Bought By Santa (Seasonal Obsessions #1)

Chapter 3

The Santa

I watch from the kitchen window as Ruby and her husband pull into the drive. The December chill bites at the glass, but it’s nothing compared to the icy grip tightening around my heart. I see him shove her—not rough enough to draw attention, but enough for me to notice.

My fists clench, knuckles white, a familiar surge of protectiveness rising within me like bile. I stride out the front door, the cold air slapping against my face, sharpening my senses. Asphalt crunches under my polished shoes as I close the distance between us. Ruby looks up, our eyes meet—a fleeting moment of silent understanding.

“Ruby,” I greet her with a nod, then turn to her husband. His smug smile grates on my nerves. With a swift motion, I grab him by the collar and slam him against the car, metal groaning under his weight.

“Listen carefully,” I snarl, my voice low, lethal. “You will treat my sister with the respect she deserves.”

He sneers, unaffected by my show of strength. “She’s mine, Nicklas. Bought and paid for. I can do what I want with my property.”

The words hit me like bullets, fueling the fire in my veins. But I hold back, maintaining an ironclad facade. I can’t afford to lose control, not here, not now. “Property?” I repeat, words laced with venom. “She is a Knight, and if you ever—” I cut myself off, releasing him with a shove. No need for empty threats; he knows what I’m capable of.

“You okay?” I ask Ruby, ensuring my tone is even, controlled.

“Fine, Nick,” she replies, her voice doesn’t tremble, but her eyes betray her, reflecting a storm of emotions. They’re glassy with unshed tears, and she sniffles softly. But then, right in front of me, she transforms; rolling her shoulders back and raising her chin. “Never better.” The smile on her lips is fake.

“Good,” I say, ignoring that we both know it’s a lie. “Let’s not keep Dad waiting.”

As we walk inside, I feel the weight of my father’s expectations bearing down on me. The need for an heir, for continuing the family legacy—it all rests on my shoulders. And yet, here I am, caught up in my sister’s plight, unable to extricate her from a life she never chose.

I’m still simmering with fury when Dad joins us, his presence like a chill draft. “Is there a problem here?” he asks, eyes flickering between Ruby’s practiced smile and my taut jawline.

Ruby’s husband steps forward, smoothing his suit jacket. “No issue at all,” he lies smoothly.

“Ruby?” Dad turns to her, eyebrows raised in expectation.

She shakes her head, her voice just a whisper. “No, Dad. Everything’s fine.” Her eyes dart to me, pleading silently for support I can’t openly give.

I notice the tremble in her hands, the way she avoids meeting our father’s gaze. The rage inside me burns hotter, but I keep it caged behind a cool exterior. This isn’t the time or place. My sister needs me to be strong, not reckless.

“Let’s eat,” Dad commands, dismissing the tension as if it’s nothing more than a wisp of smoke.

The dining room is a spectacle of wealth and power; crystal glasses catch the light with every flicker of the chandeliers above, casting prismatic colors across white linen tablecloths. Silverware gleams beside porcelain plates, each setting worthy of royalty. Servers move with silent efficiency, pouring wine and offering up platters of delicacies meant to impress.

But the opulence tastes like ash on my tongue. Jack should be here, his easy laughter and irreverence a counterpoint to the stiff formality. His absence is a gaping hole at the table, a reminder that he wasn’t invited—a slight from Dad that I can’t ignore.

“Jack had other commitments,” Dad says nonchalantly when I bring up his absence. His voice is devoid of any warmth.

“Convenient,” I mutter under my breath, and for the second time tonight, I ignore an obvious lie. My brother is only busy because I made sure of it, not wanting him to feel left out. Huh, so I suppose it’s not a lie after all.

Dad rises from his place at the head of the long mahogany table. He clears his throat, commanding silence with an ease that speaks of decades ruling our entire family. The crystal chandelier above casts a warm glow over the dining room, rich with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine.

“Today,” Dad begins, his voice reverberating off the gilt-edged walls, “marks the day we lost my beloved Sienna, a woman of grace and strength.”

I glance at Ruby across the table, her green eyes dim with unshed tears. She’s trying to maintain composure under the weight of his gaze. It’s December first—her birthday, and the anniversary of our mom’s death. A cruel twist of fate that has never been allowed to go unnoticed or unmentioned.

“Her passing, giving birth to our youngest,” he continues, an edge of steel in his tone, “was a sacrifice for this family.” His words are a dagger disguised as a memorial. I know it’s meant to remind us all of Ruby’s debt—a life for a life.

“Here’s to Sienna, whose legacy we uphold every day.” Glasses rise around the room, but the toast feels hollow, laced with the subtle accusation that always simmers beneath the surface on this day.

“Happy birthday, Ruby,” I murmur when the clinking of crystal ceases, just loud enough for her ears only. Her lips twitch into a fleeting, grateful smile before resuming their flat line.

Dad sits back down, gesturing for the servers to refill our glasses and bring more food. As courses come and go, I play my part, nodding along to conversations about influence and power, exchanging pleasantries that mask the turmoil beneath.

With every bite and sip, I feel the walls closing in, the expectations suffocating. Yet outwardly, I am calm—commanding even—as I navigate through the intricacies of our family’s politics. It’s a game of chess where the pieces are made of flesh and bone, and I’m a grandmaster playing for the highest stakes.

“Nicklas,” Dad’s voice slices through the post-toast murmur, “the matter of your heir. We need assurance that the future of the Knight family is secure.” His eyes, sharp and assessing, fix on me.

“Everything is in place,” I say, my voice a low drawl of confidence I don’t feel. “The right measures have been taken. There will be an heir.” My heart hammers against my ribcage, betraying the calm facade I present.

“Good, good,” he nods, seemingly placated, yet I can tell he senses the edges of my fabrication. “We trust you won’t delay.”

Under the table, my fist clenches tight, nails digging into my palm. The heir situation isn’t remotely ‘under control’, but admitting that would mean showing weakness—an impermissible act in our world. And so, I weave the narrative they expect to hear, a tapestry of lies that must hold strong under scrutiny.

“Timing,” I add, “is everything. And the timing will be perfect.” I punctuate the sentence with a sip of scotch, letting the burn in my throat anchor me to the lie.

“Very well,” he says, turning back to his plate, his attention moving on as if discussing nothing more significant than a business transaction.

But then, in our family, heirs are just that—transactions. And I am the broker in a deal where the currency is blood and legacy.

The crystal chime of fine china sings a melancholic tune as the last course of our somber feast is served. Every bite of dessert feels like ash in my mouth, the sweetness a stark contrast to the bitterness that swells within me. I keep my eyes trained on the flickering candlelight, counting the seconds, waiting for this night to be over.

Dad and Michael, Ruby’s husband, are in the middle of a stock trade debate when the dining room doors crash open. Jack strides in, his chest heaving, face flushed from sprinting. The room snaps to attention, the air suddenly thick with tension.

“Nicklas, there’s a situation.” Jack’s voice is urgent, a sharp edge to his usually relaxed tone.

I stand abruptly, the chair scraping against the polished floor. A cold rush floods my veins, sharpening every sense. I see Ruby flinch at the commotion, her eyes wide and fearful.

“Talk to me,” I demand, practically dragging my brother into another room.

“Someone’s been siphoning funds—large amounts, undetected until now. We’ve got a mole.”

“Damn it.” I taste acid at the back of my throat. In our world, a mole doesn’t just mean stolen money; it’s a direct threat to our dominion, an insult that demands retribution. “Where’s the breach?” I ask, already mentally cataloging potential weak points in our operation.

“East docks account. It’s bad, Nick. We need to handle this now.”

Wanting to spare Jack from having to look at our dad more than what’s absolutely necessary, I tell him to go wait in the car. Then I return to the others. “Dinner is over, I’ve got to go,” I announce.

“Nicklas, your brother can—” my father begins, but I cut him off with a raised hand.

“Business before pleasure, Dad. You taught me that,” I say, a shadow of irony in my voice. We both know tonight was never about pleasure.

Without waiting for a response, I stalk out of the room, joining my brother in the car. As we head for the garage, the chill New York night air bites at my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the fire burning within me.

“How did you catch him?” I ask my brother.

He chuckles darkly. “After going through the accounts, I noticed a small amount disappearing around the third Wednesday of every month. The offshore account it went into is owned by one of our shell corporations—”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Who in the hell would dare not just to steal from us, but to be that reckless and downright stupid?

Jack shakes his head. “That’s the thing… I don’t think who I caught is the real thief. I think it’s a fall guy.”

I mull over his words for a few moments, and the more I do, the more feasible it sounds.

This betrayal—it’s personal. An attack on the Knights, on the empire my mom died for exactly twenty-eight years ago, on everything I’ve sworn to uphold and expand. It’s fucking insulting just how personal it is.

The city speeds by in a blur of lights and shadows, but I barely register it. My focus narrows to the task ahead. “Who do you think the puppeteer is?” I grind out, every muscle tensed with lethal intent.

“Could be anyone from the Russians to the Italians. Hell, it might even be someone in our inner circle,” Jack replies, his voice steady but grim. “But whoever it is, they’ve got connections. This isn’t small-time thievery.”

“Connections that could hurt us.” It’s not a question. The thought of vulnerability in my empire makes my blood boil, a dangerous heat simmering just under my skin. “I’ll contact the three. Get them to use their contacts.”

The three… well, it’s not their official title or anything. They’re just the three biggest crime lords who answer to me; Dominic, Lee, and Sergei, three men that have earned my trust and loyalty.

“Yeah, good idea.” Jack pauses, then adds, “We need to send a message, Nick. No one betrays the Knights and lives to tell the tale.”

“Damn straight.” I agree, a cold resolve settling over me like armor. My mind races through the inventory logs, financial reports, faces of every single person who’s ever pledged loyalty to me. A traitor lurks among them, and tonight, they will learn what it means to cross me.

“Do you think it could be—”

I hold up my hand, silencing Jack before he can finish that sentence. “It’s not Sergei, Lee, or Dominic. Anyone but any of those three.”

Letting it go, Jack checks the rearview mirror for tails. “East docks are coming up.”

“Slow down when we turn the corner. I want a silent approach. Make sure your piece is ready.” My own gun feels heavy against my hip, by now, it’s like an extension of myself. One I never go anywhere without, not even to dinner at my dad’s house.

“Always is.” Jack taps the holster under his jacket, the subtle click of the safety a dark promise.

“Remember, we get in, we find the mole, and we make an example. No hesitation.” The steely tone of my voice reflects the iron in my will. There can be no weakness, not with so much at stake.

“Understood,” Jack confirms, his readiness palpable in the confined space of the car.

I take a deep breath, letting the icy air sharpen my senses, the adrenaline coursing through my veins. As we near the docks, the scent of saltwater and diesel fuel assaults my nostrils, a pungent reminder of the dirty work that awaits.

“Cut the lights,” I command as we slip into the cloak of darkness that shrouds the docks. Jack obeys without a word, and we glide forward like predators stalking prey.

“Let’s park here, out of sight.” I point to a shadowed alcove between two warehouses, the perfect spot for our ambush.

Jack maneuvers the car with practiced ease, killing the engine as we settle into position.

“Check your gear. Once we step out of this car, there’s no turning back.” I pat down my own kit, ensuring everything is in place—the knives, the gun, the cuffs. Tools of persuasion for convincing a rat to sing.

“Ready.” Jack’s response is curt, mirroring my own unyielding determination.

I nod curtly, opening the door to step out into the night. Every cell in my body vibrates with the need for retribution, for control, for the absolute certainty that after tonight, the name Knight will be synonymous with untouchable.

Together we advance into the darkness, toward the reckoning that awaits. Jack at my flank, silent as death. The icy wind off the harbor is biting, carrying with it the stench of decay and old secrets. We approach the dilapidated storage unit where our mole—a traitor to the family—waits bound and gagged.

Even if the guy proves to be nothing more than a dupe, he’ll pay the ultimate price tonight.

“Nick, remember we need him talking,” Jack mutters, his voice barely a whisper against the howling wind.

“Talking’s the easy part.” My lips pull back in a grim smile. Making him survive what comes after—that’s the tricky piece.

We reach the door, and I push it open with a measured force. Inside, dull light flickers from a swinging bulb, casting eerie shadows on the walls. The mole, a once-trusted lieutenant named George, squirms on a metal chair, duct tape criss-crossing his mouth, wrists secured behind his back.

My heart thrums, a rhythmic drumroll to the impending violence. I step forward, yanking off the tape, and his pleas spill out, desperate and garbled.

“Please, Nicklas, I didn’t—”

“Save it for someone who gives a damn,” I snap, cutting him off. My hands are steady as I select a knife from my kit, its blade gleaming ominously. “Who else is involved?” I demand, pressing the cold steel against his throat just enough to see a bead of blood.

“Nobody, I swear,” he gasps, but the tremor in his voice betrays his lie.

“Wrong answer.” I press harder, letting the fear seep into his bones. It’s all about control—making him realize that every breath is a privilege, granted by me.

“Okay! Okay!” His eyes bulge, wild with panic. “There are others… but I don’t know names. They contacted me anonymously.”

I scoff, not for one second believing that the fucking rat doesn’t know more than that. Realizing he needs further convincing, I cut his shirt from his torso before slamming the knife into his shoulder, taking a sick enjoyment in his pained howls and cries.

“Is that all you know?” I ask as I pull the knife out, slowly so he feels every inch.

His breathing is ragged, and despite the freezing cold, sweat beads on his forehead. “Meetings… they happened at night, always in different locations. Encrypted messages,” he rushes out.

I pat his cheek condescendingly. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“How many?” Jack asks from behind me.

“I-I—”

Sensing that George is about to lie again, I interrupt him. “Don’t lie to my brother,” I sneer. “Just because I have other places to be tonight, doesn’t mean I won’t keep you alive until I have more time to make you regret ever crossing me.”

“Please!” he screams, his eyes wild. “I… I don’t know anything—”

“Do you know the locations?” Jack cuts in. The way George averts his gaze is very telling. “Give them to me.”

“An old bar, The Filthy Oar. A parking garage on West End…” George continues, voice faltering.

Jack’s fingers fly over a tablet, noting everything down with ruthless efficiency.

I’m pretty sure George has told us everything he knows, so I mumble, “Good boy.” I hesitate long enough to see hope bloom on his face, and then I slam the knife into his stomach, slicing downwards so his guts spill out on the floor.

“Was that really necessary?” Jack asks dryly. “Now we need cleanup.”

I shrug, “We’re going to need that, regardless. Just email them so we can leave.”

“Already on it, brother.” Jack’s response is clipped, filled with the same urgency coursing through my veins.

We exit into the night, the air thick with the promise of a storm brewing. I can feel the weight of the family name on my shoulders, a mantle forged in blood and secrecy. Jack’s busy typing on the tablet as we head back to the car.

As we slide into the seats, the engine roars to life, mirroring the turmoil inside me. The docks fade behind us, but the darkness lingers, whispering of treachery yet to be uncovered.

“Next steps?” Jack asks.

“We hunt every last one of these rats down,” I snarl.