“I need to talk to dad,” I tell her.
“He’s in his office as usual. Do you want coffee? I could have Regina make you a cup.”
She’s referring to the maid slash cook. I glance at the young girl cleaning the kitchen that doesn’t need to be cleaned, because it’s just the two of them living here and it exists in a constant state of perfect. She’s doe-eyed. Quiet. Robotic.
And most likely completely incapable of making me a cup of coffee that I could actually tolerate.
“It’s fine,Mama. I’ve had coffee already,” I lie.
Then I head to my dad’s office, not even bothering to knock.
He’s sitting at his desk, looking half-awake. He’s also dressed down, and the room smells like tobacco.
“Ransome. I swear I taught you how to knock before entering a room that doesn’t belong to you.”
“Yet,” I jab. Because the countdown is on and he needs to remember that.
His eyes, red and slanted, lock on me as best they can. He’s hungover. Sloppy. “What do you want?”
“We need to talk. Now.”
The urgency in my voice has no influence on him. Instead, he lets out a persecuted huff of a sigh and reaches for a bottle of vodka. “Drink?”
“No.”
He shrugs and pours himself a little, then pulls out a cigar box. “Smoke?”
“I thought you weren’t supposed to smoke in here.”
“It’s my house,” he says, lighting one up.
“It’s your funeral,” I mutter. And I mean it in more ways than one.
The sickly sweet scent of cigar smoke curls in the air. Dad lets it linger for a beat before puffing it out in circles, something that used to delight me as a kid.
But I’m not a kid anymore.
“Alright, son.” He takes another drag. “What is it you so urgently need?”
“Tristan.”
His face twists to one of exhausted annoyance as he exhales another plume of dark, chocolate-scented smoke. “You two need to figure out how to stay in your own lanes. It’s not like we don’t have a lot on our hands right now, with the El Paso deal and?—”
“He knows about the deal.”
My dad studies me. “And how do you know that?”
I sit down in the chair in front of him and lean in. “Because he’s a Chadovich. And they stop at nothing to take over. Especially Tristan.”
“You give that boy more credit than he’s worth,” he mutters casually.
“And you don’t give him enough. Between the precariousness of this entire deal and the holes punched in, it’s not exactly a difficult operation for the Chadovichs to breach.”
“What holes are you referring to, son? This deal is sealed tight.”
“The cross-country shipments. The pitstops and reloads. Not to mention the amount we are processing with every load.”
“It’s all being handled with care,” he insists. “If Tristan and his boys are sniffing around, it’s only because your guys are causing trouble.”
