Crown of Lies (Pretty Ruthless Monsters #2)

30. Quinn

30

QUINN

I wake up the next morning, my skin still tingling from the fresh tattoo. As I stretch, I catch sight of it in the mirror—three marks now, each representing one of my men. A smile tugs at my lips.

We’re gearing up for a mission today. The men have decided we’re sticking together from now on, given the recent attacks and the continuing threat of The Saint. It’s both comforting and slightly suffocating, but I understand their concern.

Our target? My uncle’s old cellmate, Ambrose Pearce. He’s out of jail now, and we’ve managed to track down his current address. It’s a long shot, but he might have information about my uncle—or even The Saint.

“Ready to roll?” Atlas calls from downstairs.

I get up and throw on some clothes, grab my jacket, and then head down. The men are waiting by the door, looking like a formidable trio. My car is still out of commission after the crash, so we’re taking their bikes today.

“How’re we splitting up?” I ask, eyeing the three motorcycles.

Nico grins. “You’re with me, mia cara.”

I climb on behind Nico, wrapping my arms around his waist. The engine roars to life, and we’re off, Atlas and Killian flanking us on their bikes. The wind whips through my hair as we weave through traffic, heading to the outskirts of town.

We pull up to an older house, nothing too fancy. Peeling paint and overgrown bushes give it a sort of rough, neglected look.

“This is it?” I ask, double-checking the address on my phone.

Atlas nods. “Matches the info we dug up.”

We approach the front door, the Princes positioning themselves protectively around me. Killian’s hand hovers near his waistband, ready for trouble. I take a deep breath and knock.

Footsteps shuffle inside. The door creaks open, revealing a man who looks a bit older than my dad. His face is weathered, with deep lines etched around his eyes. Shaggy salt-and-pepper hair falls across his forehead, and I catch glimpses of faded tattoos peeking out from under his sleeves.

“Can I help you?” His voice is gruff but not unfriendly.

I clear my throat. “Mr. Pearce? Ambrose Pearce?”

He nods slowly, eyes darting between us. “That’s me. Who’s asking?”

He’s obviously wary, and for good reason. There’s only one of him and there are four of us—and honestly? We look more intimidating than he does.

That doesn’t mean he’s just some harmless old man though. You don’t reach old age in this life without being fucking dangerous.

“I was hoping to ask you about someone you might have known in prison. Casey Kent?”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Casey? Yeah, we shared a cell for a while.” He pauses, studying my face more intently before his eyes widen with sudden recognition. “Wait a minute. You’re his niece, aren’t you?”

I nod, unable to stop the slight smile from creeping across my face.

Ambrose’s features soften. “Well, I’ll be damned. I knew he had a brother with a daughter on the outside, and I can see the resemblance between the two of you.” The tension in his shoulders eases, and he leans against the doorframe. “So, what brings you all the way out here?”

“I have some questions about my uncle,” I say, fidgeting with the hem of my jacket. “Things I need to understand.”

He nods slowly, his eyes flicking between me and the Princes. After a moment’s hesitation, he steps back, opening the door wider. “Well, come on in then. You and your… friends.” He gestures to the living room. “Might as well get comfortable if we’re gonna talk about Casey.”

I step inside, the men following close behind. The living room is sparsely furnished, with an armchair and a worn couch, a rickety coffee table, and a small TV in the corner. The walls are bare except for a faded calendar and a few yellowed photographs.

Ambrose grunts, running a hand through his shaggy hair. “You’ll have to forgive me. Haven’t had much company since I got out of jail.”

“It’s fine,” I brush off his apology, my eyes scanning the room. “Really.”

As Ambrose settles into the chair, I take a second to study him. His weathered face, the way he holds himself—it all reminds me of Uncle Casey.

I sit down on the worn couch, with the men arranging themselves around me. Ambrose leans back in his chair, his eyes distant as if lost in memories.

“So, you and my uncle were cellmates?” I ask, just to break the silence.

Ambrose nods, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “For a while, yeah. Casey was… well, he was something else.”

As he speaks, I notice a few other details. The deep lines etched into his face, the way his shoulders slump slightly—it’s clear that prison has taken its toll. I feel a pang in my chest as I imagine Uncle Casey aging in the same way, worn down by the years behind bars.

If he’d lived to get out, would he have looked like this? The thought makes me grimace.

“You okay, kid?” Ambrose asks, catching my expression.

I nod quickly. “Yeah, just… thinking.”

He gives me a knowing look. “About Casey, I bet. He was always talking about getting out, you know. Had big plans.”

I lean forward, intrigued. “What kind of plans?”

Ambrose chuckles, but it’s a hollow sound. “Oh, you know. The usual stuff. Getting back into the game, making it big.” He shakes his head. “We all had those dreams in there.”

I think about what little we managed to dig up about Ambrose before coming here. He was just starting to make waves in the Detroit underground when he got locked up. And now…

Now he just looks tired. The fire that must have driven him seems to have burned out, leaving behind a man who’s seen too much and lost even more.

“You said my uncle, um… did he talk about me much?”

The question doesn’t technically have anything to do with why we’re here, but I couldn’t come all the way out here without asking. Especially since he was the one who brought it up in the first place.

Ambrose’s face breaks into a grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “All the time, kid. Wouldn’t shut up about you, actually. That’s how I knew it was you the moment I saw you.”

“Really?” I can’t help the warmth that spreads through my chest.

He nods, chuckling. “That, and the family resemblance. But mostly it was the hair.” He gestures to my teal locks. “Casey mentioned you’d started dyeing it a few years back. Said it made you look like some kinda punk mermaid.”

I burst out laughing, the sound echoing in the small room. “Punk mermaid? That’s so… Casey.”

“He was pretty proud of that one,” Ambrose says, his grin widening. “Kept saying how you were gonna take over the world with that hair. Said it was like a beacon, drawing all sorts of interesting folks to you.”

I shake my head, a bittersweet smile tugging at my lips. It’s so easy to picture Uncle Casey saying that, his eyes twinkling with mischief. He always had a way of making me feel special, like I really could conquer the world if I wanted to.

“He also mentioned how you’d use it to your advantage,” Ambrose continues, leaning back in his chair. “Said you’d charm your way out of trouble with that smile and those blue locks. Called you his little chameleon.”

The nickname hits me like a punch to the gut, bringing back a flood of memories. I remember Uncle Casey ruffling my hair, calling me his ‘little chameleon’ whenever I managed to talk my way out of a sticky situation.

“Yeah,” I say softly, my voice thick with emotion. “He used to call me that all the time.”

I lean back on the worn couch, feeling more comfortable than I expected, but also a little uneasy. It’s surreal, sitting here with a man who knew my uncle so well, swapping stories like we’re old friends.

“So, did Casey ever tell you about the time he tried to teach me how to pick locks?” I ask, a grin spreading across my face.

Ambrose chuckles, shaking his head. “Let me guess, you were a natural?”

“God, no,” I laugh. “I was terrible. Kept breaking the picks. Uncle Casey said I had ‘the grace of a drunk elephant.’”

We share a laugh, and for a moment, it’s like Uncle Casey is here with us, his presence filling the room with warmth and mischief.

But as the laughter fades, I feel the weight of why we’re really here settling back on my shoulders. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what comes next.

“Mr. Pearce,” I start, my voice growing serious. “I actually came here because I’m trying to find out more about myself and my family history. There’s a lot I don’t know, and I was hoping you might be able to help.”

Ambrose’s eyebrows furrow, his expression turning cautious. “What kind of help?”

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Did my uncle ever tell you anything about me or my dad that struck you as odd? Maybe something about a symbol?”

Ambrose’s face changes for a split second. It’s subtle, but I catch it—a flicker of recognition in his eyes, a slight tightening around his mouth. But just as quickly as it appears, it vanishes. He schools his features into a neutral expression, shaking his head.

“Can’t say I do, kid. Casey never mentioned anything like that to me.” His voice is steady, but I know what I saw, and I know the look of someone who has something to hide.

My heart is racing, but I’m trying to stay calm, to school my own features and tone. “Are you sure? It could’ve been something that seemed insignificant at the time, maybe. Something he might’ve casually mentioned?”

He shifts in his chair, his eyes darting away from mine. “Nah, nothing that comes to mind. Prison stories aren’t exactly filled with symbols and mysteries, you know?”

But I can’t shake the feeling that he’s holding back. I press on, desperation creeping into my voice. “Please, Mr. Pearce. Even the smallest little thing—anything could help.”

I’ve spent weeks now digging into my father’s past, chasing down every lead I could find. Old friends, enemies, bartenders, anyone I could think of who might have been willing to talk. But every time I think I’m getting close to something, the trail goes cold.

“Mr. Pearce, please,” I try again, hating how desperate I sound. I am desperate though, and I’m sure he’s already caught on to that fact. Still, probably best if I leave the topic of the symbol alone and just get back to Casey himself. “Anything you can remember about my uncle might help. Did he ever mention any old friends? Places he used to hang out?”

Ambrose shakes his head, his eyes avoiding mine. “I’m sorry, kid. Casey was pretty tight-lipped about his past. We mostly talked about the present, you know? Surviving day to day in the joint.”

I sigh and shake my head. The frustration is building inside me, threatening to bubble over. We came all this way, and for what? Another dead end?

“Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Pearce. I appreciate you talking with us.”

I stand up, the Princes following suit. Ambrose rises slowly from his chair, his eyes still avoiding mine. As we head for the door, I can’t help but feel like we’re walking away from something important.

“Take care,” he mumbles as we step outside.

The door closes behind us, and I let out a long breath. The men exchange glances, clearly sensing my frustration.

“Well, that was a bust,” I mutter, kicking at a loose pebble on the walkway.

We’re halfway down the path when I hear the door open again. Turning, I see Ambrose standing there, looking conflicted.

“Ah, shit,” he curses under his breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. Then, louder, “Wait a second, kid.”

I stop, hope flaring in my chest. “Yeah?”

He steps out onto the porch, his shoulders slumped. “Look, I… I owe your uncle. Big time.” He takes a deep breath, his eyes meeting mine for the first time since the conversation took a deeper turn. “There was this group in prison, real nasty bunch. They had it out for me, thought I’d snitched on one of their guys.”

He pauses, his gaze fixed on something in the distance. “They cornered me one day in the yard. Would’ve been lights out for sure if Casey hadn’t stepped in. He saved my life that day.”

I take a step closer, my heart racing. “What are you saying?”

Ambrose sighs heavily. “I’m saying I owe it to Casey’s memory to help you. Even if it means…” He trails off, glancing around nervously. “Look, can we talk inside? This isn’t the kind of conversation you want to have out in the open.”