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I slide the folder back into his top drawer.
“Antonio?” Lucas calls from somewhere in the house.
Fuck. I'm not in the mood for him today.
“Lucas, in here,” I call back, standing up and heading out of the office. I don’t want him to snoop around my father’s house, although I’m sure he has already searched through these rooms many times behind my back, looking for things that might not be noticed.
I step out into the hallway and spot Lucas. He walks toward me into the more private section of the house, but I walk toward the living room, getting him to follow me in that direction.
“Antonio, I wanted to see if you needed any help. Moving things or sorting things?”
“That is kind of you, but no. I don't need any help for the time being. When I'm ready, I'll let you know.”
“I can also give you the rundown on how things work around here. I know how your father liked things to operate.”
“Thank you, Lucas, but while I respect my father’s methods, I have my own. I’ll work with the family, but they are going to get used to my way of doing things.”
“Your way? Do you think you can just walk in here and change age-old methods?” he snaps.
“Everything changes. Change is not a bad thing. Bringing modern aspects of processes will only boost business for the family.”
“You fucking idiot. What do you know about the family or about our business?” His mask slipped this time. I stare at him, my face blank.
“Lucas, get the fuck out of my house!”
“Your house? You child. This house was mine long before it was yours. You are too weak to handle the responsibility that someone has thrown at you. You don't know what you are in for. You are going to learn quickly who is really in charge here, just like your father had to learn.” he spits the words in my face and my temper flares.
He sees my clenched fists and throws the first punch. It hits my eye, but I don’t even flinch. He is an old man, and his strength is leaving him.
My fist swings too, for him to even realize what is happening.
A loud snap cracks through the air as it smashes against his nose, breaking it and sending blood flooding over his chin and down the front of his shirt.
He collapses to the floor in shock, and I stand over him, glaring down at him.
“You ever dare speak to me like or about my father like that again, and I'll break more than your nose.”
It's time this arrogant man learned about his place. I don’t take insults.
My uncle staggers to his feet, spitting blood onto the carpet. He sneers at me with blood-stained teeth. “You little shit.” He grins, looking wild and manic. “I suggest you look in the wine cellar. Someone left a little welcome home gift for you there. And believe me, there is more where that came from. I suggest you leave, sooner rather than later, if you don’t want to see how far this can go.”
He spins on his heels and storms out of the house.
I wait until he is gone, then tell the security that I never want him in here again without my consent. If he ever visits, he is to wait outside until I let him in.
The security nods, confirming my instructions.
I turn to hurry toward the wine cellar to deal with whatever is down there.
My heart feels constricted.
I rush down the marble stairway into the temperature-controlled room.
It's dimly lit with rows of wine bottles along each wall. In the center, on a large oak table, is a small black box.
I reach out to pull it toward me, biting down as I lift the lid.
My insides churn with rage, shut my eyes and force myself to freeze.
