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I managed a tight nod in his direction. My grandfather had been softened by prison, defeated by it. He had no interest in being head of the family anymore, leaving us subject to my father’s iron rule. The old man still deserved my respect, but he wasn’t my concern right now.
I dared to take a breath, steeling myself as I met my father’s glittering gaze head-on.
“I have something to share with you,” I announced. “Something I’ve been working toward for two years.”
His expression went slack, utterly bored. He had no expectations of me whatsoever. I was a failure in his eyes, a shameful son.
My familiar rage flickered to life deep in my chest, and I drew on it. Rage made me strong. It gave me the courage to present the proof that I wasn’t a failure.
I pulled out my phone and opened the recording app that I’d activated behind Allie’s back when I’d hugged her tightly to my chest. Her voice emanated from the speaker, wavering with grief. The echo of her distress set my teeth on edge, but I forced myself to focus on my father as our damning conversation filled the horrific space where I’d been disciplined by fire.
So, you believe me now? My voice was strangely rough on the recording. You believe that your father colluded with the Russian Bratva to murder my mother?
Allie had whispered in reply, but my phone had clearly picked up each of her words, condemning Ron Fitzgerald. Mike told me that my dad had an anonymous Russian informant that broke the Mafia case for him. You said he worked with the Russian Bratva to bring down the Mafia. He didn’t keep a record of the man’s identity. Why would he keep it secret? And now, I think the Ivanovs have Bratva ties. They’re my dad’s biggest donors. They’ve paid him millions. And today…
She’d trailed off, so I’d prompted her, soothing her with a tender touch while keeping her caged against my chest, blocking her view of my phone. Tell me what happened.
I tried to pull my mom’s autopsy and the arson report, and they were missing. How could they be missing? The D.A.’s office said something about losing the files, but how could they lose the files about the mayor’s wife’s death? I wanted to prove to myself that she died in an accidental fire, but now I can’t. I can’t prove that my father is innocent, Max.
I spoke once more, urging her to fully implicate him in his crimes. Do you believe that your father is guilty of everything I’ve told you?
I believe it.
I’d made sure to edit out the three crucial words that’d changed the tone of her answer: I don’t want to believe it.
My mission was finally coming to completion. I had the blackmail tape I’d wanted to record on the night I’d first kidnapped and interrogated Allie.
By the time the recording finished, my father was leaning forward in his chair, eyes glinting beneath lifted brows. “What is this?” he demanded.
“It’s Alexandra Fitzgerald confessing that her father is allied with the Bratva, and that he buried the truth about his wife’s murder in order to save his political career. This is the real reason I started a relationship with her. I’m going to take this recording to Ron Fitzgerald and use it to blackmail him. If he ever tries to come after our family again, I’ll leak it to the press. Once he knows I have this, he won’t dare challenge us. We can rebuild our business, retake our territory, and he won’t use his power as Mayor to stop us. He’ll make sure law enforcement turns a blind eye.”
Abruptly, my father stood. Despite the fact that we were the same height, he seemed to tower over me. I resolutely ignored the warning prickle at the back of my neck and stood my ground.
He kept me fixed in his inscrutable black stare for several long, awful seconds. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. This wasn’t the reception I’d hoped for at all. For two years, I’d envisioned his approval, possibly even pride. This cold mask made my stomach twist in knots, and it took the strength of my rage and defiance to hold my head high.
Finally, he stepped away, severing the terrible tension between us. He crossed the study and went to his large mahogany desk, opening the top drawer.
I almost took a step back when he pulled out a knife. The handle was ornate, silver carved in swirling patterns that I could barely discern in the dim, flickering light of the fire. The blade glinted when he withdrew it from its leather sheath.
His eyes slammed into me as though he’d driven the knife between my ribs. My entire body locked up tight, and sweat dampened my ruined brow.
