Page 98 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part One

And with that, he departs.

A chill creeps into the room, and I find myself shivering, replaying the conversation. My brain understands where he’s coming from.

But my heart? My heart’s already mixed up in something I’m not sure I can untangle—or let go of.

I take a shaky breath and sit on the bed again, pressing my palms to my thighs.

This is how it has to be.

Even if it’s the fucking hardest thing I’ll ever do.

20

STORM

Ipull my Porsche into the circle drive at my father’s Gold Coast mansion and cut the engine. The estate looks different in the waning fall daylight. Golden rays of sun make the flowers and shrubs glow where they line the intentionally distressed cobblestones leading to the side entrance.

It’s quiet, a moment of tranquility in the middle of the harshness of this city.

The silence almost feels like an attack with all the thoughts running through my brain.

What’s real? What’s fake? What have I got all wrong?

I don’t know what to believe when it comes to my father, Stratos, and Riale’s claims. What he told me feels so far out of the realm of possibility, I refuse to believe him at face value—at least, not without confronting my father directly.

So when my mother called me home for Sunday dinner to celebrate my father’s arrival back to the States, it’s like I was handed the perfect opportunity.

So, where does that leave me? Sitting in my car in front of a hundred-million-dollar mansion, contemplating if my entire life is about to explode.

Tick.

Tock.

Just a few minutes. I’ll give myself just a few minutes to look my father in the face and know if he’s innocent or in on this fuckery Riale swears is coming down the pike.

My phone beeps, and I reach for it on reflex.

You gonna sit in the car all night or what?

I release a huff, feeling my mood brighten a bit. I’m a Mama’s Boy, and I own that shit.

Depends. You got the goods?

It takes a few minutes, but she sends over a picture of baked macaroni and cheese, crispy golden edges and everything. I start to drool and slide out of the car.

Chuck Sandoval might have the staff do almost everything, but when it comes to my mama’s baked mac and cheese? There’s nothing coming between me and my plate.

Rounding the back of the Porsche, I start up the stone steps and enter the marble foyer once the butler—a new hire—opens the door with a detached look.

Behind him, men and women dressed in black move around the space with purpose. I assume they’re bodyguards, given the high-tech earbuds they wear and the clipped way they communicate.

What’s going on to require double the normal security?

“Where’s my father?” I ask the man still standing in front of me at the entrance.

“In the study, sir,” he intones, shifting his body to gesture in the direction as if I don’t know the home like the back of my hand. “But he is occupied at the moment.”

Occupied?

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