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“Trust me when I say we don’t need his alliances.”

“Well, to be frank, Lucian, we’re a little concerned about the direction of things since your father passed. God rest his soul.”

Unfortunately, I doubt my father’s soul is with God. “You’ve nothing to be concerned about, Domini--”

“You just don’t have the same presence as your father, and that just isn’t good for rapport.” He throws up his hands, having cut me off. The guy wears a hearing aid the size of California, so I can’t get too pissed off. “People start to forget who is in charge. They start doing their own thing. I know things are different in this age, but in my generation, face to face was the way of business. Handshakes sealed the deal. Eye contact meant assurance. Confidence.”

Or a strong desire to murder someone. “I understand. Rand and I were just discussing a dinner--”

“We were thinking maybe you should host a party, or something. A gathering. Invite some of the big players. Let them mingle. We haven’t had one of those in … well, in quite a long time, to be frank.”

That’s his thing. To be frank. By the end of this meeting, I’ll be about ready to kill frank.

“A masquerade? What do you think?”

“Bingo. Something fancy. Maybe invite some women.” In other words, prostitutes, to keep the married men entertained while their wives are left at home, because not even they know this group exists. “I want you to invite Boyd. We’ll see how he interacts. Make our own determinations based on observation. Like we’ve always done.”

“Of course.” I can’t muster more than a crooked smile in response, but it doesn’t matter. The scars on my face make me look like I’m frowning even when I’m not.

“Going forward, I’d ask that you meet with us on a more regular basis. Let us know how things are going. How’s business, by the way?”

At this point, I only serve as the Chair for the family shipping business, and my meetings are few and far between. It’s the other engagements, like these, that take up most of my day. The minutiae my father dumped on me when he kicked the bucket.

“Well. Up from last quarter.” It’s the same phrase I use at every meeting, to avoid an hour-long inquiry into the finances of Blackthorne Enterprises. Short and sweet.

“Fantastic. That’s what we like to hear.”

“Well, gentlemen, I don’t mean to rush things along, but I have other meetings--”

“I’m sure you’ve got other meetings today, so we won’t take up any more of your time.”

A feigned smile works the muscles of my face as I nod. “Thank you.”

Both men push to their feet and offer another handshake. “You have Rand give us the details of the dinner party.”

“Will do. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”

He gives a sharp nod, and both men exit my office. The moment the elevator doors close, I push back in my chair and kick my feet up on the desk.

“I want a meeting with Boyd. As soon as possible.” It’s strange that he didn’t come to me about this in the first place, but I sense the man has always harbored both contempt and fear towards me.

“I’ll arrange it immediately.” Rand straightens the departed chairs in front of my desk.

“As for this masquerade dinner.” I run a hand down my face, pausing over my eyes to rub them. “What a production that’ll be.”

“I’ll handle the details and get the crew working on the atrium. In the meantime, we’ll get you a tux and a mask.” He clears his throat, his hands clasped behind his back. “Should I procure a date for the evening?”

“No.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Absolutely not.”

“Pardon my meddling, Master, but it may put them at ease to see you with a … lady friend. The Widow Lancaster has been asking about you.”

“Lancaster?” I lower my hand from my face, frowning. “And what is their concern? That I be married? A possible heir to the Blackthorne throne of shit that they can watch and observe over the course of his life? Let them think what they want. I’m not out to marry some desperate woman who’s ten years older than me and looking to secure her future country club membership. I’ve done an arranged marriage once.”

“I understand. Merely a suggestion. I’ll get started on these plans.”

“Rand? How old did you say my mother’s companion was?”

He raises his brows as if the question has caught him off guard. “Isadora? She’s nineteen, according to her file.”