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“Ten.”
I glanced at my watch. “Marissa! That is in 30 minutes!” Throwing my hands up, I nearly dropped the mop. I scrambled to catch the handle before it clattered to the floor. “I’m not even done mopping.”
“I’ll clean twice for you, I promise.” Excitement filled her tone. She knew she’d won.
“Three times,” I said sternly.
“That seems excessive.”
“Three or no deal.”
“How about two and a free massage?” A distinct whine tinted her tone. She hated cleaning more than I did.
I mean, who actually liked cleaning?
“My massages are always free. Three or I’m hanging up.”
She sighed. “Fine.”
“This is the last time. I mean it. I can’t keep bailing you out.”
Marissa’s squeal of delight nearly burst my eardrums. “You really are the best big sister ever. I’ll send you the address. Just pretend you’re me, and it’ll go great. Love you, bye!”
And there it was—the familiar cycle of bailing her out, followed by promises of repayment that rarely came to fruition.
Why did I let her do this to me? How did she always get away with this crap?
The answer was simple: I was such a pushover.
I tugged my phone out of my pocket and waited for the address. If I could have afforded a new one, I would’ve thrown the traitorous device against the wall and pretended like I never got her message. Since I couldn’t afford it, I settled for glaring ferociously at the background picture of Marissa and me making silly faces at each other.
I wasn’t mad, per se. This was far from the first time she’d behaved this way. Taking me for granted and whatnot.
No, not mad—I was disappointed.
Yeesh. Talk about becoming our father.
Swallowing hard against the sudden lump in my throat, I banished those thoughts back out to sea where they belonged. I’d chosen to leave and would bear the cost for the rest of my life. Anything to give Marissa a true chance at a free life, to choose whether she’d get married and to whom.
We would be stronger than the tide no matter where we lived.
My phone buzzed as her text came through with the client’s address. I plugged it into the maps app and groaned. Great. It was down in the Wharf, and there was no way I’d make it on time unless I left two minutes ago.
Better late than never. I was sure I could fake some tears if it came down to it.
CHAPTER 2
Dominic
Isat in an oversized brown leather chair facing my grandfather’s desk and the wizened man behind it. We had both assumed a demeanor of cold indifference, a look I had perfected after years of beatings until it was second nature.
By the man in front of me, no less.
Despite my grandfather’s smaller frame, there was a reason Ichiro Sato was on top of the food chain, and it wasn’t due to his age.
“Kill or be killed” was the Sato family motto, and my grandfather, uncles, aunts, cousins, and every other extended family member lived it to its fullest, including me. Which meant I’d learned to take a beating early on if I wanted to survive long enough to take over the family business.
Ichiro’s office sat on the top floor of one of the most expensive buildings in downtown Washington, D.C. As had become general practice over the years, the Sato family purchased the entire building to keep prying eyes—human or Gifted—out of our many businesses.
