Page 172 of The Wrong Brother

Chapter 1

Ryder

The air has teeth tonight.

It bites at my cheeks the second I step out of the car, cool and sharp enough to wake me all the way up, and the door shuts behind me with a quiet click that sounds loud in the empty street.Savannahin January is stripped of tourists and noise; the sidewalks are wide and bare, as if the city is holding its breath. I hate it; business is hard to hide in the quiet months.

My father’s text still glows at the top of my screen.

Be here at ten. Time you see how a deal is done.

No hello. No explanation. He’s Hinto Moreno, leader of one of the biggest drug trafficking rings in the south. He doesn’t need either.

I tell myself I should be proud. For months he’s kept me on the sidelines, smiling faintly while men twice my age make decisions that will shape my future and what I’ll inherit. Men I’ll be leading one day, who should be learning to respect me, but instead are learning that they don’t need to acknowledge my presence.

Tonight, though, he asked for me specifically. That has to mean something. Right?

Even if the feeling in my stomach says something is off.

The church rises out of the darkening streets, pale stone glowing under the streetlamps, all columns and tall windows and old Southern grandeur. It looks like the kind of place people get married in or buried at, not somewhere you close a “business deal.” Suspicion tingles down my spine. My father was never one for religion, even though my abuela was deeply committed to the cross.

I smooth my dark turtleneck, tug my sleeves straight, and check the line of my slacks. Neutral. Professional. Unimpressive on purpose, and asexual as I can get while still being able to move comfortably. I’ve learned that if men underestimate me, they talk more.

If he wants me to start acting like an heir, I can play the part.

The main doors are heavy when I push them open, the hinges groaning softly as warm air rolls over me. The smell of polished wood and incense wraps around my senses. Off to the left, rows and rows of little prayer candles glow; a nostalgic sight that settles me a bit.

Surely nothing bad could happen here. Surely my father isn’t that stupid.

My boots whisper against the tile as I step inside, and the sound echoes up into the high, vaulted ceiling.

White and blue arches sweep overhead like ribs, the lights glowing gold and soft, almost cozy. It should feel welcoming, peaceful even, but the back of my neck prickles the way it does right before something goes wrong. It’s what makes me a good intelligence lead.

My steps slow automatically.

I scan the space without thinking, counting exits, side doors, and alcoves while noticing the distance between pews. It’s a habit I picked up young and never lost. Always know where you’d run. Always know who could trap you.

There’s movement near the front of the church. A small group stands by the altar.

My father is impossible to miss, even here. Of course he wore a Hawaiian shirt. The bright pattern looks obscene against all the marble and stained glass. It looks like he enjoys disrespecting the setting. He’s standing in a relaxed fashion, shoulders loose, hands in his pockets, like he owns this place. Maybe he does… priests aren’t hard to pay off, and Hinto Moreno loves irony.

Next to him is an older woman with glasses and a neat stack of paperwork. She looks like someone’s accountant or a notary, flipping pages with bored efficiency.

My pulse ticks up. Paperwork. Something legal, perhaps. Why aren’t we meeting in a boardroom, in broad daylight?

Then I glance toward the last figure.

He doesn’t look like any of the people my father usually runs with—not flashy or loud. Not laughing in a holy place.

No, this man stands next to the woman with his hands folded neatly at his hips. Clean lines and quiet control in a simple white button-up and slacks. His thick, dark hair is combed back, and the amber light plays in the silver at his temples. There’s something unnervingly composed about him, like nothing in this room could surprise him.

Men like this are the ones to worry about.

His eyes lift and catch mine from across the church. The look is steady and assessing. It lands on me with enough weight that my breath stutters before I can stop it.

I don’t know him personally, but I know exactly who he is. In fact, we spent a few hours in each other’s company once. I found it thrilling and stimulating. Especially when he lookedlike he wanted to wrap his massive hands around my throat and squeeze until I was gasping.

Liev Demsky.