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Dante said nothing. “And what will I do?”
“Production,” I said. “With Theo’s connections, we’ve expanded this business, but in order to maintain it, we need product. A lot more of it. Make that happen.”
“I can hire more guys,” he said. “Get a bigger facility.”
“Increase external shipment,” I said.
“That’s a challenge,” Dante said. “To move that much product across the border and then move it again…” He shook his head. “Once my production partners figure out the kind of revenue we’ve reached, they’re going to sell the product directly and cut us out entirely. We need to be completely self-reliant.”
“And if they do that,” Theo said, “they get shot in the back of the head. It’s that simple.”
“It’s hard to control what the Colombians do?—”
“I control what everyone does.” Theo brought the glass to his lips and took a drink.
“Is Scarlett planning the wedding?” I wanted to text her, call her, carry on with the relationship that was paused too soon, but I knew my advances would be unwelcome. I had to take it slow or risk pushing her away altogether.
“We assumed you would do it at the town hall,” Dante said. “Just get it done.”
“This is the only wedding she’s ever going to have, and she wants to do it at the town hall?” I asked incredulously.
Dante leaned back in the chair. “It’s the middle of winter?—”
“I’ll marry her in the rain. I don’t give a shit.”
Dante looked away in discomfort. “This is something you should discuss with her. I’m not involved in this sort of thing.” He looked at the bottle of scotch, like he could really use a drink. “Let’s talk business. That’s all I’m really interested in?—”
“Yes, I know you don’t give a shit about your daughter,” I snarled. “I’m fully aware.”
Now Dante’s face started to tint. “I find that deeply offensive.”
“It’s supposed to be offensive.”
He paused, chewing the inside of his cheek. “I’m always looking out for what’s best for her?—”
“I was best for her, and you took me away.”
He sighed. “You have her now?—”
“It’s not what it used to be, and it probably never will be,” I snapped. “Because she thinks I would treat her like that. Let me tell her, and we’ll have the wedding we both want?—”
“Never.”
The words died in my throat, knowing he would never budge. “Until we’re married, there’s no business to discuss. You can go.”
Annoyance swept across his gaze like a closing curtain. “Axel?—”
“I said go.”
He remained in the chair, trying to think of what to say, but when nothing good came to mind, he rose from his chair and let himself out.
I wanted to show up on her doorstep, but I knew coming to her residence unannounced wouldn’t be welcome. So, I texted her. I’d like to speak with you.
Her dots showed up instantly. What?
In person.
Unless you’re showing me a PowerPoint presentation, we can speak over the phone.
So we can speak in person when you want to, but not when I want to?
Yep. That’s what happens when you stick your dick in someone else.
I almost chucked the phone at the wall. So fucking infuriating. I’m coming by. See you in 20.
I won’t open the door.
Like that will stop me. I left my place and drove to hers. I knew she’d moved a couple months ago. Found that out by chance. It was a bigger place on a nicer street. There was a garage underneath the building to park her car. I preferred it to the building where she’d lived before, so I was pleased by the news.
I took the stairs to her floor then stopped in front of her door. I tried the knob and was pleased to see that it was unlocked, so I let myself inside. The living room was larger, there was a big TV on the wall, new furniture and decor, and her kitchen was far more spacious. It was a chef’s kitchen, with an island, a large sink, and two ovens.
She stood at the counter, working on something for dinner.
I could smell it the second I walked in the door. All the spices and flavors melded together in a savory scent. My chef cooked for me, but he couldn’t replicate her work, which was fucking exquisite. When I’d told her to become a chef, it wasn’t false praise. “Something smells good.”
She didn’t look up, even though she knew I was there. She put on her oven mitts and set the tray inside the oven before she closed the oven door. She was in a loose sweater with black leggings, her long hair in a braid to stay out of her face. There was no makeup on her face because she hadn’t expected company, and even though she’d had twenty minutes to put it on before I came, she didn’t, because she didn’t care how she looked.
