Crown of Lies (Pretty Ruthless Monsters #2)

4. Nico

4

NICO

They say nothing will bring you down faster than a woman with a vendetta.

And I think they, whoever the fuck they are, might be right.

I’m tallying the damages in the aftermath of losing the clubhouse, and monetarily, we’re pretty fucked but not unfixable. Move a decimal here, dip into funds there, and there’s enough of a margin that rebuilding is a possibility that exists on the horizon.

But in terms of morale? Security?

Money can’t fix that. It won’t.

I’ve gotten at least ten calls today, and it’s not even noon—all from people in various positions in the club, from newbies just asking how they’re supposed to replace shit they’ve lost, to old heads who are out for blood.

And oh, are they out for blood.

No one may have died in the fire, but it doesn’t stop our people from moving like someone did.

We’re going to war, right?

We’ve gotta take more blood.

Scorched earth, right, Nico?

It doesn’t matter that they believe Silas was responsible—and that he’s now conveniently too dead to refute that claim. My people are too smart to think this was some kind of lone wolf situation, and while I’d usually be proud of my club members for being so savvy, right now it’s proving to be a headache that I don’t fucking need.

More lies. More manipulations. I don’t care much about lying one way or the other when it’s to other people, but when it’s to my own…

“Fuck!” I curse aloud, yanking my helmet off the seat of my bike where I left it.

As a flock of birds scatter from a tree beside me at my outburst, I immediately think of Quinn—because of course I do. That’s all I seem to think of these days. All of this bullshit, leading right back to her. To my own wife.

It’s been two days since we brought her back to her place and locked her in the basement, and she’s still refusing to talk. Chained in that basement in the dark, with a single meal a day and a few bathroom breaks at most, she’s holding out, not saying a damn thing.

She claims that she has no idea why The Saint wants her.

But I don’t believe that. I can’t .

Because I need fucking answers. I need there to have been a reason for all of this, a point to the utter chaos that I’ve unleashed on my people.

Atlas, Killian, and I have all been taking turns down there with her, doing our best to get her to talk. But she’s remained stubbornly silent. Defiant . Refusing to give us anything, not even the insistence that she has no more idea about why The Saint wants her than we do. She doesn’t speak at all, despite everything we’ve done to try to break her.

I knew my wife was a fighter from the very beginning, but she’s proven herself to be even stronger than any of us expected.

My wife .

The words bounce around in my head, and I rub my chest absently as I settle onto my bike. Despite everything, despite how fucking furious I am at Quinn, I can’t seem to stop thinking of her that way. As my wife.

The vows we took weren’t supposed to mean anything. It was all just part of the plan, what I thought at the time would be an easy way to kill two birds with one stone—earn a hefty paycheck for Carnage while doing recon on one of our biggest rival gangs.

But more and more, I’m starting to realize that Atlas was right.

This plan was fucked from the beginning.

It went off the rails the moment Quinn snuck into my bedroom on our wedding night. The moment I touched her. The moment I kissed her. And although I kept telling myself it didn’t mean anything, that I could get shit back on track…

Well, I guess Quinn wasn’t the only one I was lying to.

Breathing through my nose, I peel away from one of several safehouses I’ve checked on today. Typically, the Carnage safehouses are quiet. They’re there for when real war breaks out, between skirmishes, or when someone falls on hard times.

And in the wake of the massive displacement of people from the clubhouse, they’re all busy and filled up.

Just another part of the mess my wife has made.

The roar of my bike is soothing, a familiar sound that’s almost hypnotic, and it helps clear my mind of the racing thoughts that have been cascading through it for days. After about twenty minutes of riding, I get to the clubhouse—or rather, what remains of it. Charred bones of what used to be our center of business.

Our home.

Atlas, Killian, and I basically built this shit from the ground up. And now what’s left of it?

Ashes. Crumbling support beams. A hell of a lot of regret.

I slip off my bike and yank off the helmet emblazoned with a skull on the side, the symbol of Carnage. With my hands shoved into my pockets, I make my way toward the burned out building. The police poked around for a bit after firefighters extinguished the blaze, but with Silas’s body gone and nothing left of the building but broken beams and ashes, there wasn’t much for them to find—the one upside to the fact that we lost everything, I guess.

Several of my people are gathered in front of what was once the entrance, and as I approach, my presence is immediately noticed. Several Carnage enforcers and some of our drug runners are speaking in low voices, and when they see me, they break up their conversation and walk over.

“Any news?” one of them asks—Kendrick, a big, burly guy who’s always down for a fight and is known to knock in heads.

“No. Just what we already know. That Silas fucker had beef with Carnage, and he decided to make a move.”

“Do we know why though?” This time it’s a younger member, Micah, who asks. He hasn’t seen much action yet, so all of this is probably shocking. “I mean, burning a clubhouse is an act of war. He had to know that, right?”

I clench my jaw. I have no idea whether Silas knew that, but Quinn definitely did.

And she did it anyway.

“We’re not sure exactly what his motives were,” I say, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck. “I’m working on figuring that out.”

It’s not a satisfactory answer, I know that. But it’s all I have for now.

My men all look frustrated and angry, agitation clear in their stances. Micah seems a bit dejected, and Kendrick folds his arms over his barrel chest.

“He wasn’t working alone,” he insists. “I’d bet my last fucking dollar on it. Which means there’s still someone out there who needs to pay for what they did to us. And it would be my fucking honor to give them the justice they deserve.”

He cracks his neck as he speaks, a bloodthirsty glint in his eyes. I nod, clapping my hand on his shoulder as I force down the guilt that sits like a rock in my stomach.

“You’ll have your vengeance,” I promise. “Just give me some time.”

I spend a while longer at the clubhouse, taking stock of the final inventory of what was lost and what little was actually salvageable. A final head count done by a few of my men confirms beyond a doubt that no one is missing and therefore not killed in the fire.

Even after I’ve done all I can do at the site of our ruined clubhouse, I linger for a while longer, speaking to my people and trying to give them some small boost in morale. But finally, there’s nothing more to be done, and it’s time to head home.

If I can really call it that at this point.

Half an hour later, I pull up outside Quinn’s house. As I’m parking my bike in the driveway, movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention. I yank off my helmet as a scowl tugs at my lips.

Could this day get any fucking worse?

Emmett is here.

He must have arrived just a second after I did, and he practically leaps out of his car after pulling up to the curb, his attention zeroed in on me. I get off my bike, gripping my helmet in one hand as I stride forward to meet him halfway up the walk.

There’s no fucking way I’m letting him get anywhere near the house.

“Emmett,” I say, lifting my chin coolly in greeting.

“Nico.”

The way he says my name tells me he’s none too happy to see me—not that I’m surprised by that. I’ve always gotten the vibe that he doesn’t like me or my two seconds, above and beyond the usual animosity between Enigma and Carnage.

Keeping my feet planted on the walkway and my body blocking his path toward the house, I cock a brow at him. “What’s up?”

He frowns, running a hand through his dark blond hair. I’ve always thought his pretty boy good looks didn’t quite fit with someone who’s pretty high up in a gang, but I suppose he’s got to have some kind of spine under that all-American looking exterior for Quinn to trust him as much as she does.

Although I no longer trust her , so I guess it’s a moot fucking point.

“I’m here to see Quinn,” Emmett tells me, glancing behind me toward the house.

“Sorry. You can’t.”

His attention snaps back to me, a frown curving his lips. “What? Why not?”

Because she’s currently chained up in the basement .

“Silas attacked Carnage’s clubhouse,” I answer, the lie falling smoothly from my lips. “Quinn got hurt in the crossfire. Nothing major,” I add quickly, seeing his eyes widen. “But she took a bullet in the arm, and she’s recovering from that right now.”

“What the fuck?” Concern twists Emmett’s features “Jesus. And I’m just hearing about this now? Is she?—”

“She’s fine,” I repeat, my voice a little harder. “She’s resting up. I’m sure she’ll be back at Blood and Ink in a day or two, so whatever you need to talk to her about can wait until then.”

He shakes his head, making a move to step around me. “I want to see her now.”

My hand darts out as I sidestep to meet him, my palm meeting his chest. “And I’m telling you, you can’t.”

Anger flashes in his eyes. I’m fairly certain that if Enigma and Carnage weren’t still supposedly allies, he’d take a swing at me—or maybe the reason he doesn’t do it is because he knows he’d lose that fight. I’ve got my gun tucked into the waistband of my pants like I often do, but I wouldn’t even need it. I think I’d enjoy taking him down with my bare hands, actually.

“Why the fuck not?” he demands, his voice tight. “You just told me the wound wasn’t all that bad. So if she’s doing alright, then she can stand to have a visitor. The Quinn I know wouldn’t be sidelined by a gunshot, no matter how bad it was.”

I narrow my eyes, moving closer so that the difference in our heights is even more pronounced.

“The Quinn you used to know didn’t have anyone to look out for her the way she does now,” I growl. “She’s my wife . It’s my job to make sure she’s taken care of while she heals, and that means getting rest. So I don’t give a fuck if you think she needs to bounce back faster, I’m going to make sure she takes care of herself until she’s back on her feet. And that includes not being distracted by whatever bullshit you came here to talk to her about. If it’s something truly important to Enigma, tell me and I’ll deal with it. But you’re not fucking talking to Quinn today. Got it?”

Emmett blinks, settling back on his heels a bit as if he’s surprised by the forcefulness of my tone.

Honestly, I’m a little surprised myself. I only said all of that because I need him to back the hell off and stop trying to get inside the house, but a flicker of guilt curls in my stomach at the knowledge that Quinn isn’t actually upstairs resting, but down below in the bowels of her home, tied up and tortured.

She asked for it when she burned down the clubhouse, I remind myself, steeling my resolve. Focus.

Emmett hesitates for another moment, glancing up at the house again like he’s hoping to catch a glimpse of Quinn standing by a window like some sort of Victorian invalid. Then he blows out a breath, his shoulders slumping a little.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Just… tell her I dropped by, alright? And if she needs anything, she’s got me and the rest of Enigma ready to have her back.” Something like jealousy flashes across his face as he adds, “You’re not the only one who cares about her.”

His words make the knot in my gut twist even tighter, but I make sure not to let it show on my face. Instead, I give him a curt nod.

“I’ll tell her. You can let the rest of your gang know what happened, and that she’ll be back on her feet soon.”

“I will.”

He stays rooted in place for a moment, looking like he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t. After a few more heartbeats, he finally turns and heads back to his car, sliding inside and starting the engine.

I stay right where I am as I watch him pull away, not moving until his car has disappeared around the corner at the end of the block. Then I blow out a breath, an unaccountable feeling of irritation roiling beneath my skin. I don’t know what exactly pissed me off so much about that interaction—whether it was the fact that Emmett was so obviously concerned for Quinn, or the fact that every lie I spoke about taking care of her felt like acid on my tongue—but I’m in an even worse mood now than I was when I got home.

Spinning on my heel, I head toward the house and shove open the front door. Once inside, I head straight for the basement.

As soon as I open the door that leads to the basement stairs, I clap my hands over my ears. The most god-awful, bone-piercing noise invades my skull, like thousands of nails on a chalkboard.

Jesus fuck .

I damn near run down the stairs. Quinn is right where I left her this morning, chained up against the wall, thrashing. Meanwhile, Killian stands beside a strange black box that seems to be emitting the sound. He looks entirely unfazed, and I shove his shoulder to get his attention.

“What the fuck?” I demand, raising my voice over the sound.

He looks over, blinking for a moment before flicking a switch on the device to turn it off. When he pulls out a squishy pair of plugs from his ears, I realize that’s why he was so damn calm.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Was trying out a new toy.”

“What the fuck is that thing?” I frown, not knowing if I should be impressed or concerned.

“White noise emitter,” he explains simply. “Volume cranked up real high.”

My eyebrows rise, and he shrugs, turning his attention back to Quinn. My eyes follow too.

She’s got dark circles under her eyes—not like she’s getting anything that resembles beauty sleep down here—and there’s a slightly wild look in her gray irises, as if the sound has been driving her a bit mad. We’ve given her chances to lie down at night, binding both her hands and feet, but she spends her days cuffed to the same pipe on the wall overhead that we chained her to when we first brought her back here.

Unbidden, my gaze drops to the stitches Killian put in her arm, which are healing up fairly well. She’s barefoot now, still in just a bra and pants, her tattooed shoulders and stomach on full display. The marks and bruises on her body from the night of Silas’s attack are still there, but no new ones have been added, despite the work all three of us have been doing to get her to talk.

She could be much worse off .

It’s a strange thought that hits me. If it were anyone else who had betrayed us the way she did, I’d be reaming into Killian and Atlas for taking it too easy on her. I’ve seen their work. They can both go harder, and Killian especially has never had an issue breaking someone before.

So what’s different about Quinn?

It’s not just that she’s a woman. A traitor is a traitor, and although Carnage would never stoop so low as to traffic women or target them for attacks, just having a set of ovaries and a pair of tits won’t save you from retribution in our world. Killian, more than anyone, can stomach dishing out the worst on anyone dumb enough to cross us.

But could I stomach what he could really do to Quinn? Could he?

“Nico?”

I tear my gaze away from Quinn’s wan, defiant face and look to Killian. His expression is mostly unreadable, but I wonder if the confusion hidden just behind his eyes is the same as mine—if he’s asking himself, why can’t I hurt her more?

“We’ll give the noise machine a break,” I say, clearing my throat as I shake off that thought. “You can take a break too. I’ll take over down here for a bit.”

Killian nods, saying nothing as he shoots one last sidelong glance at Quinn and then heads up the stairs, his footsteps as surprisingly quiet as always for a man his size.

When the basement door closes behind him, I turn my attention back to Quinn.

If she was anywhere close to breaking with Killian and his white noise machine, she doesn’t show it. Her eyes are hard as she glares at me, like she’s challenging me to do my worst. I imagine she’s given that exact same look to both Killian and Atlas—a challenge neither of them have been able to rise to for some reason.

Fucking hell.

I grit my teeth, closing my eyes for a moment.

No. It’s not for some reason .

And it’s not just them who can’t seem to bring themselves to truly hurt Quinn. I’m as guilty of that weakness as they are, even though I’ve barely been able to admit it to myself.

But with Emmett already poking around and getting suspicious, we don’t have all the time in the world to try to figure out the mystery of what The Saint wants with Quinn.

So maybe it’s time to change tactics.

Opening my eyes, I step forward to stand in front of her.

“Your friend Emmett just came by,” I tell her, my voice level.

Quinn narrows her eyes. “You planning on tying him up in my basement too?” she asks bitterly.

“Now why would I do that?” I shake my head. “It’s like you don’t even know me. I’m not the one who makes irrational choices, wife.”

She curls her lips at me, her eyes flashing. “I wouldn’t call my current predicament rational, husband.”

I can’t help it. I smirk, just a little.

“I sent Emmett on his way,” I continue. “But he wasn’t all that eager to leave without seeing you, and I doubt it will take long before your people start to get suspicious. As far as they all know, you and I are on the same side—but that lie won’t hold forever, and you know what will happen if they find out the truth. Do you really want to spark a war between our crews? You’ve been a part of this world your whole life. I’m sure you know what kinds of casualties can amass when two gangs go to war.”

A flicker of pain and worry flares behind her eyes, and I know I’ve hit the exact target I was aiming for: her duty to her people.

Whatever complicated, fucked-up feelings I may have about Quinn on a personal level, I can’t deny the fact that she’s a good leader. She cares about each member of her gang, and she does her best to do right by them. I could see how badly it gutted her when we found those Carnage and Enigma members, murdered and cut up by Silas in that alley. I recognized the guilt and responsibility she felt in that moment, because I felt it too.

In that way, we’re more alike than I’d care to admit.

“It doesn’t have to come to war,” I tell Quinn, taking a small step closer to her. “We can both protect our people from that fallout.”

She tilts her head back a little, her teal hair glinting in the dim basement light as her brow furrows. “How?”

I hesitate, feeling like the true war is playing out inside my chest as I grapple with what I’m about to say.

But I don’t see another way forward. And I owe it to Killian and Atlas, to all of my people, to try to fix the mistakes I made that got us here.

So I let out a slow breath and hold her gaze as I say, “A truce.”