“It can’t be like this forever, son.”
“Actually, it fucking can,” I say, staring at the glass of whiskey I’m nursing. I haven’t taken a single sip of it, and I don’t intend to. I need to be sober for the rest of the night—after all, I have plans that don’t involve a room full of well-dressedcriminals.
“Max,” Dad repeats, sterner this time. I gaze at him with vague curiosity, wondering if this is the moment that his true nature will peek through. That he’ll show the side of himself he hid so fuckingexpertlyfrom me all these years and start yelling at me or hitting me. After all, that’s what someone in the mafia should do, right?
“Your mother’s devastated—”
“I talk to her every other day,” I snap. It’s my father that I don’t have a spare word for.
Mom didn’t know he was in the mafia until after she was pregnant with me; I can’t blame her for marrying him, but I sure as fuck can blamehimfor knocking her up and starting a family while holding one of the most dangerous seats in the country. The right-hand to a crime lord who has operations running half of North America, and even spanning into parts of South America and Canada.
I was 18 when Dad finally had the fucking balls to tell me exactly what kind ofbusinesshe does. Spoiler alert; it’s not the hedgefund bullshit he presents to the world. No, hisbusinesshas more to do with cracking skulls and burying bodies—not calculating numbers and making money.
It shocked me. It horrified me. It rewrote my understanding of my family, and more, theworld. Since then, I’ve had very little to say to my father, because his job puts both me and Mom in danger every single fuckingday.This room may be brimming with his allies, but he has twice as many enemies.
“She’s devastated aboutus,” he snaps. “Son, it’s beenyears—”
“And evendecadeswon’t be enough,” I snarl, rounding on him. I’m taller than my father—he’s just under six feet, and I’m 6’4. I lean down until we’re nose to nose. “You raised me to believe that you were ageniuswith numbers, and that’s why we were so wealthy.”
“Iam,” Dad snaps. “You inherited that from me.”
“You raised me to think that you were agood manwho went to work every day, like everyone else, and did normal business. But itwasn’tfucking normal business, was it? No, you weren’tpunching numbers into an excel sheet; you were overseeing operations that ended up with peopledead.”
Dad heaves a sigh, and both his chins sag. My jaw clenches at the sight of him. I used to look up to this man—I used toadorehim and fuckingworshiphim. Now, I see him for what he is, and I understand that the splendor surrounding me is a lie. My entirelifehas been a lie, and I will never,everforgive my father for that.
More, I won’t forgive him for doing shit that puts me and Mom in constant danger, and not having the guts to tell me about it until I wasleaving for college.
He’s a coward to have kept this from me as long as he did. He’s a fuckingassholefor everything he’s put Mom through. She lives every day of her life in danger of his enemies coming for her, and she doesn’t even seem to give a shit.
“We all do what we have to, Maximus. One day, you’re going to understand that making money isn’t always a clean endeavor. Sometimes, you need to get your hands dirty. I grew up dirt-poor, and I decided toneverbe poor again, so I built this empirefor myself… and foryou.”
“I don’t fucking want it,” I hiss. “I don’t want any of it.”
Instead of getting angry or violent, a small smile flits across Dad’s lips. “You say that now, Max, and you might even think you mean it. But, eventually, you’ll reconsider.” He claps my shoulder.
I shoot him a baleful glare, turn, and walk away, dropping my whiskey on a servant’s tray as I pass them. I head straight outside and pull out my phone, where I see the text I’ve been anticipating from Ember.
In an instant, my foul mood evaporates. Any thoughts of my father and his dealings disappear, and a familiar lightness lifts my chest.
I’m not an angry guy. I’m dangerous when I need to be, I don’t mind threatening someone to keep the people I love safe, but I’m notmean. Dad has brought out an entirely different side of me these last few years, but Ember… Ember reminds me of who I really am.
I start making my way down the dirt path leading to the groundskeeper’s house without even bothering to don a coat. My suit jacket ought to be enough.
It’s a cold day. Freezing, really; even my coat is barely protecting me from the New England winter chill. But I really couldn’t give less of a fuck about that, because after another stretch at college and dealing with the insanity of finals, I’m home. And Flame’s just invited me over, offering me an escape from the obnoxious Christmas party my dad’s hosting.
I know now that a good portion of his rich friends aren’t businessmen—or, not above-board businessmen. I don’t know if I’ll ever have it in me to forgive him for turning from my idol into a nightmare. I want to be avet, for fuck’s sake. Before making that decision. I spent summers interning with physical therapists and doctors to see what field of medicine I wanted to go into. I’m going tosavelives, and knowing that I come from a family that’s made triple-digits millions from taking lives isn’t just surprising; it’s devastating.
Dealing in organized crime isn’t simply illegal, it’s dangerous. It endangers meandMom, no matter how much Dad insists that our safety is assured.
Ember’s out on the porch when I approach, waiting for me. She smiles when she sees me, eyes lighting up with joy. She looks… different, even from when I saw her for Thanksgiving, and good.Reallygood.Toofucking good.
It takes me a beat to realize that she’s wearing makeup—not much, not like the girls at college who smear their faces in enough product to drown their natural features in hopes to stand out, not realizing that all they’re doing is blending in with the crowd of wannabees evenmore. No, Ember’s makeup is subtle and stunning. Eyes just a touch of darkness around the corner of her eyes, some product on her lashes to make them look a mile long, and a slight gloss on her lips. My heart quickens when I realize she got made upfor me.
My gaze travels south, over her coat and the hunter-green dress beneath it. My mouth runs dry when I realize it’s a woolwrap dress, and it has a gorgeous V-neck that shows off the barest hint of subtle cleavage.
Fuck, I can’t be having dirty thoughts about her. I can’t be admiring her. I can’t want anything more than what I have with her; not when she’s so young and inherently vulnerable.
She was probably dressed up for when she went out with friends earlier in the day, and forgot to change. Yeah, that has to be it. Thathasto be it, or I might find myself crossing lines that I can’t uncross.
