Revenge: LaFountaine Syndicate

By Kara Kartt

What happens when two damaged souls collide? Diagnosed psychopath Wesley LaFountaine has been a contract killer for his entire adult life, and he's never had to worry about another human being. His own family are expendable to Wesley should they become inconvenient.

 

Even psychopaths can find love in the most unlikely place, with the most unlikely person.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kara Kartt
• Release date: Aug 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223080091

Book preview

Chapter 1

Wesley

Babysitting really is the worst, Twisting at the sound of my brother’s amused voice, I fight a grimace. Holding out a beer for me, Chandler leans on his forearms against the railing at the bow of this opulent, luxury yacht. I’ll never understand it.

Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about? I ask before lifting the beer to my lips. Tastes like ass. Scoffing lightly, I bend to set the bottle on the floor by my feet before leaning back against the railing myself. Eyeing Chandler sidelong, I take in his more formal suit, complete with a vest, even. He looks out over the lapping waters of the Atlantic, jaw ticking with the furiousness of his thoughts.

I get that the Hannefords are close with Dad, but it seems pretty condescending that you and are I being ordered to babysit a 30 year old still sucking his mother’s tit.

Not this again, Chandler. That’s why you’re so miserable. You let shit like this piss you off, I snipe curtly, glancing down to kick the bottle at my feet and watch the beer spill out over the yacht’s shiny deck. You’ll have all the freedom in the world once Dad kicks the bucket and Damien takes helm of the family business.

Are you saying you’re not pissed about being forced to marry that slut, Lucinda? Chandler combats my snark for his own, and I inhale deeply, closing my eyes to beat down my aggravation. Reaching to pinch the bridge of my nose, my ears drum under my little brother’s knowing gaze. See! You’re pissed. Why wouldn’t you be, Wesley? It’s degrading.

You misunderstand. Instead of getting upset and stomping my feet, I cast Chandler a pointed look, and he scrunches up his face, ducking his head. I’ll simply kill her after the wedding. This is a business deal, Chandler. Nothing more. It might take a while to find the proper time to make it look like an accident, but don’t mistake my inaction for complacency. This is why Dad makes you babysit. You need to learn restraint, or you’re gonna end up in a landfill.

Restraint. Chandler scoffs, and that’s just like him. I grind my molars, watching the beer underfoot pool and swish with the sway of the boat.

Don’t try to deflect. If you’re so miserable, kill Dad yourself. . . if you think you can, Chandler’s big mouth stays closed at my offer, and I shake my head amusedly. Then shut up. And for the record, I don’t particularly dislike Lucinda. I think she’s insignificant. There’s a difference.

Walking away from my younger brother, I slip my hands into my slacks pockets; good thing I didn’t wear a vest, or the heat and humidity out here would be unbearable. Ducking through the short doorway leading to the cabin, I shake my head in bemusement. Chandler tries so hard in the weirdest ways. I suppose, being the youngest affords him some leeway when it comes to his attitude.

The lounge area is quiet, not a soul in sight, as I stride through and towards the lower level of the. . . well, I’m not sure what parts of the boat are called. The sofa is real leather, and the bar is fully stocked in the corner with high-quality crystal and expensive booze. There’s even lush carpet under my feet. On a boat. I reach to unfasten the button on the collar of my baby blue shirt as the ocean air clings to the back of my neck.

I reach the short stairwell that leads to the second floor before pausing mid-step, surprise rippling up the bridge of my nose. A naked woman leans against the wall at the landing, blood streaming down her leg from a large scrape, and she cradles her broken hand. Somewhere nearby, a door slams shut, and on such a small boat, I can hear people talking loudly to each other. Her head flops back against the wall with a noticeably thunk. Sagging a little, she slips on her own blood to start crawling up the stairs.

Well, this is unfortunate. I mutter to myself; this event was supposed to be an auction of antiquities. That’s why it’s on a boat in the middle of the ocean. Rubbing my jaw and chin thoughtfully, I step out of the way when the woman reaches me. She shakes violently, wheezing painful breaths, and her eyes are glassy and unfocused.

Over here! A male voice sounds from beyond the open door, and the woman twists sharply. Stumbling to her feet, she grabs at me blindly before freezing; somewhere, in her drugged up mind, she knows I’m not a wall. She moves in slow motion, blinking wildly, face flushed dark and drool dangling from her chin.

The gunshot that rings out breaks our eye contact, and goosebumps blanket my whole body under my clothes. Irritation dries my mouth before the woman suddenly looks down, panic draining the blood from her face. A few seconds too late, she jumps around, dancing away from a bullet that’d already lodged itself in the floor just below the stairwell landing. Pulling my shirt, she rips a few buttons, a thick imprint of sweat staining the fabric when she finally untangles her palm.

Wesley! My brother calls from my left, and I hastily put up a hand to stop him as several men clog the stairwell. The woman looks down before suddenly, and with a swiftness I wasn’t expecting, launching herself at Chandler. He lets the gun go rather than fight for it; no doubt, feeling the same disgust I am at the moment. But there’ll be time to be angry later as I step back once again. She knows how to use a gun. Even in her state, she holds the gun with purpose, the drugs doing nothing to impede her instinct or muscle memory. Limping backwards towards the bow, she doesn’t fire- doesn’t put her finger on the trigger.

Only a few seconds passed by so slowly between seeing her for the first time and her disappearing beyond the lounge room of the boat. Following the blood trail staining the polished floor, I cast Chandler a warning look as I pass him. His expression is dark, that anger he carries around put to good use when he starts flying off the handle on the people pursuing the woman.

No, no, no, Whirling in a disorientated circle, the woman holds her head when I catch sight of her again. Muttering to herself, she starts towards the left edge of the boat to stare at the water sloshing up against the sides. Christ.

Do you need help? I ask, my voice echoing in the crisp, salted air, and she twists sharply. She’s starting to come down. Holding up my hands, I walk towards her, and she flexes her hand around the gun but aims at the floor. We’re a couple hundred miles offshore. You won’t make it if you jump.

It takes her a moment to process my words, and I wait patiently before she starts looking around frantically. Another gunshot rings out, winging her in the shoulder and sending her stumbling backwards into the railing. Pulling my own gun out of the holster, I turn to aim at the sniper perched on the roof and fire. When I look back, she’s climbing over the railing, and alarm strikes my chest. Closing the distance between us, I grab her around the waist. Kicking out her legs, she scratches and twists, struggling with all her might. Pushing her feet against the railing, she sends me off balance, and I hit the floor with a grunt.

Stop- stop, I growl lowly, but I can’t get a good grip on her, and she wriggles away from me- like a fish. Standing up, irritation floods my system, and I tangle my hand in her hair to push her flat against the floor. She freezes when I put my gun to her head, and I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s like wrangling an injured, wild animal! I said ‘stop’.

Sir! Please, don’t trouble yourself, Who I assume is the manager of this whole operation comes rushing up with a panicked look, his voice high and squeaky. I stand up and holster my weapon, eyeballing the woman underfoot; she’s not unconscious, but she doesn’t move. I apologize for this unseemly display! I’ll have it put down immediately! If there’s anything I can do to rectify the matter.

‘It’? I scoff, the manager’s eyebrows and cheek twitching wildly. Bending down to grab her by the arm, I hoist the woman up on unstable knees, taking her gun easily. Weary, blue eyes wander between the men surrounding us, several with their own guns pointed at her. She hides behind me, the blood from her shoulder wound seeping into my already ruined shirt. A fire ignites in my gut, and I jerkily shake off the fabric to hang it over her shoulders lamely.

Bring me the boy, Chandler, I demand sharply, my voice booming through the unnerving, tense silence. Pointing at the manager, I gesture him with a crook of my finger, and he inches forward, skittering like a rat. Grabbing the collar of his starched tuxedo, I ignore his little squawk of fear as I glare directly into his eyes. Turn this fucking boat around. Now.

I- I can’t. He stammers, and I poise my gun to his temple and pull the trigger. The manager’s body lands with a sickening thud. Those restless men around me raise their guns, but no one wants to be the first to shoot.

What’s going on out here? A new, male voice, authoritative and strong, crackles through the air like thunder, and finally, the guards lower their weapons. Walking up to the body of his employee, Caroll sucks his teeth in disappointment, kicking the man’s leg. What a waste. You- tell the captain to head back to shore. Mr. LaFountaine, if you’ll follow me, please.

Glancing back at the woman, swaying dangerously and eyes closed, I sling her over my shoulder to follow Caroll back down into the depths of the boat. He’s quiet, but I can see the ire rising up from him like black tendrils. Leading me into a small but lavish room with just a sofa, he shuts the door behind me before leaning against it. Out of the corner of my eye, Caroll crosses his arms tightly over his chest, grimacing deeply as I lay the woman down. I don’t suppose I can persuade you from making this public, Wesley?

Of course, I can be bought. Let’s make a deal, I answer, sitting on the armrest of the sofa to mimic him. What do you have that’s valuable enough?

A psychopath like you wouldn’t be content with just the girl? She can work off that 30$ shirt from Kohls, He sniggers, and irritation twitches up my cheek. Clearing his throat, Caroll waves a hand almost dismissively. I have a plantation in Iran that’s been doing particularly well. I’ll give you this season’s stock?

How much?

5 million or so. You’ll have to handle the distribution. You did kill one of my very competent people, after all. I’m not blaming you, but I would’ve appreciated you didn’t shoot the messenger, Wesley, I grunt in agreement, holding out my hand for him to shake, and he smiles gratefully. His eyes soon flood with disdain when they flicker to the girl on the sofa, though. I’ll send the medic. You didn’t know what this was about?

I was told it was for Egyptian antiquities, but don’t worry your little head about that, Caroll. I’m not going to blame you for someone else’s mistake. That being said, I lean back against the armrest once again, rubbing my cheek absently. You know I won’t go back on my deal, but the boy might go complaining. That’s all he’s good for, anyway. I suggest you impart on Luke Hanneford the importance of keeping his mouth shut. Maybe call his father and explain the situation before we get back to shore. Oh, you should go find him before Chandler kills him.

Caroll curses under his breath, shooting a glare at me before hastily running out of the small stateroom. Glancing back over my shoulder at the woman, I gnaw on my inner cheek thoughtfully. This. . . is rather unfortunate.

Chapter 2

Rowen

Fingering the pristine, white bandage around my left shoulder, I lean my head back against the wall to stare around the room. There’s nothing in it but a bed, dresser, and a single picture hanging above it. A light gray carpet covers the floor, fluffy and clearly barely stepped on. Reaching a weak hand to grab one of the water bottles sitting on the nightstand nearby, I wince as I hold it in my left hand, the throbbing in my shoulder intensifying.

Goosebumps blanket my bare skin when the sound of someone shuffling outside slips under the door. Holding my breath, my heart leaps into my throat. Slowly, the knob on the door twists, and my stomach ties in knots with dread. In that split second, the memories battering against my mind’s eye threaten to overlap with reality.

But the face that emerges from behind the barrier isn’t that of anyone I recognize- not the men who kidnapped me from my own home, or anyone else. Flames lick up my neck and engulf my leg, but there’s nowhere for me to go with the wall at my back. The man pauses when he notices me, his dark brown eyes twinkling with interest. You’re awake.

I rake my mind furiously; who is this guy? But I can’t remember much. He quietly shuts the door behind him, holding up a bowl of something, and suspicion clouds my vision. It’s rice. Are you up to talking?

W- who are you? My words roll off my tongue heavy and thick, and he grunts in satisfaction. Crossing the small room, he holds out the bowl for me, not shoving it at me, and watches me through shrewd, narrowed eyes. It’s overcooked. I can tell by looking at it, but my stomach twists and buckles, and I put the open water bottle on the nightstand before taking it. Thanks.

I didn’t put anything in it. Don’t worry, A cold sweat breaks out on my back, and I balance the bowl on my knee to pick up the spoon. Plain, black boxers poke out from under the button-down tied around my chest, and I scoot away from the man when he sits at the other end of the bed. My name is Wesley LaFountaine. Do you remember anything from the last few days?

I remember. . . someone followed me home. I mumble, scooping rice into my mouth. It tastes bland. But it’s something to eat, and I can’t even remember the last time I did that. The man, Wesley, watches me, his gaze skewering me even as rabid hunger rises up my gullet. In an instant, the rice in the bowl is almost gone, and tears prick my eyes.

Your name? Wesley asks, drawing my gaze, and I eyeball him warily. His face gives away nothing, his eyes hard but not particularly malicious. I’m not going to hurt you. I didn’t go through the trouble of bringing you back here to play some sick mind game.

Skepticism dries my mouth, but he doesn’t seem to be lying. Not that I can tell anyway. I grind my molars, grabbing the water bottle off the nightstand to buy myself some time to think. I must’ve been out for a while. I’m not exactly a stranger to drugs; taking a few gulps of water, I stare at a single thread sticking up from the plain, baby blue sheets.

Rowen Yard, I answer truthfully. Where is ‘here’?

Boston, I stiffen at that, my gaze flying to Wesley’s to widen in shock. A shiver of apprehension races down my spine. Water splashes against the right side of me when I squeeze the bottle, and I shudder a gasp. My heart twists sharply, but Wesley doesn’t react in any way. Leaning back, he runs his hand over his shoulder and neck before standing up to take the water bottle from me. I take it we’re a long ways from home?

Uh- uh- y- yeah. Should I really be telling him anything about myself? Could I be any stupider? Pursing my lips thinly, I duck my head, turning my face away while Wesley takes the bottle and bowl and leaves the room. Squeezing my eyes shut, I pull my uninjured knee up to rest my forehead on it. Water dribbles down the side of my face and outer thigh, and I crack open my eyes to watch the droplets glide downwards. Boston. How did I get here from San Francisco? The blood drains from my face at the daunting question.

So, My head snaps up at the leading tone, and Wesley walks over with another bowl of congealed, unseasoned rice. Maybe, it’s for the best. My stomach grumbles eagerly, and my mouth waters as I take the bowl. You were reported missing in San Francisco, Rowen.

W- what? How’d you know?

I Googled you, He holds up a smartphone, the black screen flashing with my reflection before he frowns under brows knit tight with confusion. It’s been two weeks, and you’ve been here, asleep, for almost 3 days. How’d you escape the boat?

What boat? Fear trembles in my voice, and Wesley arches a brow quizzically.

You were at a human auction on a yacht. You stole a gun, and that’s why you were shot. You somehow escaped and tried to jump into the ocean. For whatever reason, the drugs didn’t work on you as well, My eyes boggle from their sockets- a human auction? Looking down at myself blearily, bile sloshes up my throat with bits of rice. A human auction? Covering my mouth in horror, I blink back the tears that well in my eyes. Were you addicted to something that heightened your tolerance?

I’m afraid to open my mouth. Glancing over at Wesley through red-rimmed, aching eyes, I tense when I notice the bowl safely in his hand. I pull my arm back, my mind whirling dangerously as I stare at my trembling, stiff fingers. Are you afraid of boats?

Y-yeah. I stammer. Wesley holds out the bowl, and I hesitate before taking it. He’s like a robot.

Anyway, Standing up as nonchalance lightens his tone, Wesley slips his phone into his slacks pocket before glancing back at me. My heart nearly stops beating when he pulls a gun out of a holster attached to his hip, and he sets the piece down where he’d just been sitting. There’s only one bullet. If you’re gonna kill yourself, do it in the bathroom where it’s easy to clean up. It’s across the hall. I’ll be back in an hour- that should be plenty of time to decide.

Puzzlement briefly stops the rampaging of my other emotions as Wesley leaves the room without another word. Blood drums in my ears, draining from my face and hands and leaving me cold. He’s not gonna lock the door? But the lock is on the inside, and I tear my eyes off the barrier to eyeball the gun he’d left with me. Wincing when I agitate my leg and arm, I lean over to grab it and eject the magazine. True to his word, there’s only one bullet in the chamber, and I inhale a shallow breath to hold it.

God, I sigh hotly, squeezing my eyes shut and scrunching up my face. Confusion and tiredness  beats against my eye sockets. What the Hell happened to my life?

I know the answer to my own question. It all started going downhill when I broke my leg and started taking pain medication. I wasn’t a full blown addict, but I was getting pretty close. My stomach churns with dread and shame. I’m never even looking at another pill ever again.

But,