Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
Ever the loyal leader, his promise is wide and far, as I knew it would be.
As Otto Henshaw, Mr. Bandoni, and Mr. DeLeon knew it would be.
The question was never if we were on his side. The question is, is the very reason that we’re here today my father’s doing, and if so, is Oliver chained in his basement as we speak?
I, for one, am dying to find out.
My father steps away, and in unison, dozens of phone alerts go off, my own vibrating in my skirt.
None of us bother to pull our phones out but quickly stand, being the first to exit. We keep our eyes locked forward, ignoring the many heads that swivel our way as we head up the stairs and into the main hall. We don’t speak as we walk through and around the corridor until we reach the elevator that leads to the Greyson Suite.
As we step inside, my phone beeps again, and I look at the screen to find a text from my sister. The door begins to close, and with a reluctant sigh, I stretch my heel out to stop it. Damiano raises a brow at me but settles as Boston whips around the corner, squeezing herself inside. Still, no one says a word and it’s not until we’re locked behind the soundproof walls that we do.
Of course, Boston is the first to do so. “Do you think it’s Enzo? Do you think he found out about Dad pushing you on him and now he’s here to make sure you don’t create a union between us and that family and give him the lead on our name before Enzo could have it for himself?”
“Enzo will never be head of this family.”
Her lips slam shut, and she gives a tight nod before moving to sit in the chair in front of the window.
Damiano eyes her before flicking his attention to me and I only shake my head.
“I wouldn’t completely rule out Boston’s concern, but I’m tempted to,” Bronx says.
Delta nods in agreement. “Considering the timing, me too. It has to do with the other day, don’t you think?”
My spine steels, but it’s too late, and she mouths her sorry. Sighing, I pull myself up on the desk and cross my legs. “There’s no point in hiding it, especially if the footage is already there and all the dads, including Oliver’s, have watched.”
“What are you talking about?” Alto questions, flicking accusatory eyes toward Delta, even though he knows this is the way it goes.
“Oliver showed up in the poolroom when I was there on Thursday.”
“Thursday,” Ander deadpans. “The day he disappeared?”
“Seems that way, yes.” I drop my head back a moment, shaking it as I face forward again. “He made some shitty remarks, and I sort of … pretended I was going to drown him.”
“How exactly does one pretend to drown someone?” Ander grins, crossing his arms over his chest.
My eyes fall to the tattoos on his hands. The only person I know who has any outside of my—
No.
“I pushed him under water and held him there until he couldn’t breathe, and I only let him up at the very last second before panic took over.”
“So you literally almost drowned him?” Ander lifts a brow, his grin even wider now.
“Not almost. I knew what I was doing.”
“Okay, can we get to the part that tells us why you did that?” This comes from Alto.
I look to Damiano, surprised he’s silent at the moment, but he simply glares out the window, slowly moving closer to it as his mind runs. He’s always silent when he’s thinking, so it’s nothing to be too concerned about.
I tell them what he said, and the consensus is the same across the room, especially when my father chooses that moment to demand entrance inside. Boston shoots from the chair she settled in, the others standing to attention, but Damiano doesn’t move from the window.
The door is opened and my father stalks in, closing and locking it behind him. He knows what we’re up here discussing, and he knows we have no secrets between us, so he steps right up to me, wasting no time.
“Take the jacket off,” he demands.
A pinch of embarrassment heats my chest. I might not have mentioned this exact part to my friends, not for any reason other than it was unnecessary. So, as I undo the three buttons of my blazer and allow it to slide down over my shoulders, Alto stepping up behind me to ease it off my arms to keep it from falling to the floor, I try not to stiffen or cringe or to have any other reaction. Especially not when my father grips my sleeve at the hem near the shoulder and shreds it all the way down to my wrist.
His eyes lock on the hand-shaped bruise there and his nostrils flare. It’s momentary, the smallest sign of a break in his ever-present armor, and then his eyes snap over my head. I can only assume he looks to Damiano, perhaps putting the blame on him, but he isn’t my guard. I’m not his responsibility. My father likely sees it as otherwise since the man was bold enough to ask for my hand, knowing he would be turned down exactly as he was. This only cements my father’s decision to deny his request further.