Hate Me

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Prologue

Ten years ago

Finn

My fingers tap on the worn leather of the old steering wheel fighting the urge to reach out and touch hers. The cab of the truck is dark, the headlights lighting up the country road ahead of us. Ranch fence lines zoom past in the sideview, the occasional yellow sign warning of deer crossings.

Effie rolls down her window, and the fresh smell of pine rushes in. My stomach flips seeing her dark brown hair whip around her face in the wind. I turn up the volume on the staticky radio playing old school country to cover the sound of the open window. And my beating heart.

It jumps like a skipping stone in my chest. Sharp, staccato hops that leave you anxious and waiting for the drop.

Effie and I had known each other for years. We’re only a couple years apart, and our fathers run in the same circles. Those circles being the rich and dirty criminal underworld. But it wasn’t until we graduated high school a few years ago that we really started spending time together as more than two crime bosses’ kids. I had my brothers of course, but there was something freeing about spending time with another person who knew what it was like to wake up in the middle of night to gunshots and eat breakfast to the smell of bleach the next morning.

She understood that I didn’t break the cashier’s nose because I wanted to, but because he disrespected me, and as a Fox, I can’t let that happen without consequences. I glance down at my bruised knuckles wrapped around the wheel now and can almost feel the sting of the ice she held on them after as she cursed our fathers and their damn egos.

As if reading my mind she turns to me from the passenger seat, “How’s your hand feeling?”

I flex my swollen fingers and take my eyes off the two lane road just long enough to meet hers. We’re passing one of the few streetlights and the rusty glow makes her mahogany eyes shimmer like amber. My throat tightens. “Fine.”

I may be imagining it, but I think I see her frown slightly at my short answer. It’s not fine. My knuckles feel like they were run over by a steam roller. But it’s not like I’m gonna say that out loud.

I spot a sign for Bartlett Farms. “We’re almost there.”

Bartlett Farms is a small, family-run berry farm. They have fields of strawberries and long hedges of blueberries and some other stuff I can’t remember. The large, white farm house that we see as we pull into the dirt drive has a wraparound porch faintly glowing with old-fashioned gas lamps. The couple who lives here now is in their seventies and the white paint is chipping and curling off the wood siding, but the porch steps are always swept clean and the flower baskets neatly pruned.

The Bartletts are proud and honest people, which is probably why my father chose them. They don’t know I’m coming tonight—no one does—so when the truck crawls past the house to the back, a light flicks on upstairs. They must recognize my truck and the light turns off within a few seconds.

“This looks more like a place you’d take a girl to murder her, not on a date,” Effie muses as she looks up at the dilapidated barn we’ve parked in front of. I think she says something else, but I can’t hear over the blood thumping in my ears.

A date? Fuck.

I mean, I’m not complaining. I’ve had a thing for her since we were seven fucking years old. Back then of course, I just thought she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen and wanted to hold her hand. But now, I can’t deny the number of times I’ve jacked off in the shower to the thought of her soft skin, graceful curves, and bone-warming smile.

I never considered she might think of me the same way.

And that thought makes anxiety roil in my stomach.

Because I want it to be true. I want it more than anything I can ever remember wanting in my life.

I lead us through the overgrown grass behind the barn to the woods. There’s enough moonlight filtering through the leaves to guide our feet. Still, Effie’s foot snags on a root and she flies forward. Instinctively, I reach out and grab her around the waist before she breaks her fucking neck.

Her body is warm and soft, and I immediately notice how her chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. Her pretty pink lips part and I am frozen to the spot as she looks up at me through her lashes.

I could lean down and kiss her right now. I could. But I don’t. Instead I drop my arm and continue ahead, “Just a bit further.”

The rest of the way, Effie walks behind me instead of at my side so she can follow in my exact steps. We arrive at the lake without any other near-accidents. The trees part, and the foliage thins from rooty brush to thin, wiry weeds. The silvery water ripples faintly with the night air feathering above it.

Effie eyes the wooden dock stretched out in front of us skeptically, “That thing looks one gust of wind from falling down.”

“It will be worth it.” I swallow down the rising lump of nerves in my throat and hold out my hand. “Promise.” She sets her hand in mine and butterflies erupt in my stomach. Fuck.

We walk out to the end of the dock. It does creak ominously with our steps, and it would be my fucking luck if this old dock chooses tonight to crumble. “Look down,” I tell her.

I don’t need to look. I already know what’s down there. Instead, I watch her. Her brows rise and a sweet smile tugs on her lips. “That’s beautiful,” she says, eyes still taking in the web of water lilies floating on top of the water.

Big white blooms dot the water, the moonlight making them look ethereal, especially with cricket songs humming in the air and the gentle breeze. Effie spins and catches me staring. I want to look away, pretend I wasn’t memorizing every feature and line of her face. But she steps closer, so close our chests almost touch.

My hand trembles as I slowly reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She bites her lip when my fingers graze the shell of ear. Without thinking, I take my thumb and pull her lip out from under her teeth. The air is thick and heavy. Our breaths are weighty as we stay locked in deep eye contact.

I swallow hard as my thumb slides down to her chin and I tilt her head up. My other hand cups her cheek, and she lightly places her hands on my waist.

I’ve never been so nervous in my life.

She rises on her tiptoes and our lips almost—

A sharp ring pierces the air. My pocket buzzes with my vibrating phone and the hypnotic moment shatters. She steps back at the same time I pull away and dig into my jeans. I realize it isn’t a phone call, but a slew of text messages coming in one after the other making the text alert tone continue pinging like a call. Missed call notifications also come in.

They keep popping up again and again and I realize the time stamps go back an hour. I usually don’t get service out here. My brother’s caller ID pops up on the screen, and I answer.

“Where the fuck are you, Finneas?” Cash growls as soon as I answer. “I’ve been trying to reach you for a fucking hour!” I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something off about his tone. He’s an angry person, yelling is his default, but there’s something anguished about the way he snarls.

“I just got service. What’s going on?” I ask and Effie looks up at me with worried brows. She knows that an urgent call like this from family isn’t likely a request to buy milk on my way home.

“Dad’s been arrested—”

“What for?” I holler back.

“They’re saying he shot Governor Albright.”

“What?” My blood chills. Albright has been a longtime ally.

“Get your ass home. Now.” My bruised hand aches with how tightly I’m gripping my phone. “And Finn?”

“Yeah?”

“Get home safe. There’s a war coming.”

Chapter 1: Arrivals

Present

Effie

I didn’t think my father would say yes to the Les Arnaqueuses solely because they’re an all-women crew. Even if they’ve pulled off some of the biggest heists in modern history—a Monet from the Louvre, a collection of Faberge eggs from a Russian oligarch, an entire wall from a building in Bristol with a Banksy original—I could go on.

But then again, he loves any reason to fuck with the Foxes. So when the infamous crew reached out to him about the Fox cache and wanting a local backer, he didn’t hesitate. And if the rumors of the worth of the Fox cache are true…well, I suppose he figured the potential payout was worth the risk.

What did surprise me, however, was the fact he wanted me to be the liaison. My brothers were deep in dealings with the New York families, so I expected him to have Bruno, his bruiser of a Capo take lead. But of course his misogynistic ass didn’t think a man could work with women without fucking them, so that left me.

“This job is too important to risk because a whore can’t keep her legs closed.”

I’m sure he is just as unhappy about it as I am.

I understand I have a role to fill, a duty to family, but I always figured that would be marrying whoever my father decided was most beneficial for the family. He’s kept me out of almost all operation details, and I’m fine with that. Not that I am fine with him pawning me off like a dowry of cows, but I’ve resigned to know my place, my worth.

I hear the jet before I see it. Jonathon hands me a pair of neon orange earmuffs. He almost comically fulfills his role as my security by dressing identical to the Secret Service. Black suit and tie, starch white shirt, night-black sunglasses and an earpiece. The jet breaks through the clouds and its nose lines up with the runway’s yellow lines. I slide on the earmuffs and laugh to myself when Jonathon just clenches his jaw and makes his back rigid instead of putting on a pair himself. Men.

The small jet is the only plane in sight in the whole private airport. My father no doubt used his considerable resources to make sure no one would be here when the crew arrived. I wonder what would happen if the Foxes knew Les Arnaqueuses were in town. Would they know they were coming after them? My mind involuntarily recalls a warm summer night and the glowing petals of water lilies under the moonlight.

I swallow the knot in my throat and remind myself that that was a long time ago. As the plane rolls to a stop and lowers the steps, I try to replace the memories when my heart sang with memories from when my heart screamed. My favorite cousin unrecognizable from the beating he took. Watching from a window as another soldier was curb stomped, hearing the horrible crushing sound three stories up.

That is who the Foxes are. Brutal. Ruthless. Heartless.

And Finn Fox is the worst of them.

The bloodshed only stopped when a delicate and brittle ceasefire was agreed upon before the two families eradicated each other. Mutually assured destruction or survival.

I hate what they did, but I hate what we did too. Framing Finn’s father, Aiden Fox, for the murder of the governor, driving him to kill himself in prison. All of it sickens me.

I wasn’t cut out for this life. I’m cold but not ruthless. I’m cold because I was never shown the warmth of love, except for that one summer—No, forget about that, that Finn no longer exists.

A white woman steps out, her blonde hair slicked back in a tight bun, her midriff visible between a tight, cropped tank and cargo pants cinched at the ankles. With one scan of her athletic build, I’m sure she knows twenty different ways to kill me with her bare hands.

My father meets her at the bottom of the steps, shaking her hand as men take the designer duffel bags from her hands and put them in the trunk of a limo waiting on the tarmac.

The rest of the women follow and once everyone has deplaned, Jonathan and I walk over to the group. “My daughter, Euphemia,” my father swipes his hand out as I step up to the circle of people. “She will be your point person and has already arranged your living arrangements.”

“You can call me Effie.” My father grinds his jaw, hating my nickname, but quickly turns his sleazy grin back on—always putting on a show.

The women introduce themselves. The one that looks like a mercenary is named Linnie and has only a slight French accent. A short-statured and lean woman with tanned skin introduces herself as Hadis, her dark brown eyes with flecks of gold flit over the surroundings, constantly surveying, reminding me of a hawk. The last woman, a white woman with short buzzed, dark hair is Marguerite.

The drive to our home is passed with my father jabbering and the women politely laughing at his sexist jokes. Though I watch Linnie’s knuckles whiten around her champagne glass, and I half expect it to explode. I think I’m going to like her.

My mother greets us and presents the dining table full of home cooked Italian food as if she made it herself. I doubt she even got out of bed thirty minutes before we arrived.

“You all must be starving after that flight, how long was it now?” my mother asks as she flits around the table to her seat at the opposing head from my father.

“Just shy of nine hours,” Linnie responds, tucking in her chair and flapping her napkin onto her lap.

Once we are seated and begin eating, I notice my mother skeptically observing Marguerite’s shaved head and can practically hear her in my head. “What would possess a beautiful woman to do that to herself? Must not be looking for a husband, that’s for damn sure.” And a healthy dose of cursing in Greek.

My mother and father’s marriage was political, of course. The merging of the Luciano and Papadimitriou families. Though, I do think they’ve learned to love each other in their own way. Like how a spoiled child loves his favorite toy simply because it’s his and no one else gets to have it. I grew up knowing my worth was my hand in marriage.

Marriage for love is for princesses in the fairytales, not princesses in the Mafia.

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Finn

I check my watch again. They should be arriving any minute. I straighten my respirator and cross my ankle over my knee. The room is empty and dark, I am sitting in the only chair in the room. The only light is coming from the three monitors mounted above the door streaming three of the many cameras covering every inch of this old hotel.

It was decommissioned years ago because the whole thing is riddled with asbestos and when renovations were needed there was nothing to do but abandon it.

Now, it’s my playground.

A black, windowless van drives through an opening in the construction fence that surrounds the dilapidated property. One of my men in a ski mask drags the fence closed behind the van.

A subtle sort of adrenaline leaks into my bloodstream. It’s not deafening, but heightening. The blue light emanating from the screens is crisper, the air behind the respirator fresher, and the need to hunt growing stronger.

I used to be consumed with my thirst for violence. After my father’s suicide, I wanted nothing more than to feel the slick, warmth of fresh blood spilled on my hands. The desire—need—is still there, but it’s quieter, more patient and calculating.

It seethes through my veins as I watch a man being pushed out of the back of the van, a black pillowcase over his head and his hands zip tied in front of him. He stumbles, crouched and shoulders curled, as he tries to brace himself in his new surroundings.

Calvin, my second, jumps out of the back of the van and rips the case off Martin’s head. His usually neatly styled Ivy League cut is mussed, and I’m annoyed but amused when his first instinct is to raise his bound hands to fix his hair. The pretentious fuck.

Pretentious and stupid. We hired him as a fence for a parcel of diamonds and he swapped half of the stones with fakes, pocketing the real ones.

And sure, we could have roughed him—broken a few bones, retrieved the stones— and threatened him if he ever pulled another stunt like that while representing the Fox name. But I needed more.

I use my phone to remotely unlock a door that used to be a back service entrance. Calvin opens it and ushers Martin in, my eyes track the movements on the screens. All the doors and elevators in the hotel were set up with electronic locks for key cards. I’ve reprogrammed them so that I can control which doors open from the palm of my hand.

I see Calvin’s lips move as he explains the game to him and the corner of my mouth curls watching fear sink into his eyes. Now, the fun can really begin.

The rules to the game are simple: Run.

He jumps back when Calvin pulls a switchblade, but he only cuts the zip ties. I see but can’t hear Calvin say one more thing and then Martin is off, sprinting down the hall. The monitors above me change as the motion sensors on the cameras follow his path.

His white dress shirt is stuck to his back, sweat making a dark spot down the middle of his back. He paces and pounds the elevator buttons, running a hand over his face waiting for an elevator that is never going to come. After another few seconds of waiting, he ditches the elevator and decides on the stairs.

I watch him scamper up the steps, trying each door at every landing, but I keep them locked. On the seventh floor, he kicks the door and wails, pounding his fists.

This is always my favorite part. When they start to crack, to break. They regress to a child throwing a tantrum when it finally sinks in that they aren’t leaving these halls alive. Any composure goes out the window with the last of their hope.

The next time he slams his shoulder into the door, I unlock it and he tumbles to the floor, the door finally opening. He regains his footing and looks around frantically, trying to decide which way to run down the hallway of rooms. He doesn’t know that he’s merely a mouse in my maze. It doesn’t matter which way he chooses because every route is a dead end until I decide it’s not.

It’s the control as much as—if not more—than the violence that I crave. Total and complete control over his destiny, helps settle the anxiety that is always trying to eat away at me.

He arrives on my floor, red-faced and out of breath, and my blood hums with his approach. He starts down the hall straight toward me. The door to the old suite I am in has been switched with a stairwell door.

When I can hear his footsteps outside, I switch off the monitors and stand. Time’s up. My pulse races under my skin. I love watching them scurry, but I love the anticipation of waiting blind. My breath quickening with every footstep that draws closer.

I roll my head, cracking my neck, and slide gloves over my fingers. The letters tattooed across my knuckles disappear under the black leather. They spell out two short words: CAN’T HIDE.

You can run but…The door cracks open…you can’t hide.

“Hello, Martin.” His backlit frame freezes in the doorway. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

My phone vibrates in my hand, and I look down at the picture I’ve waited all night to receive. There’s a torrent of feelings, making my head hurt. Fuck, I wanted to draw this out, but now seeing my confirmation proved correct—her face staring back at me from my screen—my already-thin patience snaps.

The dark room lights up for one blinding second. The next second, Martin hits the ground, a bullet hole between his eyes.

Read Hate Me, book 2 in the Fox Family Crime Syndicate series to find out what happens next.