Klein goes to take a shower, so I walk up to my office and pour myself a glass of Hibiki.Why didn’t Mom make contact with me directly? What does she think she can get by going to—or through—Klein? She moved in to Klein’s building before the Peking Town video went viral. Did she sense my attraction to Klein even before I made it public?
It’s possible she heard something from Kenna. And the only thing Mom would need to do to ingratiate herself with Klein would be showing a bit of kindness. Klein’s so unused to it and so generous by nature that if you give her a drop of consideration, she’ll return it tenfold.
Mom has to take bigger risks now to get what she wants. Harvey isn’t the only one in her way. She’s probably freaked out about Roland. Has Vincent made contact with Roland—or vice versa? Does she think she can manipulate me through Klein? And…then what? Use me to get through to my brothers…or destroy her brothers? Or both?
You’re the most like me.
Yeah, she might think I’d see things her way if she gave me sufficient motivation.
I never wanted to get involved with the Dunkels. I would love it if somebody dropped a bomb on them. But neutrality is no longer an option, especially when Klein’s safety is at stake.
I open the bottom drawer on my desk and pull out a black business card with an international number written on it in gold ink. It arrived in my office on my thirtieth birthday in a #10 envelope. No return address, nothing to indicate what it was about. I called the number out of curiosity.
“Hello, grandson,” came Vincent’s voice. The velvety texture made my skin crawl.
Nausea welled in my gut, I hung up, then went to Bryce’s office. Amélie, his assistant, didn’t try to stop me because she knows I sometimes like to wait for my twin in his office. An identical envelope to the one I got was in the stack of mail on his desk. I grabbed it and shoved it into my pocket before leaving. Bryce didn’t need the bullshit.
Then I stopped by Ares’s office. He had a court appearance, and I managed to grab the envelope off his desk as well. He especially doesn’t need to hear Vincent’s nasty voice orjustifications. That fucker made it clear who mattered the most in his world—his daughter, not us.
I don’t know why I never threw out the card. I should’ve. But I tossed it in the bottom drawer of my home office desk and never looked at it again—until now.
It’s almost like my gut knew I might need a way to contact Vincent one of these days. I purposely relax my jaw, then call the number.
As soon as it connects, I say, “I want to see you.”
Vincent chuckles with satisfaction. The sound is surprisingly irritating. I press my lips together to contain any sarcastic remarks.
“Of course. I always knew patience would pay off.” He sobers. “I’m always available to see my beloved grandson. Let me have my assistant send you my address.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Josh
Let me have my assistant send you my address. Spoken as though he were some kind of legit businessman, not a mafia boss with blood on his hands.
Vincent isn’t in Nesovia like I expected. He’s actually enjoying himself in La Jolla. I hate it that he’s here, in the same state, although it does make it easier to go see him. I resent that I have to go at all, when I could’ve spent a lazy Sunday with Klein, naked in bed. Instead, I’m in La Jolla in one of my best power suits and a wine-colored tie. Silver cuff links in the shape of the Huxley wolf glint at my wrists. They remind me that no matter what, I’m a Huxley, not a Dunkel. I’m Prescott Huxley’s son, and nothing of Zoe Dunkel can affect me.
I climb out of the rental car and squint at the beautiful beachfront property, built of blindingly white stones and with an immaculate garden. Doesn’t surprise me. Mafiosos like to spend money on nice things. Besides, being in SoCal gives him the best position to watch his children fight to the death for control of the family empire.
He claims he disapproves of family hurting each other. But I don’t buy it. Vincent should’ve selected an heir already—he’s far from young at this point—but he’s been keeping it to himself, letting Mom and Harvey battle it out, with me and my brothers as pawns to be moved around, even sacrificed, as necessary. Harvey mentioned to Bryce that Roland—the youngest—isVincent’s favorite. It’s possible he already knew about the truth behind Roland’s death and wanted to exact some sort of revenge on Mom and punish Harvey for failing to protect his baby brother. What better way to torment them than silently taunting them:Neither of you is good enough, so fight it out for my amusement.
Still, I wonder… Am I doing the right thing by being here? I plan to propose a solution to ensure his misbegotten asshole children don’t involve us in their war. I’m sick of it. With Mom’s escalation—going after Klein directly, undoubtedly to use her to try to manipulate me—it could get deadly. The Dunkels can rip each other apart all they want, but they aren’t allowed to hurt us Huxleys. I don’t want Mom trying to drag Klein into the fight, either. My focus is on building a stronger relationship with her, without the Dunkels’ civil war hanging over us.
I hit the big wooden door hard with the bronze knocker. A few minutes later, the entrance cracks open. A nondescript man in a crisp black suit comes out. A butler? A fake bodyguard? Hard to tell. The man’s thin, but wiry. His looks are as average as you can get: medium brown hair and eyes in an unimpressive face that’s seen just enough sun to avoid being pale. A great companion to keep around if you don’t want to be noticed.
“Mr. Huxley?” he says in precise English.
“Yes. Who are you?”
“My name is Mick. This way, please.” He steps aside and gestures me in.
The interior of the mansion is cool. Thick curtains keep much of the sun out, giving it an odd, gloomy feel. At night, this would be a perfect spot to film a vampire movie. It takes talent to turn a La Jolla property this dreary.
Mick leads me through the dimly lit hall until we reach double doors at the end. He pushes them open to a grand suite with a balcony that would overlook the Pacific if someone wouldjust part the blackout curtains. A shiny Steinway baby grand stands to my left. Doubt it’s for Vincent, since he’s only used his hands to kill, not create anything beautiful. Certainly not his monstrous children.
I scan the room, pausing when my eyes land on an elderly man in a plush leather armchair in the shadowy sitting section. I almost don’t recognize him—he’s so…small. And thin. My memory of him is from when I was seven. Back then, he towered over me like an unshakable oak.
The years haven’t been kind to him. Thin skin hangs off his bony face and slim shoulders, mottled with liver spots. If he hadn’t spent decades solidifying his position, somebody probably would have eliminated him a while ago.
