Page 162 of Merciless Daddy

“She is allowed.”

“Does anyone else call you that?”

“No.”

I wanted to ask whether I could.

The question sat on my tongue. I left it there.

Sal took a sip of milkshake. “What did your mother teach you?”

The answer came before I could arm it.

“The fleet.”

His brows drew together.

“She was good with numbers. Better than my father gave her credit for.” I looked down at the fry in my hand. “She taught me names of ships and routes. Not because she was preparing me to run anything. She thought it was a game.”

“And you loved it?”

“I loved her.”

The words made the booth feel smaller.

“She let me sit in her office while she worked. I learned how invoices moved. How cargo became money. The first time I forged my father’s signature, I was thirteen.”

Sal’s face remained very still.

“Why?”

“Because he would not authorize repairs for a driver’s family after an accident. The man had worked for us for years. I used Lev’s signature, transferred the money, and changed the paper files before he returned from Moscow.”

“What happened?”

“He noticed.”

My mouth twisted.

“He called me clever. Then he made sure I understood I had used his name, not my own. He said I should be grateful he had not punished me.”

Sal’s gaze darkened.

“I was proud for almost an hour,” I admitted. “Then I felt sick for a week.”

“You were thirteen.”

“Yes. And I knew exactly what I was doing.”

“That does not mean you deserved his cruelty.”

I looked at him.

So many people had treated my competence like evidence that I could absorb anything. Sal never did. He rested one hand on the table, palm up.

I placed mine in it.

“What happened with Rosalia?” I asked softly.