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Weaving through the tombstones that will last far longer than the lives they mark, I near the gravesite. The casket is resting in the hollowed-out earth and Damon stands next to it talking to a silver-haired woman dabbing her eyes with a white handkerchief. As soon as I approach, the ninja is on me. Damon excuses himself and with a staggered gait that can only be for show, he confronts me. Through gritted teeth he says, “What are you doing here?”
“I want to talk to you.” There’s a calm control to my voice that I’m surprised by, considering I want to pound the shit out of him and bury him in the hole.
He’s glaring at me through his sunglasses. His hate for me is so apparent. “This is my father’s funeral. How dare you show up here!” His blood pressure must be out of control because his face turns beet red.
My eyes hold his. “Meet me in your office in one hour. Alone.”
“Why would I do that?” He flinches, trying to find his composure.
“Because you and I,” I tell him, anger coursing through my veins at an uncontrollable speed, “have business to discuss.”
He works his jaw. “Go to hell.”
Before walking away, I sneer and say, “That’s where you’ll be if you don’t meet me.”
• • •
Rush hour is barely beginning as I approach the city. With one hand I grip the wheel; with the other, I verify the address. I know where I’m going, but I want to be sure. Taking the next left, I pull into an underground garage but decide not to take the elevator leading straight into the building. I want to see it from the outside. I take my time entering the large black marble building with gilded doors. The number reads “1619” and the words above the door spell out SHEEP INDUSTRIES in big block letters. Entering the lobby of the building that is home to most of Sheep Industries’ holdings—Little Red, Front Line Management, and House Records, I’m not surprised at what I see. The lobby is nothing less than posh. Several seating areas span the vast area in color variations on the building itself—golds, whites, and blacks. Plaques, certificates, and various recognitions cover an entire lobby wall. The reception desk in the middle of the jet-black marble floor is the home to three women, all with headphones hooked over their ears. I approach them with a strange trepidation—this building, these furnishings, the businesses under this roof are half mine. I’m connected to them by a bloodline I never knew flowed through my veins.
Approaching the oldest of the women, who’s wearing a black blouse and has short gray hair, I smile and say, “Hi, I’m Xander Wilde, and I’m here to see Damon Wolf.”
She almost cracks a smile but keeps her businesslike demeanor. “Yes, Mr. Wilde, he’s expecting you. Take the elevator to the twelfth floor and his receptionist will show you the way from there.”
“Thank you,” I reply and then make my way to the elevator. My nerves start to pop and my legs seem to be shaking—what the hell am I nervous about? Stepping into the elevator, I can only think, Keep your poker face on, mean what you say, and own it. The doors close and I close my eyes. The doors open and I’m not even paying attention until the bell dings. I snap my eyes open and hustle out of there. Game on.
My fingertips tap the dark wood of the reception desk and a cute redheaded girl smiles at me. “You must be Mr. Wilde. Flo told me you were on your way to see Mr. Wolf. Let me show you in. I’ve already told him you had arrived.”
She opens his door and holds it open for me to enter. I walk into his over-the-top office—a huge mahogany desk, floor-to-ceiling windows with a view, four large-screen TVs on a red wall, a sheepskin rug with a large leather sofa on top of it. All very designer chic, all very impersonal. He’s standing at the bar, pouring himself what looks to be a scotch. He raises his glass. “I’d offer you one, but you won’t be here long enough to drink it and I hate to waste hundred-year-old Balvenie.”
Striding across the room in two seconds flat, I decide I’ve had enough of him. I snatch his shirt, but stay in complete control of my actions. I push him roughly, slamming his back up against the wall. “You disgust me.” I stare hard into his cold brown eyes and repeat myself. “You disgust me . . .”
He struggles to free himself from my hold. “You’re just like your father,” he hisses.
I flinch and let go of him. “You’re right. I am. Nick was a decent man. Nothing like you.”
He gives a sad laugh. “You’re wrong. He was weak. Easily manipulated. But what I meant is that you’re like Dylan, my brother. He wasn’t so easily fooled, but he was easily feathered. It’s been fun watching you get so riled up. I could do it to my brother with a simple word, and I looked forward to perfecting my technique on you. It’s a shame everything came to an end sooner than I had hoped, but now I can show you what a great uncle I can be. And I’ll start by telling you how well I can take care of my wife.”
He gives me a cocky grin and although I want to knock it off his face, I’m choking, shuddering at his audacity. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind his bar and rein my temper in. For Ivy, I keep reminding myself. Keep your cool for your girl.
“But before we discuss my wife, let me start by telling you a little bit about the man that owned this company—the great Josh Wolf, my father, your grandfather. He was a man who ruled with an iron fist, always logic and numbers, never any emotion. So getting Nick Wilde fired was easy. I knew all I had to do was show poor performance—no matter how much my father liked Nick, he was a businessman through and through and nothing but performance mattered in both his personal and professional life. Oh, wait—there was one tiny exception to that rule—Dylan, my brother, your father. The great Josh Wolf loved that boy in a way he loved no one else—Dylan could do no wrong. Ironic, since he was a user, a drug addict who couldn’t keep clean. I always tried to help my brother. I lived with him, I took care of him, I picked him up off the floor numerous times. And how did he repay me—by dating the woman I worked so hard to get. I deserved your mother . . . he didn’t. Do you know that when he overdosed, my father blamed me? Me!” he screams. “And then your mother—she went back to Nick.”
p>
Weaving through the tombstones that will last far longer than the lives they mark, I near the gravesite. The casket is resting in the hollowed-out earth and Damon stands next to it talking to a silver-haired woman dabbing her eyes with a white handkerchief. As soon as I approach, the ninja is on me. Damon excuses himself and with a staggered gait that can only be for show, he confronts me. Through gritted teeth he says, “What are you doing here?”
“I want to talk to you.” There’s a calm control to my voice that I’m surprised by, considering I want to pound the shit out of him and bury him in the hole.
He’s glaring at me through his sunglasses. His hate for me is so apparent. “This is my father’s funeral. How dare you show up here!” His blood pressure must be out of control because his face turns beet red.
My eyes hold his. “Meet me in your office in one hour. Alone.”
“Why would I do that?” He flinches, trying to find his composure.
“Because you and I,” I tell him, anger coursing through my veins at an uncontrollable speed, “have business to discuss.”
He works his jaw. “Go to hell.”
Before walking away, I sneer and say, “That’s where you’ll be if you don’t meet me.”
• • •
Rush hour is barely beginning as I approach the city. With one hand I grip the wheel; with the other, I verify the address. I know where I’m going, but I want to be sure. Taking the next left, I pull into an underground garage but decide not to take the elevator leading straight into the building. I want to see it from the outside. I take my time entering the large black marble building with gilded doors. The number reads “1619” and the words above the door spell out SHEEP INDUSTRIES in big block letters. Entering the lobby of the building that is home to most of Sheep Industries’ holdings—Little Red, Front Line Management, and House Records, I’m not surprised at what I see. The lobby is nothing less than posh. Several seating areas span the vast area in color variations on the building itself—golds, whites, and blacks. Plaques, certificates, and various recognitions cover an entire lobby wall. The reception desk in the middle of the jet-black marble floor is the home to three women, all with headphones hooked over their ears. I approach them with a strange trepidation—this building, these furnishings, the businesses under this roof are half mine. I’m connected to them by a bloodline I never knew flowed through my veins.
Approaching the oldest of the women, who’s wearing a black blouse and has short gray hair, I smile and say, “Hi, I’m Xander Wilde, and I’m here to see Damon Wolf.”
She almost cracks a smile but keeps her businesslike demeanor. “Yes, Mr. Wilde, he’s expecting you. Take the elevator to the twelfth floor and his receptionist will show you the way from there.”
“Thank you,” I reply and then make my way to the elevator. My nerves start to pop and my legs seem to be shaking—what the hell am I nervous about? Stepping into the elevator, I can only think, Keep your poker face on, mean what you say, and own it. The doors close and I close my eyes. The doors open and I’m not even paying attention until the bell dings. I snap my eyes open and hustle out of there. Game on.
My fingertips tap the dark wood of the reception desk and a cute redheaded girl smiles at me. “You must be Mr. Wilde. Flo told me you were on your way to see Mr. Wolf. Let me show you in. I’ve already told him you had arrived.”
She opens his door and holds it open for me to enter. I walk into his over-the-top office—a huge mahogany desk, floor-to-ceiling windows with a view, four large-screen TVs on a red wall, a sheepskin rug with a large leather sofa on top of it. All very designer chic, all very impersonal. He’s standing at the bar, pouring himself what looks to be a scotch. He raises his glass. “I’d offer you one, but you won’t be here long enough to drink it and I hate to waste hundred-year-old Balvenie.”
Striding across the room in two seconds flat, I decide I’ve had enough of him. I snatch his shirt, but stay in complete control of my actions. I push him roughly, slamming his back up against the wall. “You disgust me.” I stare hard into his cold brown eyes and repeat myself. “You disgust me . . .”
He struggles to free himself from my hold. “You’re just like your father,” he hisses.
I flinch and let go of him. “You’re right. I am. Nick was a decent man. Nothing like you.”
He gives a sad laugh. “You’re wrong. He was weak. Easily manipulated. But what I meant is that you’re like Dylan, my brother. He wasn’t so easily fooled, but he was easily feathered. It’s been fun watching you get so riled up. I could do it to my brother with a simple word, and I looked forward to perfecting my technique on you. It’s a shame everything came to an end sooner than I had hoped, but now I can show you what a great uncle I can be. And I’ll start by telling you how well I can take care of my wife.”
He gives me a cocky grin and although I want to knock it off his face, I’m choking, shuddering at his audacity. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind his bar and rein my temper in. For Ivy, I keep reminding myself. Keep your cool for your girl.
“But before we discuss my wife, let me start by telling you a little bit about the man that owned this company—the great Josh Wolf, my father, your grandfather. He was a man who ruled with an iron fist, always logic and numbers, never any emotion. So getting Nick Wilde fired was easy. I knew all I had to do was show poor performance—no matter how much my father liked Nick, he was a businessman through and through and nothing but performance mattered in both his personal and professional life. Oh, wait—there was one tiny exception to that rule—Dylan, my brother, your father. The great Josh Wolf loved that boy in a way he loved no one else—Dylan could do no wrong. Ironic, since he was a user, a drug addict who couldn’t keep clean. I always tried to help my brother. I lived with him, I took care of him, I picked him up off the floor numerous times. And how did he repay me—by dating the woman I worked so hard to get. I deserved your mother . . . he didn’t. Do you know that when he overdosed, my father blamed me? Me!” he screams. “And then your mother—she went back to Nick.”
I don’t move. I’m caught in the web of the story he’s spinning.
“My father never forgave me for Dylan’s death and for years I had to prove to him I was worthy to be a part of his business. I had to make my way up the ladder and even after I landed Zeak Perry as a client, that wasn’t enough. Only when he took ill did I earn my rightful place. And then in his death I learn the bastard didn’t leave me the company—he left me half. I’d been under the impression my inheritance had a marriage clause. I never thought it had you in it. Never saw it coming. He didn’t seem to care about you. The night I told him you existed he didn’t even blink an eye. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was the anniversary of Dylan’s death and he was putting my brother on a pedestal again. I couldn’t take it, so I just blurted out that at least I didn’t have an illegitimate son out there. You see, he knew about you for years and never did anything, never cared—not until he died anyway. How does that make you feel?”
I don’t bother to tell him Josh Wolf sought out my mother—that he knew about me and that he did care. He cared enough to do as my mother wished. His knowing the facts wouldn’t change anything. The man in front of me is vile, evil to the core, and I want to rid my life of him as soon as I can. I reach in my pocket and pull out the documents showing my fifty percent ownership.
“Ahhh . . . so you’re not here to meet your dear old uncle. I was wondering when you’d get to the point. How long it would take. But finally!” Damon says, walking to his desk. “The reason you’re here.” He claps his hands together as if congratulating himself. “You’re here for your half of the company. What do you think? Should we share desk space? Make decisions together? How do you think my dear old dad saw this going? Did he think we’d make an excellent team?”
I stare at him. He is so cold that I freeze. Falter. Words can’t explain how this man makes me feel. Finally I find my voice. “Why did you go see my father the day he killed himself?” I ask the question I’ve wanted to know the answer to for so long, unconcerned as to what position that puts me in in his eyes—because I know without a doubt that when this meeting is over I will be the winner.
A smile slowly spreads across his face. He touches his fingertips to the desk and leans on it. “For you and your brother. Boy bands were popping up everywhere and I had one in my backyard. I wanted to represent you both, but Nick was adamant that he wasn’t going to let me. I may have mentioned telling you about Dylan and then I gave him twenty-four hours to decide. But we both know how he responded to that.”
“You’re not why he killed himself. He wouldn’t have wasted a single breath on you.” I’m seething. I shoot across the office and slam his head down on the desk. I’m shaking so much it’s making me dizzy. I inhale, then exhale and let go.
He stands up straight and removes his handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow. He levels his gaze at me. “How about we discuss whatever it is you so urgently had to call me away from my father’s funeral for before I call Johnny in to escort you downstairs.” He cocks his head and holds back a smile.
Shaking in my anger, I fist my hands at my sides. “I’m here for a trade.”
“A trade. Really?”
I hold the paper in the air. “Ivy for this.”
His eyes darken as realization dawns on him. “I didn’t play you for the type to put love before business. I have to say I’m surprised. But it’s not going to be that easy. There is so much I want from her before I can let her go.”
Stepping forward, I stand directly in front of him. Eye to eye. I’m buried in hatred, anger, frustration—wanting so much to wrap my hands around his neck and strangle him. But I have what he wants and I’m pretty sure he wants it more than anything else. I casually walk around his desk and take a seat in one of the two chairs in front of it.
“Maybe you’re more like me than my brother. Willing to make a deal,” he says with a grin.
“We are nothing alike. Nothing!”
His eyes gleam and he sits in his desk chair, tenting his fingers. “You start. Tell me what you think you can offer me for that beautiful wife of mine.”
Vibrating with disgust as the words roll off his tongue, I take a deep breath, knowing I have to keep myself under control. I put my poker face on.
He squeezes the arms of his expensive leather chair and with a clenched jaw asks, “Why are you here?”
I c**k my head and suppress a bitter smile. “To tell you it’s in your best interest to file annulment papers as soon as your shaky fingers can call your attorney.”
His bottom lip trembles. “Why would I want to do that?”
No longer able to hold my smile back, I tell him, “Because for every minute that passes once I leave your office today that you don’t, you might not like the results.”
“Don’t play games with me, boy.”
“Oh, see, here’s where you’re wrong. I’m not a boy and I’m not playing any kind of game. I’m dead serious. I will sell one share of stock to the public for a dollar for every passing minute you don’t pick up that phone. You figure it out—you’re smart. In about a week, half of Sheep Industries will be worthless. Oh, and when you call your attorney, tell him to terminate your contract with Ivy, effective immediately.” I’m quiet for the next few seconds as he sits there with an incredulous expression on his face. Then I look him straight in the eye and add, “And when our business is settled you can do what you want with the company. I’ll stay silent. But hear this: if you ever threaten my family again I’ll make it my life’s mission to ensure you don’t have a company left to run.” Once I’ve said all I came to say, I get up and walk out the door—never looking back, never wanting to see his face again.
