Another hellacious family dinner.

As I push open the heavy solid wood door to my parents house, I'm greeted by a downpour of rain falling in heavy sheets from the grim overcast sky. It matches my mood perfectly.

First, there was the ever-present tension at the dinner table that was thick enough to cut with my steak knife. Then there were my mother's thinly-veiled jabs about my father's newest mistress. The icing on the dysfunctional cake was the revelation that said mistress is allegedly younger than Brooke. What the fuck? My father is sixty.

Josh managed to escape after dessert wrapped up. I wasn't so lucky. In a total rookie move, I made the mistake of admitting I didn't have plans until later, and promptly got waylaid by our father in his study to discuss my nonexistent political future.

There's a fine line between brutal honesty and rudeness, and I may have crossed it. But it was hard not to with the way he was refusing to listen to my objections. If it puts the discussion to bed, it'll be worth it. Once he gets over being pissed at me, anyway. Holding grudges runs in the Harrison blood, so it could be awhile.

Grabbing my keys in my pocket, I hit the remote start and the engine roars to life. I linger in the covered entry, drawing in a breath to calm myself. If I ever hear the word 'Congress' again, it will be too soon.

I'd like to say things can only go up from here, but I'm not entirely sure that's the case based on how Brooke acted last night. Things were strained even after we talked. Needless to say, taking her home wasn't in the cards, but least Charity stayed over at her place so I knew someone was watching over her after drinking so much.

My phone buzzes within my pocket. I slide it out, glancing at it in hopes that it's something benign, like Brooke confirming our plans.

"I need some help."

Of course, the message is from Joshua. I should have known. No one else has such terrible timing.

Head down, I quickly write back. "What kind of help?"

"Just a short term loan."

Despite myself, I laugh. It's never a loan with him. If it was, he'd be paying me the equivalent of a monthly mortgage payment.

In reality, I write it off as life support—as in, the money keeps him alive. While enabling Josh isn't ideal, it's better than my little brother getting chopped into pieces and thrown into the Pacific, which is the alternative.

I slide my phone back into my pocket so it doesn't get wet, and jog for my car. When I yank open the door, it vibrates again.

"Please, man. I'm really in a bind."

How did Josh manage to get himself in this deep in less than an hour? It's takes a special kind of talent to fuck things up that bad, that fast.

Then again, this could be an older debt he was trying to settle. That would be pretty consistent with his previous patterns of behavior.

Either way, I don't really have time to deal with Josh's shit right now. I'll throw some money at it so he can live for me to chew him out another day. Which I definitely, definitely will—followed by dragging his sorry ass back to rehab and throwing away the key.

But for tonight, my priority is making sure his body doesn't end up in a dumpster.

"How much? I'll transfer it."

"I can't leave. I need you to bring cash."

My jaw clenches. Fuck. This means he's trapped somewhere with a bookie breathing down his neck. Possibly, while holding a rusty blade to it.

If I don't help Josh, I'll be responsible for whatever happens to him. As I should be, really, since this is ultimately all my fault.

"Please, Dean."

"How much?"

"Ten."

I loose a heavy sigh and smack the steering wheel with the palm of my hand, fighting the urge to throw my phone. I swear to god, if Joshua doesn't start gambling with smaller amounts of money, I might kill him myself.

"Where?"

"24 Baker Street."

Doesn't ring a bell. Staring at the screen, I re-read the address before pasting it into my maps app. A red pin pops up in the middle of the north end industrial park. What is he doing all the way on that side of town? This is shady as hell. What's wrong with sticking to casinos and the back rooms of bars? Or a buddy's house?

With almost an hour to spare, it's enough time for me to hit an ATM, make it to where Josh is, and head to Brooke's. It's manageable, even if it does interfere with my initial plan to hit The Vine Cellar and grab a bottle of the wine Brooke and I shared at the caterer's for the tasting. Hopefully, showing up empty handed won't be an issue. Pretty sure Brooke will understand once I explain.

"Be there in twenty."

"Thanks, man. I owe you. Knock twice when you get here."

*

Eighteen minutes and multiple speed limit violations later, I ease my car into a gravel parking lot and kill the engine, peering out at my surroundings. 24 Baker Street is sprawling, dilapidated warehouse with peeling green paint and broken windows. It looks like it's been vacant for years, if not decades.

All of the other buildings liking them steer are in equal states of disrepair. The entire is block dark and deserted, more than a little ominous. The only sign of life is three black, heavily tinted SUVs parked by the side door, and the faint sound of a guard dog barking somewhere in the distance.

If not for Joshua, there is zero chance I would go inside this place. Hell, I would take detours just to avoid driving by.

Steeling myself, I exit my Cayenne and locking the doors twice for good measure. Not like it'll do a lick of good if someone comes by and smashes the windows to get inside, which is a strong possibility in this part of town.

My shoes crunch along the gravel until I reach a metal door covered in chopped gray paint. When I knock, it swings open immediately and a gruff, heavily-accented voice says, "Come in."

I take another step and I'm grabbed by one arm, dragged inside, and shoved against the wall. As my eyes adjust to the dim lighting, I am greeted by a veritable giant. The guy must be six foot six and 300 pounds, easy. Maybe more. He towers over me, and I'm not exactly small.

He reeks of cigars and booze, combined with an overpowering amount cologne. Enormous biceps bulge beneath the sleeves of his tight black t-shirt, a physique that can only be explained by the help of modern pharmaceuticals.

Behind him, Joshua is hunched over a folding card table, surrounded by four other similarly terrifying men, all sporting the same buzz cut. It looks like something straight out of a movie, and not in a good way.

"You here for game?" The guy grins at me, displaying a gold front tooth.

Judging by his accent, I'm guessing Joshua has gotten himself into trouble with the Russian mafia.

Great.

"No." I try to keep my voice level and work to appear calm, like I get yanked into warehouse poker games on the regular. "Just bringing some money to pay off a debt."

I stiffen as he begins to pat me down aggressively, squeezing my limbs with far more force than is necessary for a simple sweep. As he works, I spot a pistol tucked in his waistband.

Even better.

He continues roughing me up, emptying the contents of my suit pockets and seizing my phone, wallet, and the envelope of cash. Then he deftly removes my Rolex, unfastening my cufflinks like a skilled pickpocket. He studies them both with an apprising eye that tells me he knows exactly what they're both worth.

Once he finishes patting me down, he tosses the rest of my belongings onto a table beside him instead of giving them back. It's not a good sign in terms of ever seeing them again.

"Wrong." He gives me a hard shove toward the card table. "You play."

Joshua looks up at me, wide-eyed. His hair is mussed, his plaid button-up shirt is wrinkled, and his expression is full of fear. On the table are stacks of chips, bottles of beer, and two more guns—one in in front of each guy on either end of him.

The man to his left him glances up. He's got white-blond hair, his build a little scrawnier than the rest, and something tells me he's in charge.

He grins around the cigar in his mouth. "Ah. Have you come to make good on your friend's debt?"

Somehow, I get the sense that correcting him that Joshua is my brother wouldn't serve either of us at the moment. At least they don't seem to know who our father is. They'd probably increase the price significantly for two sons of a Senator.

Or one former NHL player with a multi-million dollar retirement fund.

Luckily, there don't seem to be any hockey fans in the room.

"I already gave the cash to your associate over there."

He shakes his head, cutting me off as he blows out a stream of smoke. "Drop in bucket. Debt is twenty-five now. Your friend tells me you're a good poker player. You can make it up."

Jesus Christ, Joshua. I told him I was coming, and he still couldn't help but double down. Don't chase a loss, I always tell him. But does he fucking listen?

"Your friend already patted me down. My watch should more than cover—"

"Sit," he commands, picking up the gun and pointing at a vacant spot on the other side of the table.

My mouth goes dry, heart pole-vaulting into my throat. I obey, pulling out a rickety metal chair and sinking into it, because what I don't exactly have a choice.

"Ivan." The blond points at himself, then at the other two. "Ilya and Nikolai. You cheat, we kill you."

"Understood." I don't know whether I want to win or lose. Winning might piss them off. Losing might cost me my car—or a limb.

Scanning the table, I do a quick calculation in my head. If I can break even, I'll let them keep the cash—my Rolex too, if it comes down to it. Then hopefully I can get the other items back, and we can get out of here in one piece.

The enormous security guard returns and gives me a stack of poker chips. My brain kicks back into gear, and suddenly, I remember that I'm supposed to be at Brooke's in less than half an hour. And I'm pretty sure this isn't one of those, 'you get one call' situations.

I'm so fucked.

Poor Dean!