Page 11 of Fractured Loyalties
I don’t bother with any pleasantries either. I drop into the chair opposite him and let my spine curl. For a moment, I amuse myself imagining what my therapist would say about my posture. She’d probably say it’s a defense mechanism, the way I make myself appear smaller when I’m in my father’s presence.
Or maybe she’d say I want him to see me as a threat. But honestly… that would require him to see me at all. I’m the most disappointing of all my siblings—and most of them are dead.
Finally, he raises his gaze, his dark eyes taking me in, and raps a knuckle on the folder in front of him. “Do you know why you’re here?”
“Because it’s too late for you to hit the golf simulator and too early for Irena to tolerate your company,” I guess, not bothering to hide my sneer. “Or wait… Is this another team-building exercise that I’m supposed to have with Kade, your new surrogate son?”
His face doesn’t move, but I see a muscle jump in his jaw. “Roman, spare me the performance.”
I cock my head to the side. “Can it truly be a performance if no one’s watching?”
He ignores me. “We have a situation with Keller.”
The name slides across the desk like a shard of glass. Vincent Keller is a top donor to Woods Private Endowment, and a minor-league mobster with a predilection for silk shirts and cruelty. His money keeps a dozen programs afloat, and we need him. Well, myfatherneeds him.
I couldn’t care less.
“What did you do?” I ask because the unspoken assumption in this house is that all problems are self-inflicted.
“I promised Keller an adjustment to his arrangement. He wants to collect in person. It’s simple. I need you to take care of it.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why are you sendingme? Why not Kade?”
“You’ve met him before. He trusts you. You’re an extension of me. Kade is still…learning.”
I glance at the folder, wondering if it contains a script, the payoff, or just a few untraceable bills in unmarked envelopes.
“He’ll be at the warehouse on Grafton,” he continues when I don’t say anything. “Eleven p.m. sharp. Do not fuck this up.”
He pushes the folder towards me, and I take it. Then, I stand, shoving the chair back. “You know he’s unstable, right? I’ve heard he?—”
“He’s useful,” my father counters, cutting me off. He’s typing something now, probably a calendar invitation to serve as his own fucking alibi.
“And,” he pauses, looking up, “You’re expendable. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
Ah, there’s the answer.
I don’t bother with a retort for that one. I just walk out with the folder he wants me to take, letting the door shut softly behind me. There’s fresh rage under my ribs, and it pulses with every step I take down the corridor. My old man hates me and never holds back.
I guess that’s where I get myissuesfrom.Lucky me.
I make my way to the garage quickly, grabbing the keys for the black Range Rover along the way. I slip inside and back the car out, leaving the Woods Estate to rot in my rearview. However, as I get to the gate, it crosses my mind that I’ve left Ivy behind to fend for herself…
For some reason, that bothers me. But only for a second.
I gun the engine through the outer suburbs, trading one blacked-out subdivision for the next until the glass palaces give way to chain-link and sodium vapor. The city’s industrial district sprawls like an infected wound. I keep the windows up to avoid the nasty, polluted air and then make the turn into the warehouse parking lot.
I check the clock—10:47 p.m.
I’m early, but not so early that it looks desperate. I roll my shoulders, feeling the sweat pool beneath my collar.
This will be fine.
I park outside the gate, take a breath, and let my fingers drum the wheel—every joint aches with anticipation. I keephoping for a call that will get me out of this, but my phone is silent and so is the world outside.
I lift the envelope, climb out, and walk through the gate. The concrete is slimy, splattered with oil and maybe blood—it’s hard to tell in the dark. My feet echo with every step, and my eyes dart around, scanning for movement even when I know there’s nothing but shadows and the ghosts of junkies, who froze to death out here last winter.
My hand slides against the lever on the front entrance, and it clicks open. I push it in and then hold my breath as I step through the doors. Something in my gut is reacting in the most repulsive way, and I’m not sure if it’s the bidding I’m doing for my father or something else.
