Once we’re out of earshot, he releases his hold on me and stares into my eyes. “I just want what’s best for you, Victoria. I wish you could understand that.”
What I’ve learned over the years is that what my father thinks is best and what I want are on complete opposite ends of the spectrum.
He wants me to be the perfect daughter, so that he can tote me around at these parties, bragging me up and making himself look better. He looks like the doting family man, carting his precious, overachieving daughter around.
What I want is to leave New York for good, put my college degree to good use and not live on my father’s money. I can’t even get a job in this city because of my father’s ruthless reputation.
But it’s never been about what I want. Not when I was a little girl and definitely not now.
My father brought me back to New York simply to use me as a pawn in the game of life he’s playing.
But even after everything he’s done and everything he is, I still can’t hate him. He’s the only family that I have left.
His brown eyes search the crowd, and he waves at someone in the distance. His dark hair is the only thing I inherited from him. My mother was fair-haired and blue-eyed with the face of an angel. My father used to tell me how much I looked like my mother, but I think that’s also the reason why he sent me away at such a young age. It’s as if he couldn’t bear to look at me or have me in his presence because I was a constant reminder of the woman he loved and lost.
“Enjoy yourself tonight,” Papa insists, breaking me out of my inner thoughts. “There are many eligible bachelors here. Maybe you’ll take a liking to one of them,” he says with a wink.
I resist rolling my eyes as he walks off, leaving me alone. I’m surprised my father hasn’t taken to the old tradition of marrying me off to someone he deems fit. I guess I should thank my lucky stars I don’t have to endure that as well.
A waiter walks by with a tray of champagne flutes, and I grab one, downing half of the flute in one gulp. My father insists on me attending these stupid parties, but he never told me I couldn’t get drunk while doing so.
After my third glass, I feel more willing to disperse through the crowd and mingle a little. I see some familiar faces, and I tolerate their small-talk for several minutes before moving on.
I’ve never considered myself a social butterfly, and I hate having to pretend like I am at places like this. Growing up under my father’s constant supervision, I only had one friend — Arlo. And the only reason he got to be my friend was because his family lived next door and his dad worked for my father.
After my father sent me away, I saw the same group of girls day in and day out for the next decade. There were the rare occasions when we would have socials where the all boys’ school came to visit, but I was never interested in those boys.
My heart always belonged to Arlo, and I grieved his death every day of my life.
I still do.
Pressing my hand against my chest, the feel of the locket under my palm calms me.
I’m on my fourth glass of champagne when I feel a presence behind me in the shadows. Turning, my eyes narrow as I try to make out the form standing there, stalking me.
When he steps out into the light, my heart skips a beat or two and then quickens against my ribcage.
Nolan Farrell.
If my life was based on Shakespeare’sRomeo and Juliet, my family would be the Montagues and the Farrells would be the Capulets.
Rivaling families, with a hatred for one another, constantly feuding and vying for more power.
Nolan’s lips curl upwards, flashing his yellowing teeth. “Good evening, lass,” he says with a thick Irish accent.
My father warned me as soon as I returned to the city to stay away from the Farrells and especially Nolan. I didn’t understand or really think to heed the warning until I met Nolan at the first charity gala.
The guy instantly gave me the creeps and set off all the inner alarms in my head.
He’s not a good man.
Nolan walks around me like a shark circling its prey after the first scent of blood in the water, his caneclick, click, clickingon the Herringbone parquet floor. “You look good enough to eat,” he remarks with a sour smile.
Feeling suddenly self-conscious, I quickly cross my arms in front of myself. Nolan is always throwing out inappropriate comments. “I wish I could say the same,” I retort before quickly clamping my mouth shut. The champagne has clearly gone to my head if I’m spouting off to the Irish mob boss.
Instead of anger, though, Nolan throws his head back with a loud cackle. He stops pacing and stands in front of me, taking a step closer until I can smell his cheap aftershave and rancid breath. “You’ve got a mouth on you, lass.” He leans in and whispers, “I can think of a lot of better things that mouth of yours would be good for.”
“Nolan,” my father’s voice booms from beside me, and I instantly retreat to be closer to him. “Why is an old Irish fuck like you sniffing around my young daughter? What would your wife say?” Papa asks, barely able to hide the disgust and anger in his tone.
