“I wasn’t sure you would return home. I’m happy that you did.”
“I didn’t return for you. I did it for me. To rid me of that other son of yours.”
“You’ve never kept in touch, son.”
I lift the wine glass but don’t drink. “If I wanted to keep in touch, I wouldn’t have left the family.”
The old man chuckles, shaking his head like I’m still a boy wet behind the ears.
“You’ve always been dramatic. But your little rebellion has run its course. You’ve had your freedom. It’s time to come home.”
“I am home.”
“You know what I mean.”
I look up to meet his gaze. Those eyes, coal-black and flat like polished stone. I know them too well as they are mirrors of my own, except in color.
“I hear you are still living in the building you bought, the penthouse," he says, slicing through the meat like it’s silk.
“You’re sleeping with someone you haven’t introduced to me. Why is that, I wonder?”
How the fuck does he know that? Simon. Shit.
My jaw twitches but I manage to keep my voice calm.
“You’re not entitled to know anyone I take to my bed.”
“A man, isn’t it?” he said with disgust, lacing his tone. My father is a first class homophobe. He made that very clear when I came out to him. But I think he was quietly hoping that I only said it to cause trouble. Now he knows the truth.
“Isn’t it that boy you introduced to me today as your “guard”? Simon, isn’t it?”
I don’t respond. I don’t blink. All I feel is fear that he knows and I brought Simon here willingly. Putting him in harm's way. Not to mention Simon is going to freak the fuck out when he finds out.
He leans in toward me. The mask has slipped, just a crack, enough for me to see the wrath boiling underneath the surface.
“You think you can live outside this family? You think I don’t have contacts? Pull strings? That I won’t make his life a living hell if I want to?” he snarls.
I push my plate away, appetite gone, anger bubbling in my chest. I fight the temptation to take the knife on the table and stab it through his fucking neck and let him bleed out like a pig.
“Is that a threat?” I challenge. Forcing eye contact. Controlling my temper. He sits back in his chair and his demeanor totally shifts to a relaxed Gabriel. Cool and calm.
“No, son.” The words are smooth as oil, but the venom is in the tone. “It’s a reminder. You are the heir to this family. You don’t get to run. You owe me.”
I stand up from the table, the chair scrapes across the floor like a scream as my hands tremble. Not from fear, from frustration and lack of control. Being unprepared gets you killed.
“You don’t own me anymore, Father. We had a deal and I don’t owe you a damn thing.”
Before I leave, I place my hands on the white table cloth and lean over into his face.
“You want me back so bad? Why? Is it because of love? Or is it because the others won’t follow you? Or because there is no other woman desperate enough to sleep with you to provide an alternative heir, because let's face it, Enrico is an embarrassment to our bloodline.”
He says nothing. Just stares in silence.
I finally pull away, and just as I start to walk away, I leave him with a warning of my own.
“If you ever touch him—if I so much as hear his name leave your mouth again—I won’t come back to sit at this table,” I place my hand on the door handle and with ice in my voice, make my promise. “I’ll come back to burn it down.”
Slamming the door behind me, I allow myself a moment to inhale the oppressive air around me. This house is full of a toxicity that you can bite. My gut feeling was right. He lied to me. For the first time, I have witnessed my father go back on his word.
