It’s the only thing that makes sense.
With a growl, I turn away from my father and turn my attention to the window, and the world rushing past, a blur of shapes and colors. At the traffic light, I hear my father sipping his drink. Then there’s a clicking sound, and I move to see a puff of smoke shrouding him. I glance away from the cigar dangling from his mouth.
Taking my anger out on him isn’t going to solve anything.
He’s not the most pressing issue at hand.
He’s always responded to initiative, and pushing back in the past has earned his respect. Maybe that’s what he’s trying to donow. Show him that the monster he created and unleashed is still there. Give him something to work with.
Except my father has always excelled at being able to spot a ruse.
He already disapproves of the shred of humanity I still possess and has been trying to push it out of me for years.
The last thing I need is to have him scrutinize me further.
When the car pulls up outside a nondescript building on the edge of town, flickering streetlamps are the only sign of life other than a few cars parked across the street. Carlisle gets out of the passenger seat, and a few more men pour out of the car behind us and join him. Once they’re done sweeping the perimeter, someone opens the door, and my father steps out.
I exhale and join him.
Four men are standing guard in the entryway to the door.
After a quick search, one of them unlocks the door, revealing a dark carpeted hallway.
I shift, favoring the leg that doesn’t have a gun tucked into the sock.
Bright light flicks on, and the hallway lights up, revealing Thatcher in a striped pantsuit. He motions to us to follow him into a large room with an arched door, a mahogany table in the center, and a smattering of chairs. A few men are standing with their backs against the walls, and their eyes sweep over us before looking away.
“Forgive the dust and disarray; the place is under renovation,” Thatcher says. “Shall we begin?”
“We’re missing a few people,” I point out. “Unless Everett and Fitzpatrick got some cosmetic surgery.”
Thatcher shakes his head. “These are the representatives that each of the families sent. Michael and Lance are otherwise occupied.”
A burst of anger shoots through me.
Fucking bastards.
This is a power move if I’ve ever seen one.
“You can’t be fucking serious—”
“Now, now, Mason. Play nice,” Thatcher interrupts. “It doesn’t matter who came as long as they did. Isn’t the point of this negotiating the terms of a new alliance?”
“I wasn’t done talking,” I tell Thatcher. “The next time you interrupt me, they’ll be finding your body parts for days.”
Thatcher’s face loses some of its color as he turns away and clears his throat. “Yes, well, on that note, I thought it was important to remind you all of why we’re here. Our families go too far back for this misunderstanding to continue, and let’s not forget how well the alliance worked before everything went sideways.”
I snort.
Thatcher stops in the center of the room and spreads his arms. “It’s time to put the past behind us and bury the hatchet. I think we can all agree that enough damage has been done.”
“Not even close,” I say. “We won’t be satisfied until they all bleed and are begging for goddamn mercy. Even then, it won’t be enough.”
Silence stretches across the room.
Thatcher winces. “Yes, I’m sure reparations can be made on both sides.”
I look over at my father, but he says nothing.
