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He laughs at that, his age showing in the crinkles around his eyes. “Old habits.”
“Old being the operative word,” I deadpan before getting out and closing the door, his laughter following me up the steps to a grand manor that seems cold and empty now. My aunt’s flowers haven’t been taken care of and the wreath at the door is faded and old, something she’d never allow if alive. “She’d be pissed at the sight of this.”
The front door is unlocked, and I step inside, listening for noise. And it doesn’t take me long to find the two old men whose ruckus makes my ears bleed. They’re in the kitchen and arguing about something—more than likely politics—and sharing a bottle of whiskey without any glasses.
“Oi, isn’t this a sight.”
“My son returns.” Dad stands, then sits, a little on the wobbly side. “Where have you been?”
“None of your business.” Looking at the man beside him, I walk over and squeeze his shoulder. “You okay, old man?”
“Day at a time.”
“That’s all you can do.” Grabbing the bottle, I walk over to the sink and pour it down the drain. “But this isn’t going to help. You need food, a shower, and then we need to talk.”
“My son made up his mind?”
“He did.” There’s a pod in the coffee maker and I press the start button, grabbing two cups from the cabinet above the machine. And while it brews, I grab the fresh bagels and cream cheese, popping the bread into the toaster. “Where’s the house staff? Why are you two having a liquor-filled breakfast?”
Casper’s dad nods, scratching at his unshaven jaw. “She’ll be good for him. Has given him purpose.”
“The staff?”
“Gave them the week off. It’s been a loud one.”
“What the bloody hell are you two going on about?” Dad asks, but I pay him no mind. Our dynamic has always been strained—like associates rather than father and son. “Who will be good for who? Who is she?”
“My son is taking over Boston, and my nephew is now the head if this family.”
“Since when? Why am I just finding out now?”
“Because you have no say.” Both turn to look at me, one with pride and my father with surprise. “That conversation was between Casper and me, the two who matter.” The ceramic mug in my hand shatters upon sudden impact, the shards flying through the air and across the quartz counter. A piece slices across my knuckles, the blood pooling beneath my fingers. “We ran this syndicate for the last five years. We bathed London in the blood of our enemies while you spent your time between golf games and drinking with members of the house.”
In the background, I hear the toaster pop and the coffee machine beep, but fuck it all—I couldn’t care less. What this arse has implied won’t be swept under the rug. Fuck him. Not this time.
“Callum, I think we should—”
“Stop protecting him from me,” I seethe, flicking my heated gaze to my uncle. “You always step in, saving him from hearing the shit he doesn’t want to hear. He was a horrible father, a messy right hand to you, and always unable to admit his wrongs. He’s as bad as Mum, but at least her excuse is being absent and not just the self-centered nature neither grew out of.”
My uncle tries to interject again, but Dad holds his hands up. “Let it be. He’s right.” There’s no hiding the surprise on my face at that. He’s not a man to ever admit his wrongs. “I’ve been an arse all these years, have missed a lot, but let me be clear here, son. Not once have I doubted you or implied that you’re not capable of running this family. On the contrary. I know you’ll do better than those before you.”
I relax my stance and take the offered towel from his brother. “Then what did you mean?”
“I’m a member of this family, Callum. That’s what I meant.” Dad walks over and puts a hand on my shoulder, his expression softer than I’ve ever seen. “I’d like to be kept up to date, not shoved aside. That’s it.”
“Fair enough.”
“You also need to know one more thing, lad.” When I don’t answer, he gives me a sad smile. “I’ve never…not once, doubted you or what you’re capable of. You’ve always been bloody brilliant and responsible, you excel where I lack, and I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t. I’m a shit parent, if you don’t already know this.”
“Speaking of parent,” I say, changing the subject. That, and I need to move this along and get my hand stitched up. “Where is she?”
“At the house, fuming.” Dad lets out a loud, long sigh. The sound heavy and full of exhaustion. “It’s over. I’ve given her the divorce papers.”
Motherfuck. “Great. I’m sure she’ll call me to complain soon enough.”
