Cadillac Payback: Rising Tide by AJ Elmore (grave mercy .TXT) 📗

their faces are shaded. Still, I can see both their gazes weighted downward.

Frederick recovers from his reaction first, and dips his eyes toward the floor as he crosses the threshold. He's wearing black slacks, a charcoal button-up, and skinny black tie done in a Windsor. His sleeves are rolled up to reveal the swords on his left forearm, and the stock of a Dragunov on his other – his newest tattoo addition. His eyes are framed by his wire glasses, and the shirt makes them seem darker and grayer. He sports double shoulder holsters and twin 1911s. He detests events such as family dinners, but it seems he's stepped up his game anyway.

Joshua is not quite so skittish, and he brings his attention back up to mine. A flash of heat burns in those baby blues, so fast I'm not sure if it's real – something I haven't seen in him in a long time. He slides his eyes past me when he enters, as if he can dismiss me. As if he ever could.

He has chosen a classic white shirt-black tie combo, complete with a set of suspenders. It's a look that had anyone told me he was going to try it, I'd call it ridiculous – and now that it's standing in my foyer with no warning, it's completely fucking hot. His hair is contained in a small bun, though a few strands have escaped and are now in search of humidity. He has a clip-on holster on the hip of his low-slung slacks. He still hasn't shaved.

We stand in an awkward moment that feels like the entire past year. How did we used to do this communicating thing? I guess that doesn't really matter, this will never be that, and eventually this will become something else. It's all very scientific.

Finally I say, “You guys wanna smoke? We've got time.”

I guess it's a peaceful gesture. Maybe it's a move of desperation. Can we just lay down arms for five minutes and pass the weed?

My gaze slips over Freddy's guns on the way to his face. Who am I kidding? In this world, the only time you lay down arms is when your dying fingers release them. At least I win their attention, and they both look at me.

Frederick's expression is the same stern mask it usually is. I'd bet a hundred dollars that he wants to get high – it's the only form of inebriation he'll tolerate. But he won't. He won't walk into this meeting any less than sober.

“It's not a good idea,” he says. He won't tell me not to, but he will let me know what he thinks.

“Yeah, you might mess up your lipstick,” Josh says, and lifts an eyebrow incredulously.

My gaze snaps to him, but I put a stop to the words that are almost a reply. He's still salty from the Carrie incident, and so am I. Starting shit now would be as bad an idea as getting baked.

Frederick casts a glance at Josh, but he doesn't say anything. He doesn't tell him a damn thing about cattiness. I'd love to tell him about it myself, and yet that would put me on the same level.

I turn on my heel and stalk to the kitchen to get my bag, well aware of the exaggerated sway of my hips, confident they both watch it happen. When I return, neither of them is looking at me.

“Let's go,” I say as I walk past them out the door.

Chapter 10 Grin and Bear It

Maria

My grandmother's plantation house is lit to the nines. Tasteful paper lantern lights are strung along the wrap-around porch, and every window is bright, even though most of the rooms won't have anyone in them the whole night. The workers are out of sight, tucked safely in their little cabins, except for the staff she has chosen to cater the event – mostly girls not much younger than me. Daughters of the trade.

If I ever learned anything from my brother, it was the art of the entrance. First impressions are everything, he used to tell me when he was a teenager and I was just a kid. You can gain or lose the high ground just by walking in the door. It all comes down to presence.

I anchor to those memories as I wait for Frederick to open my door. I'm not the kind of girl to wait for a man to do anything for me, but there's a strange gravity in the motion now. I may not be as ranked as some of these assholes, but I'm damn sure on my way, and I will not be stopped. So when the car door swings open, I step into the falling night like I just bought the deed to Louisiana.

The boys flank me silently, and despite the tension that's among us, I'm glad they are there. Why they're still there, sometimes I don't understand at all, but they are.

I mount the few stairs up to the porch with a little extra sway. There's a group of men in suits a ways down the porch, smoking cigarettes and talking softly. They stop talking when they see me. I ignore them.

A key thing about the “family” is that we're not all related. Our particular group is comprised of several powerful families, and the ties among them are not always entirely stable. Just as we must maintain rapport with our external connections, a certain balance has to be kept within. This concept didn't exist to me a year ago. Now I'm neck deep in public relations.

The other thing I like to keep in mind is that this far up the ladder, it's a sausage party. Abuela aside, this will be a room full of men. I can handle men.

As an attendant opens the door for me, I put on a serious face. It won't last. I'll smile and shake hands with the