice to be in clean clothes again. I shower and take a few minutes to make myself presentable, including pulling a comb through my wet hair, then return downstairs.

Aunt Mary sits at the kitchen table with Grace and a woman I don’t recognize.

I eye them, then it clicks. I slam my hand over my mouth again, because I’m pretty sure Delia freaking Moretti is in front of me.

Be cool, Gemma.

Nope. Freak-out mode: initiated.

It’s like coming face-to-face with a legend. Or a myth, maybe.

“Is she okay?” Delia asks.

I probably resemble a tomato at this point.

Aunt Mary manages a laugh. “Gemma, sit. Dalton has made us breakfast, and you’re being rude.”

Rude?

Me?

“She’s just in shock,” Dalton supplies, coming over from the kitchen with covered plates. He sets them in the center of the table, then doubles back for more.

“Sorry,” I say. “Aunt Mary, are you…?”

“Mourning my brother will take time. But for now, it sounds like there are more important things to focus on—and I promised him I would do my best to look out for you. So, sit.”

“Gemma, this is Delia. Delia, Gemma.” Grace’s smile is way too mischievous, and she glances at her friend. “Your reputation precedes you.”

Dalton groans. “You weren’t supposed to tell her that.”

“I never said I wouldn’t.”

Delia grins at me. “I’m flattered. Mafia men tend to be the worst sort of gossips…”

Grace snorts. “You aren’t kidding.”

I find myself nodding along, too. That fits most of the men I know—my father, brother, Aiden…

“So, no offense, but why are you here?” I ask.

“I’m here to offer my services,” Delia says. “And to help you come up with a strategy.”

Well… I can’t deny that I like the sound of that.