Promises Read online

  Book #3 of the WEB OF SIN trilogy

  New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling author of the Consequences and Infidelity series

  COPYRIGHT AND LICENSE INFORMATION

  PROMISES

  Book 3 of the WEB OF SIN trilogy

  Copyright @ 2018 Romig Works, LLC

  Published by Romig Works, LLC

  2018 Edition

  ISBN: 978-1-947189-28-7

  Cover art: Kellie Dennis at Book Cover by Design (www.bookcoverbydesign.co.uk)

  Editing: Lisa Aurello

  Formatting: Romig Works, LLC

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  2018 Edition License

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  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the appropriate retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  PROMISES – Web of Sin book 3

  The twisted and intriguing storytelling that you loved in Consequences and Infidelity continues with the epic conclusion of the all-new alpha anti-hero in the dark romance series Web of Sin, by New York Times bestselling author Aleatha Romig.

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  Have you been Aleatha’d?

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  Learn the truth behind the secrets and lies.

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  Surrounded by secrets and lies, can promises be believed?

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  Promises is book three—the epic conclusion—of the widely-acclaimed Web of Sin trilogy.

  Web of Sin Book 3

  Promises

  “The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.” ~ Robert Frost

  Prologue

  Araneae

  The end of Lies, book #2 of the Web of Sin trilogy

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  When we finally arrived at her door, he said, “I’m staying right here. Get her and bring her back. We’ll go back to the office and forget this happened.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “Please, Araneae, talk to her. If she intends to stay employed by Sinful Threads, she’ll come back with you. If not, it’s her choice.”

  “My company,” I said with less zeal than before.

  He didn’t answer.

  Taking a deep breath, I knocked on her door. When she opened it, her eyes were red and swollen, and her face and neck were covered in red blotches. “Winnie...” I wrapped her in my arms as we stepped inside. As the door closed, I asked, “Winnie, what is it?”

  “Ms. McCrie?”

  I gasped as I stood straight again, taking in the man who had appeared from the bathroom. I knew him immediately.

  Knew was the wrong word.

  I recognized him, his blond hair, and his boyish features. “Mark?” I questioned.

  Hanging from his belt was a badge.

  I took a step back, my shoulders colliding with the wall. “What is this?”

  The man placed his finger over his lips. “I know you’re being watched. I know there’s a man outside who won’t hesitate to enter. I need you to listen to me.”

  “I-I thought you were in trouble...” Winnie cried, her words surrounded by quick inhales of breath. “I-I thought...”

  “What did you do?”

  “Ms. McCrie,” Mark said, speaking quietly as he came closer, “I’m certain you were told elsewise. May I formally introduce myself? My name is neither Mark nor Andrew. I’m Wesley Hunter, a field agent with the FBI. For the last two and a half years I have been infiltrating the world of Chicago’s underground.”

  My lips came together as my head shook. “That-that has nothing to do with me.”

  “You didn’t correct me on the use of your birth name.”

  “My name is Kennedy Hawkins.” I fumbled with my purse. “I-I have my ID.”

  Mark, I mean, Wesley, lifted his hand. “If you want to play that game, it’s your choice. You have a long history, Ms. Hawkins, Ms. Marsh. Or is it, Ms. McCrie? While infiltrating the world that has nothing to do with you, the FBI became aware of your connection—or should I say your father’s? Because of that, there is concern for your safety. For most of your life you have been a sought-after individual. For that reason, once you were discovered, I tried to stop you from becoming involved. Wichita? Perhaps you recall? As you know, that didn’t work.”

  My head was shaking. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Kenni,” Winnie said, “I’m sorry. They came to me, told me you were in danger. Your behavior...I thought I was helping.”

  “Why?” I asked, this time louder. “Why not come to me?”

  “I thought with the odd behavior,” she said. “I thought...the FBI said...you were in danger...that you were being forced...and then today you said...I left the office to inform Agent Hunter that the FBI was wrong.” Her head shook. “I’m sorry.”

  “Agent Hunter,” I said, finding my voice yet purposely keeping it low so as not to alarm Patrick. “Am I under arrest? If not, I’m going to leave this room. I appreciate your concern; however, I guarantee that I’m safe.”

  He reached for a folder lying next to the TV and flipped it open, revealing Sterling Sparrow’s picture. “Ma’am, this man is dangerous.”

  “He’s in real estate.”

  “You’re believed to have information that could be detrimental to him and his future. We have it on good authority that his plan is to get that information by any means possible. Are you in possession of the information?”

  What could I say?

  “I don’t have anything like that.”

  “The FBI is willing to offer you, Ms. Douglas, and the cofounder of your company, Louisa Toney, witness protection in exchange for the information in question. Certainly, you want to save your friend’s soon-to-be-born child?”

  Oh my God. This was the same way Sterling convinced me in the first place—blackmail.

  I shook my head. “I don’t have any information.”

  “You have been marked by Sterling Sparrow.”

  He had no idea.

  “We’ve tried for years to find something that would finally stick to Sterling Sparrow. We believe you have it.”

  I shook my head. “I’m leaving.” I took a step toward the door.

  “Upon further research,” Agent Hunter said, “into Sinful Threads, it has come to the notice of the FBI that there are some unusual real estate deals regarding your properties that are connected to Sparrow Enterprises.”

  “Yes, that company deals in real estate,” I said, standing taller. “My company needs properties.”

  “The deals you received are significantly below market and below that offered to other customers. That leads us to question the complexity of your agreements.”

  I shook my head. “Those agreements go back years. I only recently became acquainted with Mr. Sparrow.”

  “If you’re not willing to share the information that you have with the FBI, possibly incriminating evidence against your new acquaintance, we are prepared to offer you an alternative. This is a onetime offer. Once it’s made your decision must be imminent.”

  “I don’t need an alternative offer. I don’t have any information, and I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Wesley crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s very easy. All
you need to do is take my place, infiltrating and ultimately testifying against Mr. Sparrow.”

  “What?”

  “The evidence regarding real estate combined with some questionable bookkeeping and inventory irregularities at your Chicago warehouse implicate Sinful Threads as a possible means for illegal activities. We have the records.”

  “No, that’s impossible. Louisa and I go through every line. Besides, it couldn’t be him. He’s in real estate,” I said it again as if repeating it would nullify his other dealings. “And I just met him.”

  “Lying is what men like him do.”

  My phone buzzed and STERLING came onto the screen.

  My mind was a battlefield as my lungs forgot to breathe, and my gaze went back and forth between Sterling’s name and the FBI agent across the room.

  Who should I believe? Who was telling me the truth, and who was telling me lies?

  Sterling

  My gaze narrowed to meet my assistant Stephanie’s as I entered Sparrow Enterprise’s private office suite. There was no way she wasn’t aware of my ire regarding the interruption of my morning plans; however, just in case, my scowl pointed her direction should have been a clear indication of my current disposition. As our eyes met, her furrowed brow, wide eyes, and tilt of her head led me to widen my inspection of the room. My stance grew taller, my neck straightening, and chest inflating with a deep breath as the blue-eyed gaze I’d known my entire life burned my direction.

  Standing in all her regality, dressed and styled to perfection, wasn’t the woman I’d prepared to meet but the one who the last time I’d seen her, I’d told her to leave my home, the one who gave me life.

  “Sterling,” Genevieve Sparrow said, my name rolling off her tongue coated with enough sweetness that was I diabetic, I’d need an immediate insulin injection.

  Turning away from her greeting, I stepped closer to Stephanie. “Judge Landers?”

  “Sir, I took her to conference room four. She was visibly...” Her gaze went to my mother and back to me. “...agitated.”

  My mother’s skinny hand landed on my arm. “I need to speak to you alone.”

  My nostrils flared as I inhaled, her sweet perfume taking over my senses. Everything in me wanted to tell her to make an appointment, to come back another day, or leave and try a phone call.

  Stephanie continued, “Mrs. Sparrow accompanied Judge Landers.”

  Turning on my heels, I stared down at my mother. “In my office.”

  Together we stepped down the hallway. As we passed conference room four, through the slender window beside the door—though the blinds were pulled, they weren’t completely closed—I caught a glimpse of Annabelle Landers, pacing near the table, wringing her hands.

  With a momentary smile, my mind went to Araneae and how she did the same thing when she was thinking or concerned.

  Once we were within my office, I shut the door and gave my mother a one-word question. “Why?”

  Her lips pursed as her chin rose. “Things are out of hand. There has been some discussion...amongst those of us who remember what happened.”

  “The old guard. Tell me, Mother, what have you old biddies decided? That is, as long as you’re aware that it’s only my opinion that counts.”

  Genevieve shook her head. “We are older than you, you’re correct. Old however, is a state of mind, and none of us are that. Sterling, power may give you many things. It doesn’t, however, give you wisdom. That, son, comes with age and experience. I told you the last time I saw you that what you’ve done will irreparably damage our lives—all of our lives. I warned you. I’ve been warning you since you were a child, imploring you to allow the dead to stay that way.”

  Sitting behind my desk, I brought my phone out of my pocket and placed it before me, hopeful to find a message from Araneae or Patrick. There wasn’t one. Under normal circumstances—normal being a subjective word—multitasking wasn’t a problem. With both of the current figurative fires involving Araneae, I was having trouble focusing on my mother.

  With a huff, she sat at one of the chairs across from my desk, perching on the edge, her slender legs daintily crossed at the ankle, her knees pinched tightly together, and her handbag clutched in her lap. It was as if all of my life she’d been a walking, talking example of ladies’ etiquette. The part that never aligned with that facade was her ability, all the while appearing serene and genteel, to debase or chastise, her words venomous as her smile remained intact.

  “There are times,” she went on, “when we ladies have needed to step in, to forget for a moment our differences, and concentrate on the future of our world. I implore you to listen to me.”

  “You have three minutes.”

  “May I remind you that I’m your mother?”

  “That seems like a waste of your first ten seconds, but by all means, mother, spend your time however you choose.”

  Sucking in a breath she squared her shoulders. “The tensions were incredibly high around the time Annabelle gave birth.” She swallowed. “Daniel McCrie was wrong to leverage stolen information. He put Annabelle, their child, and himself in danger.

  “While Annabelle and I went different paths, we’ve known each other for nearly...well, ever. We went to the same schools. Our parents ran in the same circles.”

  My mother came from old money, steeped in the history of Chicago. Originally her ancestors came from Ireland, some of the early arrivals. Their specialty was farming. It wasn’t until the next generation that their horizons were broadened by the construction of the Illinois and Michigan canal, allowing the shipping of goods from the Great Lakes to the Mississippi River and down to the Gulf of Mexico. That was in the mid-1800s. Not long after, her great—a few greats—grandmother married a man willing to risk the family fortune on the idea of expanding shipping beyond the waterways onto rails. Twenty years later, refrigerated train cars improved the transportation of meats and produce. Chicago became a main railroad hub. Those railroads opened the way to transport lumber, and then came steel. Demand required factories and warehouses. Employment opportunities abounded. The city grew. Her great—how many times—grandfather’s investment paid off, propelling the family into the upper echelon of Chicago’s elite. Money begot money.

  Her family’s wealth gave Allister what he needed to make Sparrow Enterprises into a well-known name, a competitor on the world market. His family’s influence supported his other endeavors.

  Though I didn’t know Annabelle’s family history as well, I was aware that her family also dated back to the beginnings of Chicago and included generations of lawyers, bankers, and investors. These were the people who worked beside the entrepreneurs. Together they forged the city where we now live.

  “Your time is running out,” I said.

  “It was incredibly difficult for Annabelle to see that girl with you.” My mother’s voice lowered. “This is not to be repeated; however, she admitted herself for rest.”

  I nodded. “I’m aware.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “If it happens in this city...” Or should I have said originates? “...I know.”

  She shook her head as I looked down at my watch, silently reminding her that her time was about out.

  “When Annabelle came home from the spa, she called me,” my mother said.

  Spa.

  Hmm.

  Otherwise known as the psych ward at an out-of-state hospital.

  “I’m well aware of the stories your father told you,” Genevieve continued, “about a future for you and that...that girl. He convinced you that she was Annabelle and Daniel’s daughter. Old wives’ tales and fables.” Her chin rose higher. “It’s time for you to come clean and tell Annabelle the truth, that you have no proof of the girl’s paternity. That the identity you’ve given her is simply based upon a story created by a man who’s now gone. Your father planted fiction in your head and you tended it, letting it take root. Give poor Annabelle closure. Closure that she can only find by confirmin
g that the baby she held and buried was her child and that part of her life is over.”

  I took a deep breath and shook my head, recalling Pauline McFadden’s words to Araneae: The real Araneae McCrie would never betray her family like that. Your fabrication will never work. I don’t know who you are or why you’ve allowed this man to convince you otherwise, but Araneae McCrie died. Some second-rate imposter who stole a bracelet won’t get away with threatening our family.

  “I can’t and won’t do that,” I said. “I doubt very seriously that my father told a fable. As you may remember, he was never the bedtime-story-type of man. Out of curiosity, was Pauline McFadden around for this cackling-hen session?”

  “Yes. She was as well as Ruth Hillman. We all remember.”

  Ruth was Wendell Hillman’s wife. She’d also been at the club the night Araneae was poisoned.

  “Essentially, you’re telling me that you, my mother, Genevieve Sparrow, sat down with three McFaddens.”

  “Martha Carlson was also there. Technically, Annabelle isn’t a McFadden.” She shrugged. “Nor is Martha.” Martha Carlson was the wife of my father’s consigliere, Rudy Carlson, one of the men in the room the first time I saw Araneae’s photo. “Not by blood.”

  Taking another look at my phone, I stood. “You came here today to ask me to tell Annabelle that Araneae is a fake, an imposter.” Though it was a question, I delivered it much more as a confirmation.

  My mother looked up, her gaze never leaving mine. “Sterling, I’m asking you to do what’s right, to save the world where we all live. Rubio is poised for his presidential bid. You have the power here in Chicago. You can be instrumental in burying old hatchets and finally do what your father never could do—coexist. The possibilities are endless if we work together instead of against one another. As president, Rubio could do much for Chicago. There is nothing good that will come from...her.”