10
A batteryof emotions hit Zeke at once. Despite their less than cordial parting in Asheville three days ago, Zeke’s mood lightened at the sight of his brother. Until he remembered he hadn’t discussed the FBI’s offer with his team yet. Had Ash come to force a decision?
Of course he did. When they’d met in Charlotte, Ash had no plans to return home until Grams’s birthday, months from now.
Zeke steeled himself for his brother’s next move. He could visit Ash in Charlotte without blinking an eye, but the moment his big brother set foot on Blackwell soil, Zeke experienced a series of turbulent emotions—longing for old times, wavering self-confidence, suspicion.
No matter how much BARS had flourished under Zeke’s leadership, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being an interloper when his brother visited home. BARS had always been meant for Ash. Their father had trained Ash on different aspects of the business, mentoring him for the day his eldest would take over.
A memory, old and muddy, surfaced.
“Zeke can handle it,” Ash said to their dad, Ashkii Duke Blackwell.
“No, he can’t. Your brother is a great number two, but he doesn’t have the right mindset or temperament for the top position.”
“You underestimate him.”
“I know him.”
Zeke’s jaw clenched so hard, he was certain he’d cracked a molar. At seventeen, he hadn’t realized that Ash and Duke had been talking about Zeke’s ability to lead the family business. His father had no faith in him, and Ash hadn’t wanted the business—them—as far back as high school.
The weight of this revelation slowed his steps to a crawl until he finally stopped a few feet away from the circle of men.
Phin hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Look what we found loitering outside the house.”
“Hello, Grams.” Ash strode forward and bussed her cheek. “How are you doing, old girl?”
Even his brother’s quick-to-tan skin couldn’t hide the dark circles under his eyes. His near-black hair appeared finger-combed and his normally clean-shaven face sported several days’ growth. He still wore a navy sports coat over a pristine white button-down shirt, though his ever-present tie was missing.
In short, he looked like shit.
Grams cupped Ash’s face. “Better than you, I think.”
Ash grasped her much smaller hand and kissed the backs of her knuckles. “Nothing a shower and eight hours of sleep won’t cure.” When he lifted his gaze to Zeke, flint sparked in their depths. “I need to speak with you. Alone.”
Rohan said to Grams, “How about we wait out the storm in a more comfortable setting?”
Grams squeezed Zeke’s arm in warning before accepting Rohan’s assistance. Phin followed the two from the chapel, and after a long, considering moment Cruz strode out on silent feet.
As soon as they were alone, Ash accused, “You haven’t spoken to them yet.”
“Observant as always, Ash.”
“Why?”
“The timing hasn’t been right.” And he wanted the FBI to sweat, just a little.
“Well, your timing issue has created a critical situation. Something spooked the CI, and he’s demanding his property back by the end of the week.”
“Five days?” Zeke shook his head. “Guess you have your answer now. There’s no way we can plan and execute a recovery in that amount of time.”
“Bullshit. You recovered the Salvatores’ painting in three.”
“How the hell—” Zeke took a deep breath. Ash always seemed to have an insider’s understanding of the business. He didn’t know who was giving him updates, but a tiny, resentful part of him wondered how often his leadership came up in the conversations.
“You could have called for an update. Why travel all of this way when you had no interest in doing so?”
“Look,” Ash ran his fingers through his thick hair, “it’s not that I don’t want to visit—”