Chapter 4

Nolan's Pov

I shouldn’t still be thinking about her.

The red-haired girl.

The one who couldn’t even look at me without flinching.

Something about her stuck in my mind like a thorn I couldn’t pull out. Maybe it was the way she avoided my eyes. Maybe it was the way she looked like she wanted to vanish into her own skin.

Maybe… it was the way I recognized that kind of fear.

Asher’s voice snapped me from the thought.

“Now that she’s probably home… Can we go meet Vincent?”

I gave a small nod. The driver already understood, turning the car and pulling out into the street.

Vincent’s mansion was impossible to miss, cameras everywhere, tall iron gates, security systems you needed money and blood to access. The moment our license plate scanned, the gates opened like the mouth of something hungry.

We stepped out in front of the main building and pressed our palms against the fingerprint pad. The thick door chimed and slid open.

One of Vincent’s men appeared immediately.

“Boss wants you in his study.”

Of course he did.

Asher and I walked down the long marble hallway, our footsteps echoing off the cold stone. Vincent never changed. Everything about him stayed sharp and sterile, like a scalpel.

We entered the study.

Vincent sat behind his desk, tapping his finger against the wood in a slow, irritated rhythm. His eyes lifted to me first, then to Asher.

“I never asked you to kill Ty,” he said.

I stood still, breathing quietly. “He was being stupid.”

“He was being useful,” Vincent snapped. “To me. Which makes your recklessness my problem.”

Asher stepped forward. “You don’t have to go hard on him, Vincent…”

Vincent turned to him so sharply the air seemed to crack.

“I wasn’t talking to you, Asher. But since you’re here… as his friend, you should know how to handle him sometimes.”

“Thank God you know it’s sometimes,” Asher muttered.

Vincent ignored him. His cold gaze locked on me.

“This is the last time you disobey my order, Nolan. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I said.

“That’s what you said the last three times. I don’t want to repeat myself again.”

Silence stretched.

Then Vincent leaned back in his chair. “We have a contract. High-risk. High pay. Assassination.”

Asher whistled under his breath.

“The vice president’s son,” Vincent continued. “Six hundred thousand dollars.”

Asher nodded. “That’s a price worth bleeding for.”

Vincent smirked. “Good. Nolan?”

“I’m in.”

“Prep immediately. You’ll need time to gather intel.”

He dismissed us with a flick of his hand.

We left.

Back in the car, Asher threw his head back. “So… why am I following you to your house again?”

“You tell me.” I stared out the window. “What happened to yours?”

“Well,” Asher shrugged, “a certain friend of ours who disappeared for a year is finally back. And I want to see him.”

“Mason?”

“Who else?” Asher rolled his eyes. “He’s already making your place his home again.”

“Which is why I’m changing my passcode.”

“Still useless,” Asher snorted. “You’ll tell us anyway.”

I couldn’t help the tiny, exhausted laugh that escaped me.

The rest of the ride was quiet.

When we pulled into my estate, the security lights activated instantly. Guards at every post saluted as we walked in. My place was massive, too big for one person, but perfect for someone like me.

We stepped inside.

No Mason in sight.

Asher clicked his tongue. “Where the hell did he go—”

Suddenly the first thing I hear is a woman screaming in pleasure upstairs.

“Fuck me harder—yes, like that—don’t stop—”

Asher laughs under his breath. “Kid doesn’t waste time.”

“Man likes pleasures, unlike you,” he adds, dodging my elbow.

“You don’t have to remind me.”

I headed for the stairs.

Asher grabbed my arm. “Tell me you’re not opening that door.”

“I am.”

“Well, I'm coming too.”

We climb the stairs. Moans get louder, rhythmic, wet skin on skin. The door to the master bedroom is cracked open. I don’t knock. I just push it wide.

Mason’s got her bent over the edge of my bed, hips snapping forward, hand fisted in long dark hair. Both of them naked, sweat-slick, beautiful in the ugliest way. The girl’s face is buried in the sheets, ass in the air, taking every inch like she was born for it.

Mason glances over his shoulder, grins like the devil just handed him a new toy.

“Nolan. Took you long enough.”

He pulls out slow, deliberate, letting us see exactly how hard he is, then slaps the girl’s ass. “Out.”

She blinks up, dazed, flushed. “What?”

“I said out.” His voice goes flat—dangerous. “Now.”

She scrambles for her dress, clutching it to her chest, nearly tripping over her shoes as stumbles past us barefoot and humiliated. The door slams behind her.

Mason turns, still hard, not even a little ashamed. Spreads his arms.

“Welcome home, brother.”

I stare at him, at the new scars, the new ink, the same reckless light in his eyes—and feel something loosen in my chest I didn’t know was knotted.

“Yeah,” I say. “Good to have you back, asshole.”

Mason was still lying there, completely naked and grinning like a fool.

“Nice to see you too, Asher,” he said.

“Nice to see you too,” Asher replied, eyes dragging slowly down Mason’s bare body. “You might want to get dressed.”

I added, “Yeah. Get dressed and get down here.”

Mason saluted lazily. “Yes, my bosses. You two haven’t changed.”

Asher and I were already heading downstairs. I didn’t bother checking if Mason followed. I went straight to the bar, uncorked a bottle of good whiskey, and poured two glasses, and handed one to Asher. We sat on the stools, the silence settling between us in that familiar, comfortable way it always did.

A few minutes later, Mason reappeared, annoyingly energetic as always.

“Well, well, well. I am finally back. Fully dressed, fully revived, fully amazing for you guys.”

Asher raised a brow. “Do you ever get tired of fucking?”

Mason scoffed. “Who gets tired of fucking? I work out, eat pussy all day, dick too—”

I cut him off with a look. “Please. I don’t want to hear about your weird fantasies. Fucking a man amd a woman…you’re disgusting.”

“You’re missing out,” Mason teased.

We were brothers, whether we liked it or not. Trained the same way. Shaped by the same man, Vincent. Mason, the youngest at 27, killed with the same energy he had in bed: too much. Asher, 29, was calculated, patient. And me—32—I kept to myself. Especially after I forced myself to move on from the one woman I shouldn’t have wanted… my brother’s wife. No more obsessions. No attachments. Nothing.

“So,” Mason said, rubbing his palms dramatically. “What’s the deal? What are you guys doing without me? Give me the hot tea.”

“There is no hot tea,” I muttered. “Now pack your bags and get out of my house.”

“Ouch. Is that how you welcome me?”

“I’ve welcomed you enough. You can leave now.”

Asher laughed. “Don’t go anywhere, Mason. That’s Nolan’s way of showing love.”

Mason placed a hand on his chest. “Aww. I’m touched.”

I ignored both of them. “Now that you’re here, you’re helping me with something.”

“Give me another drink first. Then talk.”

I passed him a glass. We moved to the living room, Asher taking the single-seater, me dropping onto the long couch. Mason slouched on the armrest because he never sat like a normal human being.

“I need you to run a background check,” I said. “Everything you can find.”

“Oh?” Mason smirked. “Who troubles you? Another kill?”

“No. Not a kill. I just want information.”

Asher leaned forward. “And who is it?”

I hesitated for half a second. “Teresa.”

Asher’s brows lifted. “The same girl from the rehabilitation center today?”

“Mind your business,” I muttered. Then to Mason: “Are you doing it or not?”

Mason raised his hands. “Of course. Who am I to say no? Let me get my laptop.”

While he disappeared upstairs, Asher stared at me. I didn’t look back. I pretended to scroll through emails, declining three contract jobs, accepting one high‑profile one, just so I didn’t have to acknowledge the silent judgment on his face.

Mason returned with his laptop, chargers, and some random tech junk. He dumped everything on the couch like a child.

“Alright,” he said, typing rapidly. “Full name.”

“I think it’s Teresa Cortez,” I replied.

“You think?” He looked at me over the screen. “Give me anything else.”

“Her mother. Caroline Cortez. My therapist.”

Mason smirked instantly. “Wow. You look like you’re in love.”

“Love? What love?”

My voice dropped, cold. “Just do what I asked you to do, shithead.”

He grinned and began typing. Clicking. Scanning. Digging.

Minutes passed.

Finally, Mason spoke.

“Well. Got it. She has no real record, no work history, no school photos, nothing detailed. But she has one social media page. Just one picture. Nothing else. But I got her address, and her high school. She’s probably done with it. Not sure she’s in college.”

He turned the laptop toward me.

“Is this her?”

Her picture filled the screen.

Red gingered hair. Dark brown eyes. Beautiful in a way that felt… wrong to look at.

“Yes,” I said quietly. “That’s her.”