“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, voice flat as stone.
“Oh, but darling, youdo.” Her smile curves like a knife. “You think I don’t hear things? Try again.”
My jaw locks so tightly my teeth ache.
My phone rattles across the table again, and Una shoots it a look like it’s something foul stuck to the bottom of her shoe.
“Honestly, Matthew, whoever that is clearly wants your attention. So I’ll ask again; is it business… or pleasure?”
I snatch my phone off the table and shove it into my jacket pocket. “Don’t worry about it.”
She lets out a thin, humourless laugh. “Fine. Don’t tell me. But I’d advise you to remember where your loyalties lie. You should be focusing on your future, not some distraction.”
“Thanks for the tip, Mother.”
The starters arrive—a seafood bisque for her, Caesar salad for me. Una dabs delicately at her lips, eyes still flicking every so often toward my pocket, as though she can sniff out the truth in my silences.
“Has your father spoken to you about Jonathan’s plans to handle this sex trafficking business?” she asks abruptly, catching me off guard.
“I’m not his secretary.”
“No. But you’re his son. Hisheir.” Her voice sharpens. “It’s time you acted like it.”
I spear another piece of lettuce, hoping the vodka will finally start to numb me.
By dessert—a tiramisu for her, Irish coffee for me—the conversation dissolves into civility. Una lifts her bag and disappears in a cloud of expensive perfume, and I finally feel like I can breathe.
“Same time next week,” she calls over her shoulder. “And think about what I said.”
I watch her go, the echo of her heels still ringing in my skull.
Once she’s gone, I grab my phone and my stomach drops.
Twelve unread messages. All from Lily.
Instantly, I’m stone cold sober as a vice clenches around my chest. Lily’s been spiralling lately, but in between being there for Owen as threats come at Cora from every angle and shadowing my Da down in the Pit, I haven’t had a second.
I scrub a hand down my face, fighting the urge to slam my phone into the table as I scroll through her messages again. I should answer her. Tell her to stay where she is. Tell her I’m coming. Tell heranything. Instead, my thumb flicks over to her Instagram.
Call it habit or obsession, I don’t give a fuck. Someone needs to be looking out for her since it's damn clear her own mother doesn't.
Her name’s right at the top of my feed, lit up like an alarm I can’t ignore.
lily_davis posted a new photo.
I tap it open.
She’s at a club I don't recognise, awash in pink strobe lights. A martini glass sweats beside her elbow. And she’s draped between two guys I’ve never seen before—one has an arm slung across her shoulders, the other leaning in, mouth close to her ear like he’s whispering something private.
Her smile is as bright as her eyes, lips parted like she’s about to laugh. Like she’s having the time of her fucking life.
I zoom in. The guy on her right has his hand on her thigh.
A hot spike of rage lances through my chest, setting my pulse pounding in my ears.
My phone vibrates again.
My vision tunnels.
