Hexed (Never After #6)

3. Venesa

THREE

VENESA

There’s a chip in my nail polish. Everywhere else, the red is smooth and perfect, but not there, not on my pinky. It’s right by the cuticle too, the worst place for an imperfection. My mind races, as it’s prone to doing, while I try to figure out when it happened. Was it before or after I combined that methyl bromide? Maybe it was post-preparation but pre-use. Or maybe it was when I hit my hand on the bus’s seat while heading out here to my uncle’s forty-acre estate.

Most likely, though, it was after running into Enzo Marino, just walking around the property like he owns it.

Picking at my cuticles when I’m nervous is a nasty habit I’ve never quite been able to break, and as much as I hate to admit it, Enzo being here makes me nervous.

For several reasons, although I’d never speak them out loud.

“You were supposed to make it look like an accident.” Uncle T’s rumbling voice floats through the air and snaps me back into reality.

Dropping my hand to my lap, I cross my legs and settle further into the bucket chair facing his desk. His sky-blue eyes are piercing as we lock gazes, and it’s easy to see he’s upset about the way I handled my latest project. He’s always had a terrible poker face; that broad nose of his flares and those frown lines crease deeper whenever he’s up in arms.

“Oops?” I shrug, flashing a wide smile.

Uncle T’s fist drops against the cherrywood, rattling the small odds and ends scattered across the top of his desk: a crystal tumbler filled with Kentucky bourbon, a custom engraved case that holds his finest Cuban cigars. A framed picture of his late wife, Antonella, and their picture-perfect daughter.

“Damn it, Venesa, this isn’t a game. When I say to make it seem like an overdose, you make it seem like an overdose .”

A jab of shame hits me, right in that space inside where I ache for his approval. “I know that, I just…” My words trail off because what’s the point of wasting breath trying to explain something that shouldn’t need an explanation? I did what he asked me to do, and that should be the end of it.

Clearly, he doesn’t agree, and unfortunately for me, I do still give a damn about his approval. It’s all I give a damn about, if I’m being honest with myself.

Still, I’m a Leo rising and sun sign, so the need to get my point across burns bright enough in the moment where I can’t hold my tongue.

“This way was better,” I argue. “He’ll have permanent brain damage now, severe lifelong issues.”

“If he survives.”

I hesitate and then nod. “Correct.”

His blunt fingernails tap, tap, tap against his desk as he watches me. “Did it ever occur to you maybe I didn’t want him to survive?” He shakes his head, his thick salt-and-pepper brows drawing together. “Now I have to sit here and worry about whether that idiot district attorney will be all over my ass.”

I snort. “Please, the district attorney couldn’t give a rat’s ass about the Atlantis Motorcycle Club or their extended family.”

Truthfully, the law around these parts is upheld by a bunch of do-gooders, ones who wear their golden halos like badges of honor, but most of them have a price—one that I suss out easily enough when I barter deals to keep them quiet and looking in the other direction.

Shoving a needle in the arm of the brother-in-law to the newest MC president was a message: either continue working with us or people get hurt. Besides, if we don’t keep them in line, then it’s up to the law to do so, and its enforcers do a shit job.

The DA should thank us, honestly.

But a drug overdose? Talk about uninspired .

“I should have given the job to someone else,” he murmurs.

I scoff. “Who?”

He lifts his hand in the air before dropping it back down. “Bas, probably.”

It’s a ridiculous suggestion to make. Bastien may be Uncle T’s second-in-command in name, but his art lies in the brutality of torture, which is the opposite of subtle. I love Bastien like a brother, but he wouldn’t have been the right choice for a job like this.

“Anyone else would have made more of a mess, and you know it.”

“Anyone else would have followed orders , or they’d be dead,” he snaps.

I open and close my mouth a few times because, technically, he’s right. You don’t disobey Trent Kingston and live to tell the tale. Being his niece has its advantages, but even the people who love you have their limits, and sometimes I wonder if one day I’ll break through his unintentionally.

The thought makes my stomach cramp. I live life constantly worried about falling too far out of his favor because I push against him too hard, thus losing what little bits of him I’ve snagged.

“You always do this,” he continues, running his fingers through his coiffed white hair.

“Do what?”

“You…” He waves his hand in the air. “Play with your food.”

I cross my arms. “I do not play with my food, and frankly, I resent that analogy.”

He quirks a brow.

My perfectly arched one cocks in return.

“You were sloppy,” he states.

“I beg your pardon?” I’ve never been more offended in my life. “I’m impeccably precise. It’s not like I left a trail. The man had a stroke. If he survives?—”

My uncle scoffs.

“ If he survives,” I reiterate, “Johnston Miller will have to live every day staring at his wife’s brother, knowing he caused this to happen, and a living reminder is always better than one buried somewhere in the dirt.”

“That’s not your call to make.”

“What’s it matter anyway?” The second the words leave my mouth, I regret them. I know my temper only pisses him off more, but in the moment, I’m not the best at biting my tongue.

“It matters because I say it matters.” He picks up his bourbon, and his forefinger, weighed down by a thick golden ring, leaves the tumbler to point at me from around the glass. “One of these days, your luck will run out, little one, and you’ll bring down this entire family with you.”

My lips purse.

He’s being dramatic, considering our family is the most powerful name this side of the Mason–Dixon line. Uncle T not only owns the largest construction company in the South but he’s a major player in freight shipping, with hubs stretching throughout South Carolina and the bordering states.

The King of the Sea.

But there’s an underworld, the same way there is everywhere else, and it’s the true foundation that props up the Kingston legacy.

He always does this, though: gives me a task and then acts unhappy about how I handle it. He also frequently calls me “little one.”

Little .

Even though I’m twenty-four and have been taking care of his messes just as long as he’s taken care of mine.

I lean forward, grabbing one of his cigars and the stainless steel Zippo he keeps beside it. Puffing on the roll, I move the flame over the opposite end until thick smoke surrounds me, the taste of tobacco, earthy notes, and a hint of espresso dancing on my tongue. “What’s a woman gotta do to get a little respect around here, Uncle T?”

“You want respect, Venesa? Then stop disappointing me.”

My teeth bite into the cigar, and I puff one last time before dragging his ashtray to the corner of the desk and placing it down. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”

Empty words to appease him. Or maybe to appease the biggest part of myself that’s desperate for his love.

There’s a smaller piece, though, one that whispers in the back of my mind, saying he wanted a message sent, and the message was sent. Signed. Sealed. Delivered. It’s not my fault if he can’t see the vision.

Men. Their pride is always their downfall.

Uncle T blows out a breath, his eyes never leaving mine. I know better after all these years than to keep filling the silence with chatter, so instead I sink back and allow the quiet to surround us.

Classical music plays in the background, the soothing notes grating against my nerves.

When I was young, a few months after my momma died and I was sent here, I approached Uncle T and asked him why he always played that kind of music. He said it made him feel sophisticated, and although he didn’t particularly enjoy the sound, “you have to be how you’d like to be perceived.”

And Trent Kingston has always wanted to be seen as a cultured, elegant man. Says it’s part of the family legacy.

I used to sneak into his office and curl up in his leather chair, the one that just sits there like a throne behind his big cherry oak desk, and I’d listen to Chopin or Pachelbel, imagining I wasn’t alone in a fifteen-thousand-square-foot house with nobody but housekeepers and a nanny, while my uncle went on family trips with his wife and daughter.

The music was always comforting, like a soft blanket on a cool night.

Now I hate the noise.

Just another reminder of everything I almost have but don’t.

“I can hear you thinking.” Uncle T sighs.

My vision refocuses, and I look past him to where a large painting hangs, an ache blooming in my chest.

The painting has been passed down through the generations of Kingstons, from father to son, repeatedly, like a rite of passage.

It’s not even an actual picture of the family. It’s just seven empty marble chairs at the bottom of the ocean and a glowing trident floating in the middle. A representation of the seven kingdoms of Atlantis, which Kingston lore says we’re descendants of.

But I don’t care about any of that.

I just want it because it was my momma’s favorite thing in the entire world, so much so that her daddy gave it to her instead of upholding tradition of passing it down to the son.

It’s supposed to be mine now.

“You’re just like your momma,” Uncle T says.

My heart hurts the same way it does every time he brings her up.

How would you know? I want to ask. “So you always say,” I murmur instead.

He gives me a pointed look but doesn’t press the subject, taking another sip of his bourbon before setting it down. He grabs his own cigar, lighting it up and puffing until thick plumes of smoke curl into the air, clouding around him like a fog. “Your cousin’s home, you know.”

My stomach twists at the mention of Aria. “I guessed as much when I ran into her fiancé outside.”

His jaw tenses as he rolls the tobacco between his fingers. “Don’t sound so disappointed.”

My mouth pops open. “I’m not.”

I am.

“I just…I’m surprised. It’s been what, six years?”

Uncle T nods. “People always come home to their roots. In the end, family’s the only thing that matters.”

Aria is the same age as me and a bona fide daddy’s girl. She’s the princess of the Kingston family and, as a result, the princess of Atlantic Cove.

I think everyone in town expected Uncle T to go to Manhattan himself and drag her back when she ran off, but he never did. Instead, he’d send me to “check up on her.”

Now there’s no need. Not with her engaged to a man like Enzo Marino.

“So why’s she back?” I ask nonchalantly, clicking my nails on the arm of the chair.

“I’m throwing them an engagement party.” He grins widely.

A short huff of breath escapes me. “You can’t be serious.”

“And why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know…”

I do know.

Enzo’s reputation precedes him, even all the way down here in South Carolina. He’s the son of Carlos Marino, the man who is rumored to have singlehandedly usurped the Italian American Commission of the Mafia and brought back the capo di tutti capi , taking on the role of “boss of all bosses” for himself.

The thought of mixing our families makes my gut sour, and knowing Uncle T agreed to this marriage arrangement with Carlos puts me on edge.

Plus, Aria doesn’t even realize it is an arranged marriage.

“Do you really think this is a good idea?” I prod.

“I don’t keep you around to question me,” he states plainly.

“I’m only looking out for us,” I continue. “You know how messy this could get if things don’t work out? Enzo’s a powerful man, sure, but do you really want him with your daughter ? When have our interests ever aligned with the Marinos’?”

Uncle T’s head tilts. “And what would you know about our interests?”

I think I know a damn well decent amount considering everything he’s had me do, but I swallow the words I really want to say and shake my head instead. “Never mind. I just thought because of our past?—”

“Enough,” he interrupts.

I can tell I’m irritating him because the corner of his mouth twitches in time with the clenching of his jaw. “This is good for the family, for our business. You understand?”

Apparently, I’ve got a death wish today because I can’t help the next words from tumbling out. “I just think it’s risky. Having a Marino around when we have so many secrets is?—”

“Do I not provide for you?” he snips.

Guilt churns in my abdomen. “You do,” I say carefully.

“When your momma died, may she rest in peace, did I not give you the world? Do I not continue to give you what you ask for, despite it not being the best option for me ? Bringing you into the fold no matter how much trouble you cause. Buying you shitty Southside bars and letting you run them into the ground.”

Ouch. That one stings. He’s referencing the restaurant I manage: the Lair. It’s dark and seedy and means absolutely everything to me.

I love my Lair, and I guess I love my uncle too.

But I hate it when he brings up my mother.

“All I ask is that you show your loyalty in return and keep your mouth shut unless I tell you to speak,” he continues, his voice sharpening like a blade. “Everything will be fine, and we’ll…”

“We’ll what?”

“Become one big happy family.”

I huff out a short laugh, but I’m not feeling joyful. If anything, I’m so annoyed that I can taste it on the back of my tongue like sour candy.

“Come on, little one, don’t make me feel bad,” he says. “You’re my best asset, you know that.”

I nod, the tendrils of my heart reaching out to grasp at his words like they’re raindrops in the desert.

“You just need to learn to sit back and trust my decisions. I’m the king of this castle, not you. Now go on,” he finishes. “Check on the chef for me. Make sure dinner’s almost ready. We have a lot to celebrate.”

He shoos me away, and I oblige him, the same way I always do, standing up and making my way to the door. Right as my fingers grip the handle, his words stop me. “And, Venesa, I’ll expect you to be on your best behavior.”