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But having validation was something else all together.
My mother's head shook, her eyes rolling slightly as she looked to the ceiling. She looked down at me. “What did you think your father did?”
“He's an importer,” I said automatically.
“Yes, but an importer of what?”
That was a good question. One I had never even thought to ask. Dad owned a chain of clothing stores. I always figured he imported clothes made in sweatshops. A fact I was always uncomfortable with, but never had the guts to talk to him about or even look into it when I was working in the corporate headquarters.
She shook her head at me again like I was dense. “I wanted his containers. That's why you're here. His containers that come in from South America. There's a lot of ripe, pretty girls in South America. Do you know what else there is in South America?” she asked.
I was too busy trying to not throw up over the 'ripe, pretty girls' comment to even pretend I knew. “No.”
“Cocaine,” she supplied and I felt her words settle like lead in my belly.
Cocaine.
My mother was a heartless skin trader.
And my father imported and sold cocaine.
What.
The.
Fuck?
Nothing. Literally nothing could have ever prepared me for that harsh reality. I was the child of criminals. Of god damn crime lords. And I had been blind to it my entire life. Going around sipping mimosas at brunch and getting my nails painted and thinking I had the most normal, albeit privileged, life imaginable.
Jesus Christ.
I had crime lords for parents.
And at least one of them was a fucking psychopath.
What the hell did that say about me?Twenty-fiveReignThree. Fucking. Days.
“You need to sleep, man,” Cash said, watching me, looking just as haggard as I did.
“I sleep when we get her the fuck back.”
It had been the same argument since I rolled in from the meeting with the Russians. After checking out the shit evidence we had. After looking in at Repo. After sitting at his bedside until he finally regained consciousness and gave us his side of the story.
“Didn't hear shit. But then I saw an outsider and he was cuffing Summer's hands behind her back. Had duct tape over her mouth. She was struggling with him. Fucking idiot I am,” he said, slamming his hand onto the mattress, “I fucking called her. And she turned. And then he saw me. And then we were fighting. He clocked me to the side of the head and I was fucking out man. So fucking stupid.”
“No man,” I said, shaking my head. “No, you did good. You tried to protect her. You took a beating for her. You did good,” I said, clamping my hand down on his shoulder.”
“Prez,” he said, sitting up as I made my way to the door. I turned back. “You need anything. To get her back. I'm in. I know I'm not patched-in. But I'm fucking in,” he said, his voice fierce.
And even though it was against rules. Even though it would cause problems, I felt myself nodding. “Yeah you are.”
“Wolf's been gone a long time,” Cash said, bringing me back to the present.
“Yeah,” I agreed.
“Should have sent someone with him, man. Now we know who the fuck Richard Lyon is...”
Maybe we should have. But I didn't want to involve anyone else in my mess. It was already bad enough with Cash, Wolf, and now Repo involved. We couldn't put anyone else at risk.
“Wolf knows what he's doing,” I said, hoping it was true.
I raked a hand down my face.
Her fucking father was the biggest cocaine dealer on the East coast. How the fuck did that stay so far under our radar? Granted, we didn't deal in drugs. But we tried to keep up with the big organizations around. The MCs. The Italians. The fucking Irish. The Mexican cartels. Everything. How'd we miss a cocaine dealer? And not some little guy. He was fucking huge. Had been for the better part of twenty years.
And it had somehow escaped Summer's notice her whole life.
Not that he hadn't tried to cover his tracks. He had dozens of legitimate businesses. Clothing stores. A coffee chain. A fucking luxury car dealership. He put up appearances of being a normal, everyday businessman. He went to gallery openings, held lavish charity auctions. He was in the god damn society pages for chrissakes.
But he had an empire.
One with footmen. A mini military. Dozens of dealers.
He wasn't known for being a ruthless fuck like most drug lords. He was just smart. Careful. He had his shit locked down tight so there didn't need to be a lot of blood in the streets. Which was how he kept the cops off his back. How he managed to fly under the radar of all his socialite friends. All his legitimate business partners.
The door to my room flew open, making my head jerk up.
And there was Wolf.
A little knocked around, his shirt torn, blood on his collar. But unharmed. As expected. He rarely ever had someone who could get the better of him.
He nodded his head at me. “Shed,” he said, then was gone.
I looked at Cash who shook his head. “Who the fucks he got in the shed?” he asked, getting up and making his way toward the door.
“Dunno,” I said, my hands already curling into fists. I didn't know. I didn't fucking care. All I knew was I was going to get some fucking information. Enough dicking around not doing anything. Anything. While fuck-knew was happening to Summer.
Cash let himself into the shed where Wolf had already disappeared into. I took a deep breath, then followed in, slamming the door.
There was a man cuffed to the chair. In a thousand dollar fucking suit.
My eyebrow quirked up, looking at Wolf.
Because... no fucking way. No way in hell was he that crazy.
“He took her,” Wolf answered on a shrug.
“What?” I growled, rushing forward toward him.
Him being Richard Lyon.
Summer's father.
I had an international drug lord cuffed to a chair in my fucking shed.
“He took her,” Wolf repeated. “V took her back.”
