Page 9 of A Touch of Dark
“You look tired.” He smooths a wayward lock of hair away from my face. “Is it the storms?”
Storms. His subtle way of skirting around the dangerous topic we never mention directly: the past.
“We’re in the middle of a particularly violent system according to the newscasters, sweet pea,” he adds. “Maybe you should sleep here until it passes? Diane’s kept the white noise machine you used to use, and there’s spare Zofran in the medicine cabinet—”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “They don’t even bother me anymore.”
“That’s good…” His hand settles over my shoulder, imparting the comfort and vulnerability only he can.
Like always, I’m a child again around him. Heyworth Thorne, my hero. He saved me when I was only eight years old, from more than just a psychopath. He’s tried his best to dust off my cracks and piece my broken mind together.
I smile hard to let him know that he has—force of habit.
But, this time, he doesn’t smile back.
“There’s something else, darling,” he begins cautiously. “I know you won’t agree, so I’ll just come right out and say it. I want to put a guard on you. Full time. It’s just for a little while and I’ll ensure they stay out of sight.”
“What?” My pretty little mask slips. Over twenty years of secrets. Have I blown the game already? “Why?”
I push past him and brace my hands on the desk to keep standing. Ice solidifies in my veins, choking the air from my lungs. I force in a breath and let it out. In. Out.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.” He closes the door to his office and comes to my side to dab at my dry eyes with a handkerchief. Another force of habit.
If we can’t perform our charming father-daughter routine, we fall into the only other roles we know how to play. Protector and victim.
“It’s just… There’s a threat,” he says. “Against me, but there’s no reason to believe that this person won’t attempt to target you.”
“Target me?” I don’t say the obvious: as if they haven’t already. But the phrasing means he isn’t referring to Simon. Someone new perhaps. “Who?” I ask, steeling myself for the answer.
These days, most of the city is out for Thorne blood. My gaze lands over the newspaper on his desk, and sure enough, emblazoned on the front page is a quote from a legal analyst on the Borgetta ruling:“Any man tasked with upholding the law should do his due diligence to ensure that no bias affects his ruling. In this case, the bias is clear: Mathias Villa was doomed for nothing more than the color of his skin.”
I stop reading, surprised to discover that it isn’t the only topic to make the headlines. A glossy photo of the Lariat ballroom gleams beneath a row of text readingReclusive Artist Dazzles at First Public Showing.
“Don’t read that trash.” Daddy snatches up the paper and tosses it into the wastebasket. Before I can question it, he forces a grin. “And let’s not talk about the nitty details now. It’s your special night. Did you enjoy yesterday?”
I nod. Strange. The motion doesn’t feel like lying. “I did. I even bought myself a present.”
“A present?” He cocks his head. “That does sound like a good day. What did you buy?”
“A painting.” In some ways, I’m still riveted by the piece. Pale flesh intertwined with ruby red. Stark violence and beautiful irony.
Heyworth Thorne most likely wouldn’t approve.
“A painting,” he mutters while fiddling with his tie. He did the same thing the night his first wife died and he tried to explain to a fifteen-year-old me how accidental overdoses happened. “It’s almost funny that you’d mention something like that…” He sighs again, more heavily this time.
I gently touch his shoulder. “Daddy?”
He’s never lookedthistired. This old. “Have you heard of someone named Damien Villa?”
“I don’t think so.” Though the name does ring a bell, I’m not sure why. No face comes to mind anyway.
“You should have,” Daddy snaps, a hard note in his voice. “I told you: You need to be more attentive. Especially where that godforsaken place is concerned.” He jerks his head in the general direction of the city and scoffs. “Damien Villa is the head of one of the cruelest crime syndicates on this side of the country.La Muerte.”
All I can do is feign interest while he watches me expectantly. “That sounds intimidating.”
“Try murderous,” he replies. “They work as the American arm for a Colombian cartel, though he’s supposedly reformed. Some say his brother runs it still. He’s a monster and a goddamn madman, but because he has enough money to throw around, he’s making trouble for me where it matters.”
“Are you okay?” It isn’t like him to curse. Or glare so harshly that the vein in his forehead lurches against his skin. “Is he threatening you?”
