“Oh, I won’t intrude long,” Dmitri waved a hand dismissively. “I just wanted to say hello. And Senator, if you ever need insight into just how deep corruption runs in Yorkfield sports, I’d be happy to share my perspective.”
The temperature in the suite dropped ten degrees.
Reynolds set his drink down and stood. “That’s kind, but I’m afraid I need to make a phone call. Excuse me.”
“Of course,” Dmitri said, standing aside so the senator could pass. “My pleasure.”
My father followed Reynolds to the door, their voices low and urgent. Reynolds shook my father’s hand and said in a tone that carried, “I’m sorry. Family emergency. Please give my apologies to your other guests.”
The door closed behind him.
My father stood frozen for three full seconds, his back to the suite. When he turned, his expression was a mask of cordiality, but his eyes screamed murder.
“Dmitri,” he said, his voice silky. “How delightfully unexpected.”
“Is it?” Dmitri’s smile was all teeth. “Now that my cousin has returned to the fold, I expect you and I will have more dealings together.”
Holy shit, was Dmitri threatening my father? Every person in the box hung on every word of their conversation.
My father’s smile was equally predatory. “I’m looking forward to it. Please don’t let me keep you from enjoying the game in your own seats.”
The moment Dmitri left, Nadia cleared her throat and began an innocuous conversation with the board member beside her.
My father’s hand landed on my shoulder, his grip just shy of painful. “Cole, a word?”
I followed him to the corner of the suite. He couldn’t know. He couldn’t possibly know.
“Did you know Dmitri Lebedev would be here tonight?” His voice was quiet—the most dangerous version of my father.
“No.” The lie came easily, because my father had raised a manipulative liar. “I’ve never met him before.”
“He knew your name.”
“I’m sure he knows a lot about you, including your family.” I kept my voice steady. “Isn’t that what people like him do? Gather information?”
My father studied my face for a long moment. Below us, an opposing player checked Tristan hard into the boards. I forced myself not to look.
“If Reynolds thinks I have connections to the bratva, he’ll never help us. And if Carter Industries loses that license—” He cut himself off.
“Why are they so determined to take it away from us? Don’t we have time?” I asked.
My father shook his head. “There are other issues you don’t know about.”
“What do you need from me?”
“Work the room while I take care of some business,” he said. “I’ll be back.”
If he was panicking over a ten million dollar bribe, he was absolutely fucking broke.
What the fuck was going on?
Then, the pieces started to fall into place. The personal disagreement my father had with the Russian businessman must have been over a bet—an expensive one, one my father had promised was a sure thing, or a game my father was supposed to have fixed.
Either my father lost control of one of the players he was bribing, or someone had interfered with his fixing operation, or?—
Fuck.
How many other wealthy, dangerous people had my father given bad advice to? How many of them were demanding their money back?
