Chapter 68: Sister Double
The wrought-iron gates, each adorned with a stylized ‘M’ that looked more like a brand than a letter, swung inward without a sound. Marco leaned forward in his seat, the casual smirk fading from his face as the Escalade crept onto the property.
“Holy shit,” he breathed, the words barely audible.
The scale was incomprehensible. The driveway alone was a mile of crushed white gravel, cutting through fields of grass that rippled like a pale green ocean under the wind. To the east, a stable complex sprawled, all polished wood and copper roofing, where a man in denim led a horse with a coat the color of fresh cream. To the west, solar panels glittered in massive arrays beside a hangar large enough for two of Beth’s jets. In the distance, the main house rose—three stories of Texas limestone and glass, modern and imposing, surrounded by ancient live oaks.
“Hundreds of thousands of acres,” Damien said, watching Marco absorb it all. “Cattle, oil rights, sustainable agriculture. And that’s just the tax paperwork.”
Marco gave a low whistle. “And I thought the Rossi compound was impressive. This is a sovereign nation.” He shook his head, a slow grin spreading. “You know, all those years, everyone said Beth married up. Into your family, your money.” He glanced at Damien, his hazel eyes bright with amusement. “I’m starting to think we had it backwards.”
Damien didn’t answer. The truth of it, the sheer magnitude of what Beth had walked away from and hidden, still sent a cold trickle down his spine.
They parked in a rounded courtyard where a fountain burbled. The front door was already open. A woman stood silhouetted against the cool, dark interior, one hip cocked against the frame. She had Beth’s height, Beth’s wave of dark hair, Beth’s sharp green eyes.
Marco froze, one foot out of the SUV. “Beth?”
Then she moved, and the illusion shattered. This woman’s stride was a rolling, purposeful walk, born in boots, not heels. Her skin was a deeper bronze, her frame solid with muscle under a simple gray t-shirt and worn jeans. A cigarette dangled from the corner of her mouth, unlit.
She looked Marco up and down, then Damien, her expression flat and assessing. “You’re Marco,” she said, her voice a warm, smoke-roughened drawl. “Heard you were coming.” She plucked the cigarette from her lips and tucked it behind her ear. “Beth’s out back with the nightmare fuel. She’ll be up in a minute. I’m Dove.”
“Her sister,” Marco stated, recovering his composure and extending a hand.
Dove took it, her grip firm and quick. “The one who stayed.” Her eyes flicked to Damien, a silent communication passing between them—acknowledgement, a trace of warning, a thread of understanding. “Y’all can wait inside. It’s cooler. Or you can stand out here and bake. Makes no difference to me.”
She turned and disappeared into the house, leaving the door open.
“Well,” Marco muttered as they followed. “She’s… friendly.”
The interior was a study in contrasting textures—rough-hewn beams against smooth plaster, cowhide rugs on polished concrete, modern art hanging beside antique rifles in glass cases. It smelled of lemon oil, leather, and, faintly, of gunpowder.
They hadn’t even reached the great room when the back terrace door slid open.
Beth entered, backlit by the fierce afternoon sun. She wore dusty riding pants and a simple black tank top, her hair piled in a messy knot. She was wiping her hands on a towel, her brow furrowed in concentration.
Marco stopped dead.
For a moment, he just looked at her—really looked—seeing the friend he’d missed for years, the woman who’d once been the beating heart of their strange, violent family. Then he crossed the distance in three long strides.
“Marco—” Beth started, but her words were cut off as he wrapped her in a crushing bear hug, lifting her clean off the floor.
He didn’t say anything for a long moment, just held on. Beth stiffened initially, then melted, her arms coming up to clutch his shoulders, the towel falling forgotten. She buried her face in his neck.
“You stubborn ass,” Marco finally growled, his voice thick. “You couldn’t pick up a phone?”
“You know my number,” she shot back, but there was no heat in it, only a relieved exhaustion.
He set her down, his hands on her shoulders, studying her face. “You look good. Texas agrees with you. Or maybe it’s the company.” His gaze slid pointedly to Damien, who was leaning against a sandstone pillar, watching with an unreadable expression.
Beth swatted Marco’s arm. “Stop it. How was your flight?”
“Long. Your sister almost gave me a heart attack. I thought you’d cloned yourself.”
“Dove’s a pussycat,” Beth said, a genuine smile touching her lips for the first time.
“Yeah, a pussycat with claws and a probable concealed carry.” Marco’s smile turned soft. “I missed you, Bethy.”
“I missed you too, you idiot.”
The easy affection between them was a tangible thing, a bridge over the chasm of the divorce years. Damien felt a familiar, complex twist in his chest—jealousy, yes, but also a profound gratitude that Beth had this, had someone from his world who loved her without condition.
“So,” Marco said, throwing an arm around Beth’s shoulders and steering her toward the open-plan kitchen. “Catch me up. What’s the situation with the… local wildlife?” He said it lightly, but the question hung with double meaning.
Beth poured three glasses of ice water from a pitcher, her movements efficient. “The situation is contained. For now. It required some… recalibration of a previous contract.”
“The Louisiana problem,” Damien clarified, coming to stand beside her, their shoulders almost touching.
“Mmm.” Beth handed Marco a glass. “It’s handled. The more pressing issue is a new inquiry. From Boston. Dove’s running the prelims.”
Marco took a long drink, his eyes moving between them—Beth’s focused calm, Damien’s protective proximity. The domesticity of it. The unspoken synchronization. His eyebrow, the one with the scar, quirked upward.
“Okay,” he drawled, setting his glass down with a definitive click. “What aren’t you two telling me? The vibe in here isn’t ‘exes navigating a business crisis.’ It’s… something else.”
Damien met Beth’s gaze. A silent question. A slight, almost imperceptible nod from her.
He took a breath. “We’re back together.”
The words fell into the cool, quiet room like stones into a still pond.
Marco stared. He looked at Damien, then at Beth, then back again. His expression cycled through shock, disbelief, and finally, a dawning, exasperated comprehension. “Back together,” he repeated, flatly.
“For about two and a half weeks now,” Beth added, her tone defensive, as if bracing for his judgment.
A beat of silence stretched.
Then Marco laughed—a short, sharp burst of sound. He rubbed a hand over his face. “Of course you are. Because why would anything ever be simple?” He looked at them, his grin widening into something fond and thoroughly exhausted. “Do you have any idea how exhausting it is being the only sane person in your orbit? I’m like a divorce kid with split custody. One week I’m listening to him mope like a Gothic poet, the next I’m fielding cryptic texts from you about soil acidity and stock portfolios. And now you’re… what? Playing house in the middle of an assassination ranch?”
“It’s not an assassination ranch,” Beth and Damien said in unison, then stopped, glancing at each other.
Marco pointed a finger between them. “See? That. That’s new. And terrifying.” He shook his head, but the warmth in his eyes was unmistakable. “Okay. Fine. You’re back together. Does this mean I get to stop pretending I don’t know what the other one is doing?”
“Yes,” Damien said, a real smile finally breaking through.
“Thank Christ.” Marco picked up his glass again. “So, what’s the plan? Do we deal with the Boston inquiry? Do we fortify the perimeter? Or…” he looked pointedly at Beth’s dusty clothes, “…do we eat? I was promised pasta that could double as a chemical weapon.”
Beth’s tension evaporated into a soft laugh. “Dinner’s in an hour. You can help me make it.” She turned toward the kitchen, then paused, looking back at Damien. “You, too. You can chop. Try not to lose a finger.”
As she began pulling pots and ingredients from the fridge and cabinets, the setting sun bleeding orange light across the limestone floors, Marco leaned close to Damien, his voice a low murmur meant only for him.
“You realize you’ve jumped from the frying pan directly into the heart of the goddamn sun, right?”
Damien watched Beth, the precise way she handled a knife, the assured set of her shoulders, the hidden world she commanded. A world he was only beginning to truly see.
“I know,” he said quietly, his eyes never leaving her. “Best decision I ever made.”