“I can–” I start.
“No.”
He opens the door and gets out, slamming it behind him.
“I don’t know what he wants,” I say, watching Hunter walk off.
“You’ll figure it out,” Damon says. “You just have to find what makes him tick.”
A moment later, I’m in the car alone, jaw sore, but feeling steadier than I have in weeks.
13
Timothy
I can’t helpbut marvel at the changes all around me as I pull up to the curb in West End, the engine of the car ticking as it cools. The part of town that used to be nothing but boarded windows and broken streetlights has come alive again. Boutiques and bars line one side now, their awnings bright, music and conversation spilling out onto the sidewalk. On my right stands the old brick landmark, The Royal Gazette, the building that once housed Forsyth’s newspaper. It’s been reborn. And the people responsible for the rebirth? The very people I thought would drag my son to the gutter. The Dukes: Simon Perilini and Nicolas Bruin.
Simon inherited the building, along with Saul Cartwright's other assets, when he took down the King and stepped into the role. I figured they’d blow it all partying or down at their gym, but the men have more self-control and ambition than I realized. They’ve invested well.
Those two don’t get all the credit. Remington’s fingerprints are visible from the sidewalk. Pausing before the wide storefront window, I take in the stenciled artwork across the glass. The name and logo are painted in gold and black lettering: Royal Ink.
I enter what used to be the main lobby of the newspaper before stepping into the tattoo parlor itself. The room smells faintly of disinfectant and new leather. The original marble floor shines beneath my shoes, footsteps echoing as I move deeper inside.
A long chrome desk dominates the front, gleaming under gold-plated chandeliers that have hung here since the Gazette opened. Behind it, two stations are already set up–extendable chairs, rolling trays and bright lamps angled just so. The walls are lined with framed flash sheets, bold lines and vivid colors catching the eye. My son’s work. Despite the animosity in our relationship, I won’t deny he’s a talented artist. It’s just… tattooing? There has to be something more reputable.
Heavy footsteps announce my son before I see him, that same unhurried pace that used to echo through the penthouse of the hotel. Remy steps out from the back hallway, a coil of extension cord in one hand, a drill in the other. He’s tall—taller than I ever was at his age—bleach-blond hair falling across his forehead, tattoos crawling over the backs of his hands and disappearing beneath the rolled sleeves of his black button-down.
I take him in the way I always do, searching for the ghost of her in his face. The shape of his mouth, the sharp cut of his jaw, those green eyes—clear and bright today, no haze, no redness. His long, artistic fingers are steady as he sets the tools down on a worktable stacked with pieces of wood. No tremor. No sign he’s slipped.
Maybe he really is doing better.
“Daddy Dearest,” he drawls, the words dripping acid. He doesn’t bother hiding his distaste. “What brings you slumming?”
I let it roll off me. “You’ve done a lot of work on the building.”
“Yeah,” he says, looking around the space with unmistakable pride. “Saul would be shitting bricks if he could see what we did with his mistress hidey-hole.”
“Saul was an administrator through and through. Outside the gun trade, which was always more the recruits than anything he was doing, the man had zero aptitude for business.” I take in the state of the room. “How long until you open?”
“We open officially after the new year, but I’m already taking clients.”
“A never-ending supply of Cubs to run through here, I’m sure.”
Bending, Remy plugs the extension cord into the wall. “The Cubs get their paws at the tower. That’s tradition. This is business.”
It takes everything in me not to point out the irony, that Remington, who fought tooth and nail against following in my footsteps, both with the Barons and as an entrepreneur, has built something of his own after all.
“You’re living upstairs?” I ask.
He eyes me suspiciously, arms folding across his chest. “What’s this about, old man? Don’t pretend this is a social call. We don’t do that.”
“As direct as ever.” I exhale a chuckle. “Fine. I wanted to check in before Arianette meets with Simon later today.”
“Ah. I see.” Remy’s mouth curves into a humorless smile. “You want to control things.”
“No,” I say quietly. “Not control. Just?—”
“Just what?” He narrows those green eyes. “She still doesn’t know, does she?”
