Concede (The Diamond Empire Book 1) Kathy Coopmans (good beach reads .TXT) 📖

“All I have to say is there’s a first for everything. You keep talking of your brother. Where is he? Maybe he took off and left you here to take the fall.”

“My brother and I are equals. We’ve built from the ground up. You better hope you find him before he finds you. You have no idea who the fuck you’re messing with. My brother will come out of nowhere whether I’m dead or not. You better watch your other daughter with your eyes wide open. If he gets his hands on her, he’ll feast on her cunt until he uses it up. She’ll get passed around and beaten if she doesn’t comply. Then Maxim will slice her from toe to head. That is if she hasn’t shrunk to anything but bones from starvation. Such a shame. I had my eyes on her. If she showed that night, I was going to keep her for myself.”

A fuse lights under my ass. A deep growl comes from Dray. As quick as a snake, I grab Dray’s gun, and I’m out of my chair, slipping under the ropes and lifting the weapon.

“You tell Roan not to speak of your mother, and you dare to speak of my woman like she belongs to you. You are nothing but a mutt. A piece of trash.” I pistol whip Mikhail in the head, splatters of blood coating my face as I unleash my rage. He comes at me with his head down, nailing me in the gut—another stupid mistake.

Grabbing him by his hair, I drive the gun against his skull again and again. His grunts and cries of pain, the metallic taste of his blood on my lips satisfy my beast. I continue until he falls to the canvas with half his skull bashed in.

Coated in his blood, I look at Aidan. “Finish him, or I will.”

With a smirk that could rival the real Devil, a nod letting me know there won’t be any consequences for my actions, he walks to the other side of the ring, picks up a machete, and severs his hands and head just as promised.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Victoria

Despite the snow, the private cemetery is overly immaculate and precise. The headstones are always clear off. The walkways are too. At least they were when I got here. Now the snow is falling heavy—almost a near blinding white-out.

I listen to the spindly branches on the oak trees bend and moan from the gusty winds as if they are in pain. I know the feeling as I look at the rows upon rows of marbled stones in black and gray rising from the ground. They are all the same size, and each lined up perfectly with those in front, behind, and beside them.

It’s one giant city block for the dead.

My grandparents on Mom’s side are buried here, and Mom and Dad wanted to be laid to rest next to them. Except my mother hated it. It’s too neat and orderly for Deidre Hughes, the spitfire with a wild and impulsive streak.

Although my mother liked things precisely, she was more of a color-filled person, like me. She always talked about the different meanings of colors when teaching Danika and me how to decorate cakes.

She had a vivid, wide-ranging imagination when it came to colors and blending them together.

She used to tell me I reminded her of the color red—the color of passion.

Also, the color of blood. You’d think I’d hate it after seeing so much of it that horrible night. But I don’t. Not when she told me it’s the color that suits me best.

I’m wearing it today. A long wool bright red coat with a black faux fur collar. I made it as one of my pieces for finals. My professor loved it. She even offered to take it off my hands to use as a demonstration to future students. I might have left it with her if Diesel and Dray hadn’t surprised me one day by picking me up and telling me they wanted to buy the wool as a graduation gift.

Brushing a lone tear, I try imagining I’m here to visit my grandparents. I try to imagine I’m not here to see my family’s names scrawled across newly polished headstones for the first time. Dray called this morning to tell me they were ready to view. He paid an arm and a leg to the memorial company to make sure they placed our family’s headstones immediately. He told me they brought some sort of heating device to set the cement foundation, and I have yet to look down and see them.

Silently I ask for strength and smile sadly when I stare down at my nephew’s name. It shouldn’t be perfectly etched like it is. He shouldn’t be under the ground. He should be playing in the snow, building forts and snowmen. He should be smiling and laughing and being his goofy little self.

He isn’t. He’s gone. His tiny little heart no longer beating. It breaks mine all over again.

“I hope you like your headstone, buddy,” I whisper, unsure of what else to say. It’s a glossy black marble with a giant tree on it. Steven loved to climb trees. It’s perfect for him. It’s hell for me.

I picked Steven’s and Mom’s headstones because Dad couldn’t bring himself to do it. David’s mom helped with his and Danika’s. Now that I’m here, I just want to throw up. It’s like reliving the nightmare all over again.

I want to break them. Go home and find a sledgehammer and bust them to pieces. Seeing Steven’s name, his date of birth, his too-young death date tastes like I’ve swallowed something spoiled and rotten.

I want to drop to my knees, dig through the snow and frozen ground, and scoop him into my arms. I hate he’s under the earth’s soil. I hate his body is deteriorating into nothing but his tiny bones. As morbid as it seems, I do.

Tears burst, spilling