Page 61 of Princess of Vengeance

The door to his office is closed, and I throw it open hard enough that it bangs against the wall so hard it sounds like a gunshot has gone off in the quiet house.

Malcolm looks up from his desk, visibly annoyed. “Welcome home, darling. How was your playdate with Imogen?”

Fucking asshole. He doesn’t even know why I’m upset, but he still can’t resist rubbing salt in the wound.

“Why did my father have the marker?” I walk right up to his desk and put my palms down flat so I can lean in toward him. “Why was he offered membership in the Syndicate? What did you have to do with any of it?”

Malcolm’s expression doesn’t change, but I can see him cataloging my reaction, filing it away to use against me later. He thrives on these moments of vulnerability—when the masks slip and the raw nerves underneath are exposed.

But I don’t care. Not about appearances, not about staying under the radar, not about playing it safe. I need answers more than I need to maintain my dignity.

“Tell me what you did,” I demand. “I need to know what you took from him.”

Malcolm’s eyes harden. He leans back in his chair, putting distance between us as his fingers tap a slow, deliberate rhythm against the armrest.

“I don’t think this is a productive line of questioning.” He looks pissed, but his tone doesn’t give anything away. “What’s in the past is done. It can’t be changed. Your father made his choices, and I made mine. It has no bearing on our current arrangement.”

Nope. I’ll be damned if he’s going to dismiss me that fucking easily.

“Bullshit. Answer the fucking question.”

“Mind your tone. You may be my wife now, but don’t mistake that for permission to speak to me however you please.”

I lean in farther, refusing to be intimidated. “I think I have a right to know what blood debt my father paid for his membership, and what part you played in it.”

“A right?” Malcolm’s laugh is cold and harsh. “Don’t be naive. It doesn’t suit you. There are no rights in our world—only powerand those who wield it.” He stands abruptly and turns to face the window. “This conversation is over.”

The hell it is. I circle around the desk, putting myself between him and the view of the perfectly manicured, overly formal gardens he’s attempting to dismiss me for.

“No. It’s not over.” I square my shoulders and plant my feet, bracing for the worst he can do. “Tell me what happened. Tell me what you did to my family.”

His jaw tightens, and he looks down at me like he’s considering throwing me out the window. If he does, I’m bringing him with me. “I didn’t do anything to your family. If you’re determined to have this conversation, at least get your facts straight.”

“Then correct me,” I say. “Tell me what really happened.”

For a long moment, we stare at each other as he calculates and assesses, no doubt deciding whether answering or continuing to refuse will give him more control.

“This isn’t going to give you the closure you’re looking for,” he says finally. “Some stones are better left unturned.”

“They’re my stones to turn.” I cross my arms, both to prove I’m still standing my ground and to keep myself from fidgeting in nervous anticipation of whatever he’s about to say. “I’m not leaving until you tell me.”

He studies me for another long moment, then sighs like a parent dealing with a stubborn child. “Fine. If you’re so determined to pick at old scabs.” He gestures toward a chair. “You might want to sit for this.”

I remain standing, unwilling to follow even his smallest command.

His lips twitch in what might be amusement before he schools his expression again. “Your father was a talented man, and quite resourceful. Before he built Enigma, he was acontractor of sorts. I hired him for a particular job that required a good amount of discretion.”

“What kind of job?”

“There was an organization moving into Detroit at the time, trying to establish a foothold in the drug trade. They were ambitious and ruthless. And they were in my way.” His voice is matter-of-fact, as if we’re simply discussing business. “Your father planted evidence that led to several of their key members being arrested in a DEA raid. Three of them received life sentences.”

I try to picture my father doing Malcolm’s dirty work, setting up strangers to take a fall. It doesn’t fit with the man I knew, but that’s becoming an unfortunate theme lately.

“The job went perfectly,” Malcolm continues. “Your father executed it flawlessly, as agreed. Unfortunately, someone talked, and the surviving members discovered who was responsible.”

A sense of dread creeps up my spine. “And they came after him.”

“They made him pay, but not by going after him.” His eyes meet mine—cold and dead, like the shark he is. “They went after your mother.”

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