Page 38 of Fractured Loyalties
We walk to our vehicles in silence, both of us operating in the state we find the most comfortable. The air tastes like salt and rot, very fitting, given the circumstances.
“See you at the house,” Edward grunts. “Hopefully alive.”
“Right back at you.” I hit the unlock button and get into the SUV. I smash the button that brings the engine alive, and drive toward the part of town that never gets its hands dirty…
At least not where anyone can see.
I stepinto the Harbor Club as if I haven’t just sunk a living person into the bay an hour ago.
“Mr. Woods,” the maître d’hôtel says, with a slight nod of his head. “Your father is waiting for you.”
“Oh, I’m sure he is,” I mutter, and I follow him past the velvet rope. Faces populate the other tables, I recognize from childhood Christmas cards and press releases—politicians and CEOs—the sort of men who shake hands on yachts and then break them in boardrooms.
It’s all a little disgusting.
I stick out like a sore thumb here. It’s not the bruises, although the one that I got is yellowing above my collarbone, visible if you know how to look. It’s not my lack of a designer suit either. I own plenty. It’s probably the stink of the docks, and the invisible slime of my own soul that won’t scrub clean.
I spot my father immediately. He is ensconced in a corner banquette that faces the entire room. He’s nursing a glass of Macallan, neat, even though it’s only just after noon. The sight of him is enough to make my teeth itch. He’s in a navy suit, perfectly tailored, and a gold watch winks from under his cuff. His phone is face down on the table, a threat and a promise.
I slide into the seat across from him, ignoring the scalding pain in my ribs that still lingers.
He lets me stew for a full minute, his eyes on the window. Then he tips his glass in my direction. “Hmm… You look well, Roman. Glad your face is healing.”
I resist the urge to check my reflection in a spoon. “I’d say the same, but that would be a lie.”
He actually smiles at that, thin and sharp. “You’re honest today.Good.It’ll serve you well in this conversation.”
The waiter appears, as if conjured, and takes my drink and food order. While we wait for the service, I expect my father to say something about what I know he knows.
But he stays silent.
I start to get nervous and bounce my knees under the table. I’m sure he’s probably clocking that, too. It would be shocking if he weren’t.
He’s trying to make me sweat.
When the entrees finally arrive, seared steak for him, some pale fish for me, I dig in. It’s dry and overcooked, but at least it gives me something to do with my hands.
He waits until I’ve finished a full bite before setting his fork down and pointing his knife at me. “Irena spoke with me this morning,” he says, the blade shimmering under the light. “She’s concerned about your…attachment to her daughter.”
The food curdles in my gut. “Ivy is hardly a project,” I say, careful to keep my voice even. “She’s just a mess. She needs discipline.”
He takes a measured sip, his eyes never leaving mine. “Your stepmother thinks you’re spending too much time with her. She’s worried you’ll compromise the family. Or yourself.My business.”
I set my glass down, a little too hard, already seeing what he’s getting at. “Irena is paranoid.”
He shrugs. “That’s not the point. Irena’s role is to maintain appearances solely, and right now, you’re making that difficult. How do you think the world is going to react to a body being found in the bay near my warehouses? Who was mybestintern? Like a real son to me?”
Ah, there it is.I have a strong urge to lunge across the table and smash the glass into his face. But I swallow it and fold my napkin, pressing the blood out of my knuckles until they gleam white.
“It needed to happen, and it had nothing to do with Ivy,” I lie, shrugging my shoulders. “The kid had a long rap sheet. That wasn’t good for the business or school’s reputation. If he’d have made the All-Star swim team, we’d have been in trouble.Your businessdoesn’t need him as its face.” I glare at him. “You and I both know you’re better off being covert creep fest.”
He smiles again, lips barely moving. “So, you’re doing charity work now?”
“Why call this meeting about such a nobody?” I ask, the taste of my whiskey turning bitter on my tongue.
“Because I’ve learned the value of insurance,” he says, his voice lowering as he leans toward me. “Because also you’re reckless. And because the last thing this family needs is another scandal.” He gestures around the room, at the men and women who rule the city from behind linen napkins and rare steaks. “We’re different from them, but we still play by their rules as much as we possibly can. Get control of yourself. Or I will.”
The words hang between us like the stench of a dying animal.
