Chapter 11: Hidden Heir: Chapter 11

I ache to comfort Brooke. It rises like a swell inside me, but before I can do that or press for more details about the man that hurt her, my father appears in the kitchen like some kind of dark omen.

He wasn’t supposed to be in the area today, which I presumed was why he had me check the delivery from Canada when he usually prefers to do that himself. Mostly, I think, to test to see if my ideas really have been breeding success or if every successful shipment of product is merely a fluke.

“I asked you a question,” my father’s voice booms. “Who the fuck is she?”

Brooke leans down and covers her daughter’s ears, cradling Tiff to her chest who looks at my father with wide, curious eyes.

Rik appears a second later, slightly out of breath. From the lift of his brows, I suspect he was rushing to get here before my father to warn me.

“This is Brooke,” I reply. “She’s a friend. She arrived last night needing a place to stay, and I’ve offered her one of my rooms until she’s able to recover and get back on her feet.”

“Recover from what?” My father barks. “This is not a home for the poor!”

“That’s not it at all,” I reply smoothly. “Like I said, she’s a friend in need of help. In fact, speaking of which… Rik?” Rik slips past my father to step closer to me. “Could you please take Brooke and her daughter to their quarters?”

Rik nods. We haven’t set up a room for her yet but I know Rik will begin doing so as soon as he gets Brooke and Tiff out from under my father’s piercing gaze. Brooke scoops her daughter into her arms and ducks away, following Rik out of the kitchen.

There’s a moment of silence, then the sound of my father’s cane clacking hard on the tiled floor. I ignore him in favor of darting to the breakfast I had begun making, saving it from becoming charred beyond recognition.

“Tell me this isn’t the reason you left the warehouse without properly inspecting the goods.”

My hands pause briefly over the pans. “Was there a problem?”

“Yes! The problem was you weren’t there!”

“Was there a problem with the product?” I clarify. “Were they bad quality? Damaged in transit? Unfit for sale?”

“No,” he mutters, twisting his mustache. “But that’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?” I glance at him. “I inspected the product. We have one possible failure due to illness, but I’m guessing that’s because of travel, and he’ll be fine come auction. No one was harmed during delivery and they’ll all be shipped and sold within ten hours. We paid less than expected due to the shipment arriving early and everyone is happy.” I scrape the sauteed vegetables onto a plate. “So what’s the issue?”

“You are blind,” my father mutters, and the way his tone changes makes my heart sink. “You give them too much leeway. That’s how it starts. You miss a meeting, don’t stay long at an inspection, and the next thing you know, they’ll be skimming off the top. I thought I raised you smarter than this.”

“I trust them,” I calmly reply.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” he says, moving to sit on a stool at the island. “Get me some coffee.”

I oblige, abandoning the meal and turning to the coffee maker instead. “Next time I will stay until the last body has been inspected, approved, and ready to go.”

“Good choice. You cannot afford to look weak or distracted, not right now. This deal we are trying to secure with the Italians is difficult enough.”

“It’s difficult because they don’t approve that we’re in the skin trade,” I point out, activating the coffee bean grinder. “I don’t think they care about how timely my schedule is.”

“Of course they care,” my father snaps. “They care because despite their distaste for our business, they still use our prostitutes. It is in their best interest to work with us on their weapons trade.”

“I know that” I reply, a slight pulse of frustration leaking into my tone. “This was my deal to begin with, remember? I followed the connections and got this arrangement on the table. For over a year, I’ve been greasing their palms, making sure they have everything they could ever desire. You need to trust me.”

“I do trust you.” My father takes his coffee when I offer him the steaming mug. “But I need you focused, son. Not distracted by some random woman that turns up at your door with a child. I do not care what her story is, I do not care what brought her here. She is an outsider and she cannot be trusted.”

I nod my head in agreement, but that’s not the truth that’s in my heart. She’s not some random woman. She is so much more than that to me, and every second I’m with her feeds into that desire. I want to see her smile, hear her laugh, and taste those plush lips again and again. I want to skin the man who hurt and scared her, I want her brother punished for daring to shoot up with a child in his care.

“I can do both,” I say, seating myself next to him. “She isn’t a distraction. She’s a friend and she needs help. You said yourself that it pays to have friends. Some of our strongest connections come from helping others. Good karma can’t be overlooked.”

Deep down, I know it’s pointless to try to persuade my father that I know what I’m doing. He trusts me only so far, as he does in all aspects of life, and I know he has trouble letting go of the family business. In a way, it’s his child, despite my existence. He is on edge, waiting for the empire to fall, and each day I strive to show him that I know what I’m doing, that our legacy is safe in my hands. Brooke’s presence isn’t going to change that.

But from the way my father drains his mug and sets it down, I can tell he’s already made up his mind. A cold shiver crawls down my spine as he stands and leans on his cane.

“No distractions,” he says flatly before turning away. I watch him walk toward the door, an influx of emotions threatening to overwhelm me. Anger and irritation come first, then disappointment.

I want Brooke. But my family is my family and my father’s trust is not to be played with.

“But—”

“Get rid of her,” he snaps as he reaches the doorway. “Or I will.”