Page 12 of Fractured Loyalties
Once inside, a low ceiling hangs above me, and the walls are covered with graffiti and decades of nicotine staining. Keller is easy to spot under the flickering lights. He’s posted up at a folding table in the center of the room, a mountain of a man in a suit that looks as if it’s trying to hold him in against his will. The shirt is purple, the tie paisley, and the whole ensemble is topped off with a gold Rolex so obnoxious, I could laugh.
Bodyguards flank him, one on each side, and although I probably should be unnerved by it, I’m not. I’m just happy they’re not in matching hideous outfits.
Keller waves me over. “Roman Woods, as I live and breathe. You look just like your old man.”
“Bad genes,” I mutter.
“Something like that,” he says. “You got something for me?”
I tap the legal-type, sealed envelope onto the table and slide it across to him with two fingers. “I’m here to deliver, nothing else.”
He laughs, but it’s the kind of laugh you hear in strip clubs when the bouncer drags out a guy for touching the girls. “Your father has always sent a courier before. It’s a step up to seethe prodigal son handling his business, though not quite Kade level.”
“Let’s not get biblical,” I say, swallowing the bitter taste in my mouth as I keep my eyes on his. The table is scratched and sticky, and I don’t want to think about what made it that way. “I’ll see you at the next fundraiser.”
“Nope, you’re not leaving yet, son.” He clears his throat, and I stop my backward retreat. “I need to count this.” He pops the clasp, dumps the cash onto the surface, and starts counting. He uses both hands, surprisingly nimble for a guy with sausage fingers. He gets through two stacks before the amusement slides off his face.
He looks up at me, the smile gone. “It’s fucking light.”
I don’t blink. “I wasn’t the one who loaded it. You’ll have to take that up with my father.”
He stares at me for a long moment, his lips pressed so tightly together they are white. Then he leans back, motioning to his guys.
“What do you think, Mike?” he asks, not taking his eyes off mine.
The goon on the left cracks his knuckles. “I think maybe he left something in the car.”
I keep my tone flat. “I am only the delivery boy. I know nothing.”
The second guy grins, showing off a row of capped teeth. “Sounds as if daddy sent him thinking we wouldn’t count it.”
Keller nods, a humming noise coming from his mouth. “Yeah… He’s right. But that’s the thing about family businesses, Roman. When someone gets shorted, it’s always family that pays.”
They’re moving before I even register any signals. Mike comes around the table and grabs my shoulder, shoving me back. My feet skid on the concrete.
“This isn’t my call. I have no idea what the hell my father does,” I say hurriedly, putting my hands up in defense, but the second guy’s already in my space, his fist cocked. “Take it up with?—”
The punch lands in my gut, just below the ribcage. I double over at the blow, and the guy’s hand is already in my hair, dragging me up so I can take the next hit straight to the cheekbone. My vision pinwheels, the world tilts and shrinks as I stumble backward.
In the blur, I catch sight of the envelope lying on the floor. Keller’s watching, his expression unreadable, but I think he’s enjoying it. I can’t even blame him for it. But thereissomeone to blame.
The motherfucker whoknewhe sent me in here light.
Five
IVY
I stare downat the book in my lap, the words blurring together as I reread the first two paragraphs ofThe Great Gatsbyfor the third or fourth time.
I miss you, Dad.I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing away the grief that floods my chest. As much as I hate Roman for all he is, he’s right. No one here seems to care about what I’m going through—or me in general, probably.
I let out a heavy breath. Tonight, the Woods’ sitting room, off the main entrance, is my cage. I’m curled into a burgundy leather armchair that’s stiff and uncomfortable, the only light coming from the small reading lamp overhead.
It’s easier to sit here, though. My dad’s urn is in my room, on the nightstand. For some reason, it bothers me to be in there with it. It feels wrong for him to be in this place. He would hate it, his ashes stuck in the house of the woman who ghosted him.
I’m sorry.But I know he’d understand. It’s not as if I had a choice.
I try to read again, but then my eyes drift to the clock on the wall. It’s past midnight, and I should maybe try to sleep. However, just as I close the book, the front door slams open, sending eerie chimes through the whole freaking house.
