Clipping Thorns (Withered Rose Book 2), page 15
But Rosa isn’t like most women. She’s kind and good and Christian down to her bones—to her marrow. Forgiveness is a huge part of her faith, probably the most important part. But am I asking for too much this time? Has Rosa reached her limit with me?
I clench my jaw as I watch her pour her heart into the blankets through her bitter tears. God, I say inside…
My thoughts trail off. Other than when Rosa prompted me to try, this is the first time I’ve ever prayed. I’m not exactly sure what else to say except how I feel. If Rosa is right about God knowing everything, then He’s already aware of how I feel, so there’s no point in hiding.
I take a slow breath.
God, please help Rosa. Please let her forgive me. In Jesus’ Name.
I know He heard, but I have no right to believe God listened to my prayer. I have done nothing but sin since the day I was born. And I’m not even sorry. Guilty, yes, but sorry? Not in the least. I’ve always done what I needed to do. Even those prostitutes were just collateral damage. Their burned bodies gave me nightmares for days, but what happened wasn’t my fault. None of this is.
It isn’t my fault I was born into this sick family in this twisted city. It isn’t my fault I’ve had to kill and lie and cheat just to stay alive most days. This is the mafia, if God wanted me to be anything else but the monster I’ve become, He would’ve given me an out. An escape from this dark world.
You have never asked for one.
The Voice that whispers into my thoughts sends a tingle over my skin. I stop breathing as I glance around, sneaking a look down at Rosa to see if she heard the words, too. She’s still crying like I’m not even here.
Who was that? I ask myself. But in my heart, I already know the answer.
Rosa cries herself to sleep. When she wakes with tear-stained cheeks, she doesn’t speak to me, but she’s too exhausted and sore to put up a fuss when I carry her to the bathroom and give her a bath. I’m aware it’s a patronizing act, but I don’t do it to treat her as a child. I do it because I love her and I want to take care of her, even when she wants nothing to do with me. She’s in pain because of me, if humbling myself and washing her feet will somehow make it better, then I’ll scrub her down every day.
After I pat her dry and apply lotion, Rosa finally speaks. “I don’t need help picking out clothes,” she says when I head to the suitcase she has open on the floor. Since the rooms will be shuffled every week and the safehouse changed every month, she decided not to unpack anything. I don’t blame her.
I nod as I turn toward the bathroom. “I’ll go clean myself up.”
“Don’t,” she says. “I’d like it if you just leave, actually.”
I stare at her. “You’ll let me give you a bath, but you won’t let me bathe myself?”
Her brows flatten. “There’s a bathroom down the hall. There are plenty of empty rooms down the hall.”
I could fly off the rails and turn this tense but calm conversation into a screaming match. I could start throwing things. I could remind Rosa that I’m the underboss of the German mafia and I don’t have to care what she would like, prefer, or want. But I’m not my father or my brother. I won’t let my mafia ego ruin my marriage.
I don’t like it. I feel used. But I do understand.
Rosa needed my help in the bathroom. She was tired and weak from last night—both the crying and the lovemaking. I’m the reason for her exhaustion no matter how you look at it. So I’ll accept this as my punishment.
She needs her space. Fine.
But there is one niggling concern that I can’t let go of. So I turn to my wife and spear her with a serious gaze. “How long will it be this way?”
She looks at me, her gaze just as even. “I don’t know.”
As badly as I want to set my anger loose, I decide it’s best to just give Rosa what she wants this time. Some battles aren’t worth what it’ll take to win them. So, with a huff, I gather my clothes, kiss my wife on the forehead, and leave without another word. I don’t know when I’ll get to see her again, but I hold on to the hope that maybe my little prayer worked and whenever I do see her again, she will have forgiven me and gotten over my transgressions.
Until that happens, I’ll distract myself with work. There’s a war going on, after all. I shouldn’t let the worries of a woman get to me in the middle of all this. If my head isn’t on straight, I could end up getting shot in it. Though it sounds heartless, I need to forget about Rosa right now. And prayer too.
It was cute when I was desperately trying to get my wife to feel better, but I don’t want to do that again. Or, more accurately, I don’t want to hear that Voice again. I don’t want to be faced with the truth.
That God is real.
Because if He is, then He’s right. About everything.
I’ve never asked for a way out.
I’ve never liked being in the mafia, but I can’t name a single time where I set myself up to get out. Even Rosa, with all her tears and trembling and hysterics, was brave enough to run at some point. But all I’ve done is complain and blame God for something so simple.
It’s not like I don’t have the means to get away. It’s not like I don’t have the connections. The Jägers are known for mining diamonds and precious stones overseas at illegally operated mines, but we have several sites that are completely legal. I even personally own one of our jewelry stores—LLC approved and everything. If I run, I wouldn’t have to shack up at a women’s ministry like Rosa. I could live a very comfortable life as the owner of a lucrative diamond store.
My wife and I could settle down, away from the city, away from the violence and danger. I could live an honest life, buy her a beautiful home, put a beautiful kid in her, and adopt a beautiful dog.
Maybe. Someday.
For now, I’ve got to finish this war. Until that happens, all those fancy thoughts are just hopeful dreams. Prayers I refuse to utter.
I bet you were thinking I was on my way to salvation, right?
Sorry to disappoint.
Have you forgotten that I’m a selfish monster? When will you learn.
Eighteen
I want to go straight to my office after I finish my shower. There is no time for breakfast. Even though my stomach protests against this decision, I don’t feel agitated by the hunger. As I walk through the lobby of the hotel/safehouse, I notice other men tiredly sneaking out of bedrooms, wiping sleep from their eyes and buttoning their clothes. I guess I’m not the only one who had a busy night.
I smile as I see Eike leaving Petra’s room, but he doesn’t smile back. His eyes are wild with fear and worry which immediately makes my pulse race.
“What is it?” I snap.
He wets his lips. “The Jägermeister called a meeting. He says its urgent.”
I frown and pull out my phone. Seven missed calls. They all must have happened while I was in the bathroom with Rosa.
“Round up the rest of the men,” I order. “Tell them to get to HQ immediately.”
I don’t wait for Eike to respond before I turn and jog down the hall. He didn’t go with us on our last mission, he doesn’t know how serious Vater’s summoning truly is.
After we got back from Staten Island, I made the executive decision to send men right back in. Uwe and Onkel Oberon had been opposed, as had most of the men, but I was adamant. The idea was to hit the Wolves when they least expected it. Going right back into Staten Island after barely escaping was certainly not smart, but it was bold enough to catch them off guard. At least that’s what I’d hoped. Right now, it seems my gamble was too risky—that I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.
When Douglass pulls up to The Club—yes, The Club is our HQ, at least for this week, we’ve been moving around a lot to stay safe—we jump out together and walk side by side toward the entrance. His nearness only momentarily surprises me, I’d almost forgotten how big of a role he’s played in the business recently. He isn’t just my guard or my driver anymore; Douglass shed blood for me, he fought beside me, he experienced loss with me. He’s my brother now, as much as Wolfgang is.
I stare at his shoulder where he was shot while I’d tried to save Ja’meek. The doctors said it was just a flesh wound, but it’s left him with a wince as he reaches for the door, and probably a wicked scar once it’s all healed up.
He catches me staring as I pass into The Club and says in German, “My scars are for you, brother.”
I nod. “And mine for you.”
Vater is standing at a tall table with a bottle of whiskey when I approach. Onkel, Klaus, King James, Giovanni, Niccolò—almost every head of each respective gang is present. Conrad is sitting in a booth, staring at a sweaty shot he hasn’t touched, Trenton and Tyrese are by his side, muttering to one another. Aldo is missing, but I heard his injuries were worse than we thought so he’s still in the hospital. Hans and Jared volunteered to be on his security team until he’s well enough to be discharged.
“What’s going on?” I say as I approach.
Vater glances up from his conversation with Jameson and slides the bottle of whiskey over to me. It’s a gesture that makes my heart pound. If I’m going to need a drink before hearing the news, then things are worse than I thought.
“I have two things to say,” Vater says, looking up to glare at me. “First, your little covert mission was a total—” he cuts himself off as the doors open to let Eike and Marco Segreto inside. They mutter apologies as they rush over to join the crowd.
Uwe clears his throat. “Your mission was a failure, Amory.”
I nod.
With all the suspense, I had expected as much. The mission was to sneak back into the Island and use the intel we got from the Russian we tortured to destroy another warehouse. Failing was not the outcome we wanted, but it’s nothing to be torn up about. Even if we lost everyone, I’d only sent in a small team of six men to minimize possible losses.
“I’ll contact the families of the men who were killed.”
“That’s not all,” Vater says, and then his tone darkens as he slides his phone across the table. “I got a message.”
I glance down at the phone and gasp. It’s a text from Morgen’s number. But the message is signed by Mikhail Volkov.
Six men. Five dead.
I scroll down to see five bodies, each with a bullet in their head. I know those men—some of them were grunts, one was an Italian I’d only met last week, but they were good men. Loyal men who’d volunteered for a mission they knew would likely go up in flames. They had trusted my judgment and I got them killed.
I look up at my father.
“Keep reading,” he instructs.
You can take the last man home. But you must come get him yourself. Amory Jäger.
My heart stops when I see my name. Volkov wants to lure me out, and he’s using a hostage to do it. But not just any hostage.
I scroll down once more to see the picture of the last man and my eyes immediately blur with rage. My head starts to throb, my breath hitches in my throat.
I want to respond to Volkov’s summons, if only to look him in the eye as I shoot him dead.
“Morgen…” I mutter, clutching the phone so hard, my hand starts to ache. “Volkov has Morgen.”
In the photo, he’s on his knees with his hands tied behind his back. Blood mats his whitish blonde hair and trickles down his forehead into his left eye. His right eye is swollen shut; his top lip is busted. I think his nose might be broken, but it’s always been crooked so it’s hard to tell. He looks a mess, but he’s definitely alive. I can see the fear in his one good eye.
This is my fault.
I sent those men out there, against Vater’s wishes—against Onkel’s wishes.
I glance up at Oberon and exhale an apology, “Onkel, I’m sorry.”
He closes his eyes and shakes his head solemnly, but when he finally looks up at me, I see an odd mix of anger and sorrow swirling in his orbs. No judgment. No blame. Just a desire to see his son and get vengeance on his kidnapper.
“Don’t blame yourself,” Onkel says slowly. “Nobody here blames you.”
“I do.” Conrad shoves away from his table and storms across the floor. He throws a punch as soon as he nears me, but Eike grabs him from behind, pinning his arms at his sides.
“Let me go!” my cousin shouts, spit flying. “You got my brother killed!”
“He isn’t dead,” Vater says harshly, then he turns and slaps the taste out of Conrad’s mouth. His head jerks to the side, neck cracking with the harsh blow. The room falls quiet, even Conny calms down for a second. He sags in Eike’s arms, leaning into his hold and breathing heavily. Blood runs from a cut on his cheek. When I look at Uwe’s hand, I see blood on his signet ring.
Vater leans into his face to hiss, “If you ever raise your hand at my son again, I will cut it off.”
Conrad nods. “Jawohl, Jägermeister.”
Uwe turns to the crowd of shocked men. “I understand this is a difficult time, but you must all remember this is war. Death will happen. Even to the best of us.”
“Bruder,” Oberon says in his rumbling timbre, “you are right, my son is not dead. But he will be soon if we don’t do something.”
There is only one thing we can do.
I clear my throat. “I’m going to see Volkov.”
“No, you’re not,” Vater says firmly.
“If I don’t, Morgen will die. I won’t let that happen.”
“I’ll go with him,” Conrad volunteers, wiping the blood from his face. He walks over and takes the entire bottle of whiskey, chugs down more than he should, and then glares at me. “I’m going to get my brother back.”
“No one is going anywhere,” Vater grinds out.
I shake my head. “We can’t ignore Volkov. Not this time.”
“I won’t let him kill you!” Uwe shouts.
I don’t allow myself to believe that statement is coming from the bottom of my father’s heart. More than anything, he doesn’t want to lose his underboss, and he doesn’t want to suffer the insult and shame of losing his son to the Alpha of the Staten Island Wolves. But his hysterics send a ripple of silence shooting through the room, which calms everyone long enough for me to say, “Volkov isn’t going to kill me.”
Vater stares at me. “Why not?”
“Because I’m not the one he wants.”
Wolfgang is.
But as long as my little brother is locked up in Stonehall, he will be perfectly safe. Out of Volkov’s reach. That’s what this meeting is going to be about.
“Volkov likely wants to offer me some sort of deal to get to Wolf,” I explain.
“And what do you think will happen when you refuse?” Klaus asks.
“He will kill you,” Uwe says.
I shake my head. “This meeting was requested by Volkov himself. If he wanted to kill me, he would have just sent the picture of Morgen and his location. Then he would have ambushed us when we went out to retrieve him. Volkov wants to talk. Nothing more.”
“Why do you trust him so much?” Onkel asks.
“Because I’ve been alone with him before. More than once. He could have killed me twice now if he’d really wanted to.” My gaze narrows on the whiskey in Conrad’s hand. I suddenly want a drink more than anything. “When Mikhail Volkov is truly ready to make a move, he won’t send a text message to get started. He’ll flatten Brooklyn.” I glance at all of them, holding their gazes for a few moments so they know I’m serious. “Why do you think he hasn’t retaliated yet? We blew up five buildings in Staten Island almost a week ago and his only response is to send a text message and ask for a meeting?” I shake my head. “He just wants to talk. If he wanted anything else, he would have done it by now.”
I can see my words are sinking in, though Vater doesn’t look entirely convinced, but his indecision doesn’t matter to me. I’ve already made up my mind.
“I’m going,” I say, turning away.
“Right now?” Klaus asks.
I stop and nod. “This needs to be dealt with immediately.”
“I’m going with you.” Conrad appears by my side, eyes wild with anger and vengeance.
I slowly turn to face him. “No, Conny, stay here.”
“He’s my brother.”
“That’s why you need to stay. If things go wrong—”
“How could they go wrong?”
I swallow. I can’t believe he’s going to make me say this.
“Volkov is going to ask me to give him Wolfgang in exchange for Morgen.”
Everyone in this room knows that’s not going to happen.
As much as I love my little cousin, I simply cannot give up my brother for him. Not just because Wolf is more closely related to me, but because he’s also a higher rank than Morgen. That’s the dark reality here. Just as I wouldn’t trade Conrad for Maximilian, I won’t be forced into giving up Wolfgang for Morgen. It isn’t a trade worth making.
I glance around at the other men as understanding dawns on everyone. Uwe looks grim, Oberon simply stares at the near-empty whiskey bottle, Niccolò and Gio say nothing, but King James looks at me with a hard face. His brows are knit firmly together, his chin is wrinkled as he frowns, but I can just make out the hint of agreement in his dark eyes. He knows better than anyone what it’s like to be in this position. I put him in this same position six years ago when my men Hunted Douglass and he was forced to choose between starting a war with us or letting go of one of his distant relatives.
Though Douglass was the son of a General in the Willis Stronghold, he wasn’t high-ranking enough for Jameson to justify a full-blown retaliation. He wasn’t worth the bloodshed. He wasn’t worth the sacrifice.
The same goes for Morgen.
If this were any other case, I would storm Staten Island for my little cousin, but if the choice is him or Wolfgang then I’ve got to let him go. For my brother and for my reputation. I will not trade a lower ranked man for the son of the Jägermeister.
Conrad sways as he takes a step back, sputtering his words in a wobbly voice. “B—But he’s my brother.”
