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“I’m fine.”
“You sure you want to go to this thing?” Liam joins the conversation.
No.
“He’s my dad,” I reply as guilt fills me. I haven’t seen my father in weeks. I’d thought about sticking around after I found the potentially incriminating crime scene photo in his office, but I decided that would be a bad idea. There was no way I would’ve been able to conceal my suspicions from him. And knowing my father, he would have acted before learning all the facts. Our family would’ve been thrown into a messy war with the MacKenzies based on a suspicion that could be a mistake.
You’re hoping it’s a mistake.
“Understood,” Liam says.
I offer a weak smile, appreciating that he doesn’t pry. As far as bodyguards go, Liam and Nolan are as chill as they can be while still guaranteeing my safety. I’m lucky to have them.
The rest of the drive passes in silence. Too soon, we arrive outside my father’s house. Liam steps out of the car, opening an umbrella to protect himself from the rain that started a few minutes ago. He opens my door, holding the umbrella over the opening so I don’t get wet.
“Would you like me to walk you to the door?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
He nods and hands me the umbrella. “We’ll be here whenever you decide you want to go home. No rush.”
“Thank you.” I take the umbrella and turn towards my childhood home.
You can do this, Cat. It’s just lunch.
Inhaling a fortifying breath, I walk through the iron gate and approach the front door.
The heavy oak door swings open as I’m walking up the wet stone steps. Benedicto’s welcoming smile greets me. “Good evening,piccola. What a pleasure to see you again so soon.”
The childhood nickname I spent so many years not hearing brings a genuine smile to my face. There was once a time when I saw my father’s house manager every day, but since I moved into my own place, I rarely see the older Italian gentleman. Seeing him twice in two weeks is a novelty for us.
“Good evening, Benedicto. How are you?”
“Very well, my dear. Very well.” The wrinkles around his eyes deepen with his grin. “Quite the storm passing through.” He motions to the rain pelting the stone steps behind me.
“Yes.” I close the umbrella and shake off the extra moisture before Benedicto takes it from me and places it in the holder by the front door. He closes the door.
“Your father and his guest are already in the dining room.”
Guest?
I glance at my watch. Despite the weather, I arrived ten minutes before Father asked me to. Regardless, the fact he’s already in the dining room tells me he’s going to accuse me of being late. Especially since someone else is with him.
“Who else is here?” I ask as Benedicto escorts me towards the dining room.
“One of your cousins,” he says, which tells me nothing. I have too many “cousins” to count.
I can’t think of who would be invited to this meal. My involvement in the family business has always been surface-level. Father is all too happy to keep me away from the gritty details of what goes on behind closed doors. I never minded. But now that I’m engaged to Declan MacKenzie, I wish I was a little less green about the way this world works. It would make digging for information on Antony’s death that much easier.
Benedicto bids me farewell when we reach the dining room. The doors are open, and I hear my father speaking. When I step into the doorway, I find him seated at his usual spot at the head of the table. His gold watch gleams under the chandelier’s light as he holds his cell phone to his head.
“I don’t care about the price,” he huffs into the mouthpiece. His eyes flick up and see me. He nods his head in silent greeting, then returns to his conversation. “No. That’s unacceptable. I will not lose that property. Get this mess sorted out and get me that deed or consider yourself fired.”
I expect the call to end with that, but whoever is on the other end of the call says something to prolong the conversation. I debate taking a seat to wait it out when I see a broad form move out of the corner of my eye.
My back straightens, but I relax when I identify one of my many second cousins, Maximo. The tan man is more muscular than the last time I saw him nearly two years ago. He and a group of distant family members moved to Chicago to expand the family business with the Italian family in control of the Windy City. What that entails, I have no idea, but based on the recently healed scars marring Maximo’s arms and hands, it was a rough job.
Maximo wears a tight gray T-shirt and a pair of dark blue jeans. The casual attire makes me feel overdressed in my purple blouse and black pencil skirt despite the fact I know my father would’ve thrown a fit if I showed up in anything less formal. He’s always been a stickler for image, even for a family meal.
