Carlyle
Illya was leaving her apartment when I stopped in front of my father’s door, and I gestured her wordlessly to me. For once, she didn’t open her mouth, and I knocked hard as determination set my shoulders. Within seconds, the lock clicked, and I managed a short exhale before the barrier swung open to reveal my dad with a tie hanging uselessly down his chest.
“What happened?” Stepping through the threshold, I scowled when I saw Oran hunched over a laptop on the sofa, and our dad breezed past us when my brother looked up. “Get out, Oran.”
He didn’t object— the tone our father used was warning enough not to be a little crapheap, and I hoisted myself up onto the small ledge between the kitchen and the living room. Waiting for the door to shut, I rubbed my neck and rolled my shoulders as stress tightened my skin and wedged between the blades.
“Are you planning anything on Friday night? I received a threat titled ‘Mr. Syndicate’, and it could be about either of us.” For the first time in a long time, my father seemed genuinely surprised, and he scowled darkly. Seating himself on the couch, he crossed his legs and pressed a thumb to his temple as expectation hung heavy in the air.
“What did the threat say, exactly?” Repeating the message dutifully, the roiling feeling in my chest intensified as my father swore under his breath. “Well, I guess the secret’s out. I’m handing you control of everything on Friday, Carlyle.”
Stiffening as shock bolted through me, my jaw slackened stupidly, and my brows nearly flew off my face even as my father laughed humorlessly. He stood up, smoothing his button down to start fixing his tight as he shook his head. My mind stalled in the tense silence, and the atmosphere became charged with electricity that crackled just above my head.
“I was going to wait a few more years, but with everything going on with Mateo . . . You’ve been more than capable of handling the companies here in the States. I’ve already got the transfers of ownership. All they need is to be signed. It was supposed to be a present for your thirty-fifth birthday, but . . . ” My jaw nearly fell in my lap at that, and my dad’s soulless, dark eyes met my wide ones firmly. “I have no doubt the threat was directed at me, although I’m unsure who would send it. A few people knew about my plans, including Oran, but I never gave dates. I wanted you to go to New York City with ammunition. The Italians are inconsequential rats who we don’t need complicating our plans.”
“I’ll have someone investigate it.” Grumbling as my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth with disbelief, I covered my mouth to hide my frown. “Until then, I have to figure out what I’m going to do about the Italians. There’s no way in Hell I’ll ever get caught in the samebuildingas that unruly princess.”
“You’ll find a way, my boy. You always do.” Sauntering his flabby ass over to clap me on the shoulder, my dad knocked the air from my lungs, and I choked a little on my own surprise. He smiled, the first hint of real emotion I didn’t know he had, and relief and pride flooded his otherwise threatening gaze. “I always had such high hopes for you, and you never disappointed me, Carlyle. Not where it counted, at least.”
“Mmm . . . ” Humming softly, I sat back as he resumed tying his tie, and my dad cast me an expectant side glance. “I was planning on crashing that party myself instead of sending a liaison, but considering this . . . development . . . ”
“You should go to New York City to celebrate, anyway. You deserve it, Carlyle, and then the real work begins. And by that . . . ” Leaning in with a curious twinkle in his eye, my dad smirked knowingly. “It’s a lot more boring, not answering to anyone.”
“Damn.” Scrunching up my nose, I bit back a groan, and my dad chuckled softly as he tightened his tie. “Thanks a lot, Dad. All my life, you told me never to care about anything, and now I’ll die of boredom.”
“I’m sure you’ll find ways to amuse yourself. Regardless, I do expect you to do something about your brother. It was your idea to stick Mateo in California, but you won’t be able to pull that stunt with Oran.” Arching sharply to relieve the tension zinging up my spine, I nodded firmly, and my father waved his hand dismissively. “Maybe he’ll get a girlfriend or do something stupid, and you can force him out. I honestly don’t care at this point. I’ve dealt with him trying to stick his nose in my business for a decade, and I allowed it because I thought— hoped, really— that he’d be humbled. Obviously, he hasn’t.”
“I’ll take that as permission to shoot him if he deserves it.” Nodding, satisfied, my father grunted lowly as the air cleared, and I hopped off the ledge to clear my throat roughly. “I have a lot to think about. Jerry’s going to try to get the original voice for the video, but don’t get your hopes up. Also . . . ”
“Son.” My father clapped his palms against my biceps, and I suddenly felt like I was fourteen again as he stared directly in my eyes. “You don’t have to tell me anything anymore if you don’t want to. You don’t answer to anyone at all. You can do whatever you want; however you want, whenever you want, and the only person that should influence your decision isyou. I’m old. I’m tired. I don’t care about what who does or why. So, whatever it is that happens next is entirely up to you.”
My heart stuttered when his expression darkened, eyes sharpening, grip tightening until his nails dug into my biceps through my shirt.
“Don’t fuck this up.” Nodding curtly, I pursed my lips thinly as a cold sweat broke out under my shirt, and my dad released me to smooth his tie. “Congratulations. Send Oran back in on your way out. I’m sure he’s lingering with his ear to the door.”
In that second, my phone chimed shrilly, but I ignored it for the moment as I turned on my heel and left. Carefully, oh, so very carefully, I blanked my expression before opening the door, and Oran was leaning on the opposite wall. Arching a curious brow, his eyes flickered between the three of us, and I went to Illya’s place instead of my own just because it was closer.
There were several locks on the doors, but I was the only one who could use the key card reader, and my hands shook as I swiped my master card. The conversation with my father hit me all at once, and I breathed hot, heavy pants as a huge grin threatened to burst my cheeks. Whipping around, I grabbed her to twirl around, and an almost joyous laugh escaped past the dense lump in my throat.
“Yes! Fuck! Yes!” Clenching and releasing my fists, I shivered with the urge to hug Illya, and she smiled a little before holding her arms open.
“What the Hell?” I had todosomething, and I palmed her head against my chest as it heaved with exhilaration. My restraint even surprised me, and I cupped her cheeks to press my dry, quivering lips to her forehead. Pressing my cheek against her crown, I closed my eyes to watch the fireworks of my excitement, and she sort of just stayed still. It was all I could do not to squeeze her, and that edgy apprehension tinged the outskirts of my mind as I struggled to contain myself.
“I’m really happy for you, Carlyle . . . but . . . you’re gonna squeeze my brain out of my ears.” Sucking in a sharp breath, I leaned back at Illya’s murmur, and she gripped my wrists tightly even as her eyes shimmered with happy tears. “Congratulations.”
“I’m really . . . I-I’m . . . ” A laugh drowned out my attempt at words, and I couldn’t stop smiling even when I licked my lips heavily. “I’m so glad I got to share this with you. At least you understand the importance—”
“I feel really fucking left out here, Carlyle.” For the first time, maybe ever, I looked over, and Theo was smiling— no matter how malicious it might’ve looked— and I sniffed hard. Nodding firmly, I stepped away from Illya, and we shook hands before he clapped me on the back. “Let’s go out for dinner to celebrate.”
“Yeah. I need a minute, though. I’ll be outside in about half an hour.” Rolling my neck and shoulders hard, I headed out of the apartment on stiff legs, and I squeezed my eyes shut to take a shuddering, stabilizing breath. I’d been born for this job— my dad never missed an opportunity to tell me that my life was made out before I even came squealing into the world. He had his fatherly moments, of course, but he always kept a glass wall between us. That was never the secret.
The secret was that he was proud of me, and childish happiness bubbled up to clog my throat. My father was such a good actor who sometimes, I thought, the whole sociopath bullshit was just that . . . bullshit.
I cared about my achievements being acknowledged, and this . . . this was the ultimate ‘good job.’Jesus Christ. I’m thirty-one years old. I guess it never really mattered how old I was. A father’s praise is still a father’s praise.
