Chapter 1 Thorne They say blood is thicker than water, but in my family, it’s bourbon. It runs in our veins, ruling and ruining us in equal measure. “Thorne, are you listening?” my brother asks. I nod, not that he can see me since we’re talking on the phone. “Yeah, I heard you.” After taking a small sip of my bourbon, I continue. “Dad skipped the Blackstone Derby party to fuck his mistress and died in a car accident with her lips wrapped around his dick.” Sebastian coughs. “Not exactly what I said,” he mutters, “but close enough. Are you coming home for the funeral?” It's been three years since I volunteered to run our international operations from Quebec. The move gave me more power with the company, but all I'd wanted was distance from Kentucky. Coming home, even for short visits, is stepping back into the role my father carved out for me in bourbon and blood. Quebec bought me distance. Kentucky will demand payment for every day I’ve been away. “Will you come home for Mother?” he asks. “Yes,” I clip. “I’ll be there for her. That's the only reason I’m coming back. Not for him.” Never for him. The old man could rot in the ground for all I care, and I wouldn't shed a single tear. Sebastian's sigh is heavy. "Thorne—" "Don't ask me to mourn him. Don't ask me to pretend he was something other than what he was." “I wasn't going to.” "Good. Because I've spent thirty-six years wishing he was different, wishing I was different, wishing we were the kind of father and son who could sit in the same room without bloodshed. At least that wish can be buried along with his body." Sebastian is quiet for a moment. “Yeah, at least there’s that.” He exhales slowly. “Since the funeral is tomorrow, I assume you are coming after. When’s your flight?” “I’ll be at the funeral. I’m on the passenger train from Quebec to Kentucky.” I glance at the setting sun from the couch in my sleeper car. My reflection stares back at me in the window. I’ve grown a short beard. The suit fits better since trading excessive drinking for working out. I look different, but whether the man inside has actually changed? That's the gamble I'm not sure I'm winning. "Okay." Sebastian pauses, like he's recalibrating. "Well, then there's something else you'll want to be in on..." “Which is?” “An informational meeting after the funeral.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Fuck, Bastian, spit it out. What’s going on?” “The details of the accident haven’t leaked to the press. The cop that arrived on scene promised to keep it under wraps.” “Okay… what’s the problem?” “Madison isn’t making the same promise—” “Who the fuck is Madison?” “The kid Dad had with his mistress. She’s fourteen.” We’d all know our father fucked around. He hadn’t worked very hard to hide it. I’d heard the rumors about another family, but confirmation is still a kick to the head. “She wants to meet with us, and if we don’t agree, she’ll meet with Bluegrass Buzz,” he finishes. I stand, needing to pace. That parasite column has been circling my family for decades, desperate for any crack in the Blackstone armor. They’ve turned every business acquisition, every charity gala, every damn rumor into front-page speculation about the “secretive empire behind Kentucky’s bourbon throne.” “First, how the hell did she even get a chance to talk to you?” I snap. “And why am I just now hearing about it?” “Because Lillianna and I were going to handle it. I wasn’t sure if you were even coming home.” The assumption stings worse because it's earned. They didn't bother calling because they assumed I wouldn't show unless it benefited me. And why wouldn't they assume that? Because that’s the man I’ve become. “I’m assuming Dad gave Madison my number. She is our half-sister,” he continues with a calm that annoys the shit out of me. “The only sister I have is Lillianna,” I bark, even as my hypocrisy clogs in my throat. I’ve given Sebastian plenty of reasons to disown me, yet here I am, rejecting blood I’ve never met. “She is Dad’s kid.” “Because he was fucking around on our mother,” I shot back with too much heat directed at him. “It isn’t Madison’s fault that she was born into her parents’ mess.” “Wow, Bastian, where is this forgiving side coming from?” The old nickname slips out again, softening my edge despite myself. “I’m trying, Thorne. I’m trying. So give me a break, will you?” Why in the hell am I baiting my brother? None of this is his doing. Nope, that’s all from our soulless father. And fuck, after all I’ve done, I don’t deserve Bastian’s forgiveness either. “Why not brush her off? Dad owned and controlled half the important men and women in Kentucky, which means we own and control them now. Yet this fourteen-year-old thinks she can control us?” “She’s not bluffing, Thorne. She’ll give them everything. All the sordid details of her mother’s relationship with Dad.” “Fuck, let her. Most already know our father had no morals.” “Those are whispers and rumors. We don’t need facts. Not when the board and shareholders are already shaken by his death. We might be running all the major parts of the business, but the old crowd still saw him as the face of Blackstone Bourbon. Add a confirmed sex scandal to the instability, and we could lose control before we ever really have it." Silence stretches between us. He's right, and we both know it. "Fine," I say finally. "I'll be there. We'll hear what she has to say." "Thank you." "Don't thank me yet. I'm not promising to be civil about it." We hang up and I reach for the bottle, then freeze. Why is this here? I had specifically told the porter two fingers of bourbon each evening. No more. No less. Grabbing the bottle, I stalk to the door to my stateroom and slide open the door with too much force. “Why did you leave this in here?” I demand. The kid looks no older than twenty. “My b-boss told me to leave it,” he stutters. I inhale a deep breath. Most of the routes I take by train know my new rule, but it’s been a long time since I’ve traveled from Quebec to Kentucky. “Tell your boss, things changed.” “Y-yes, sir.” I start to turn, but the thought of going back inside my sleeping quarters feels like returning to a cage. “Is there somewhere on the train where I could step outside?” I ask. The kid’s eyes widen. “Sir, the train is moving.” “Thanks, junior.” I’m a grown-ass man. I will not roll my eyes, no matter how strong the urge. I glance at his name tag. “Bruce, don’t you have a little balcony thing on the caboose or something?” He shifts from foot to foot. “Not for the passengers.” I quirk a brow and dip my chin. “Am I one of your regular passengers?” He swallows and his enormous Adam’s apple bombs, “Well…” “Just take me to it.” “Okay,” he mutters. He leads me from my private car at the front of the train, through the first-class compartments, then into coach, where the corridors narrow and the noise level rises. We pass families with crying babies and college kids with backpacks. The further back we go, the more the train rocks and sways. Bruce fumbles with a staff door at the very end. Metal groans as it opens, revealing a small platform with safety rails. Cool air and the clatter of wheels hit me immediately. He shifts from foot to foot, his eyes darting between me and the door like he’s calculating how much trouble he’ll be in if I fall off the train. “I’m fine out here.” “I—” “Alone.” He nods and retreats back inside without another word, leaving me with the night. I close my eyes. The wind screams and the wheels clack along the night landscape. The May air carries the scent of blooming dogwoods and fresh earth as we speed through the countryside. The combination soothes me. Until the door screeches open. “Bruce, leave me alone…” The rest of the reprimand withers in my throat like wildflowers in a heatwave. Instead of the porter, an extremely attractive woman steps out. She’s petite, barely reaching my chest, so maybe five feet. Yet, something in her steady gaze makes her larger-than-life. Her hair is dark brown, and the long, thick strands are flowing wildly around her in the wind. Her dark eyes hold a defiant glint, and I’m suddenly desperate to know their color. She twists around to close the door, and I take in the sundress that stops just below her knees. It isn't tight, but the light fabric drapes over her curves in the best way. When she faces me again, my gaze drops briefly to her chest. Quickly enough to notice how the soft material dips between breasts that are the perfect size for my hands. “What are you doing out here?” I demand. Her left brow lifts and she tips her chin down at me. I have to laugh. It’s nearly identical to the look I gave the porter less than ten minutes ago. “I should ask you the same question,” she replies. “I don’t remember reading in the train’s brochure about an outdoor viewing area for the passengers.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her I’m not like the other passengers, but I put my cocky ass attitude on silence. “I know people.” I can’t help the small rusty smile that twitches my lips. “Do we know the same people?” Her smile spreads on her perfect mouth. “Nope, I just know how to follow people who know people and snatch up a good opportunity.” She moves closer and I catch her scent. It’s earthy but expensive. Patchouli maybe, mixed with something softer. It’s unexpected and intoxicating, much like her arrival. “So don’t rat me out. I can be quiet and we can enjoy this together.” “Aren’t you cold?” I ask. Less than arm's length away, I can see her dress is a coral color. Bright and alive, just like her. “I can handle it if you can.” I drop my gaze to her legs, move to her hips and waist, before returning to her face. “Oh, I can manage.” She lets out a dainty snort. “If you’re openly checking me out, then I am free to do the same. Why don’t you remove that jacket so I can see if the broad shoulders and strong arms are from a well-made suit or you?” A jolt of something I'd forgotten existed shoots through me. Anticipation mixed with genuine interest. For the first time in years, I'm awake instead of just existing, alive instead of merely surviving. The sensation is so foreign I almost don't recognize it. I face her, and neither of us break eye contact as I slowly unbutton my jacket. I damn well know my body looks good. Since I’ve mostly quit drinking and gambling, my new addiction is swimming and boxing. The sport is popular in Quebec, and punching the shit out of others is great for my body and mind. Her gaze lingers on my chest and my arms in my fitted button-up. I let her take her time, and when she finally makes her way back to my eyes, I ask, “What’s your name?” “Ivy.” She licks her lips, and I can’t look away. “Like poison ivy?” She laughs. “More like Devil’s Ivy. Beautiful, nearly indestructible, and I thrive in almost any environment.” I take my time looking her over again. “I could see that.” Leaning against the metal railing, I shift closer. “Where are you headed?” “Tonight? Or on this train?” My gaze locks on her lips. “Both.” “I’m going to Kentucky.” She steps closer. We’re close enough now that I can see that her eyes are the color of my favorite bourbon. “As for the rest of the evening, I haven’t decided.” The mention of my home state barely dips my mood. Not with her warmth and sensual scent wrapping around me. “Anything I can do to help you decide?” “What’s your name?” I hesitate, run my hand through my hair, then say, “Evander.” It’s technically not a lie. I’d given her my grandfather’s name, my middle name. And the irony isn’t lost on me. The name means “good man.” Something neither of us ever was. But she’s heading to Kentucky, and I’m not taking the chance she might recognize my uncommon first name. “Your name sounds like you should be smoking a pipe and wearing a plaid jacket with corduroy patches on the elbows.” Her gaze runs over me again. “But you don’t look like a professor.” “Oh yeah, what do I look like?” “With those cold blue eyes, but a full mouth that is somehow masculine.” She taps her lips, and I can’t help leaning toward them. “I’d say a mob boss very, very high up in the hierarchy. Maybe at the top.” “Close,” I say, stepping even closer until there’s barely an inch between us. “But I prefer to think of myself as more of a legitimate businessman with a few questionable associates.” Her laugh is throaty and genuine. “Legitimate, huh?” She reaches up and adjusts my collar, her fingers brushing against my neck. The contact sends electricity through every nerve ending. "And I'm just an innocent girl on a train." “You’re playing with fire, Ivy,” I murmur, my hands finding her waist. “Good thing I don’t burn easily,” she whispers back, leaning closer. "That confident?" I ask, my thumb tracing a slow circle on her hip. "Always." Her eyes challenge me. "Are you?" "About what I want? Yeah." I shrug, playing it off like I don't want to press my body into hers and chase the high her surrender will give me. "About whether I should want it? That's a different question." "Philosophy from a mob boss." She tilts her head. "I didn't expect that." "I'm full of surprises, Ivy." "Prove it," she breathes. It’s a challenge I should refuse. But can’t. Our lips crash together. We aren’t gentle or hesitant. I’m hungry, desperate, but she’s drowning, finding air in my rough touch. Her hands tangle in my hair while mine press her closer, taking in every curve through her thin dress that’s making me impossibly hard. The train rocks beneath us, but I’m steadier than I’ve been in years. When we finally break apart, our breathing is ragged and uneven. She smiles at me with those bourbon-colored eyes. “I’ve decided what I’m doing tonight,” she says, biting on her full bottom lip. I brush my lips lightly against hers. “And what’s that?” She takes my hand and pulls me toward the door. “You.”