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“Can you tell me where we’re headed?” I ask, but the driver only offers a noncommittal hum. The cityscape blurs into nothingness as we merge onto I-95, the skyline shrinking fast behind us.
Forty-five minutes tick by, and still, the car eats away the miles with no obvious end in sight; I feel like I am being kidnapped. My patience frays with the monotony of the road as anxiety eats at my insides.
“Seriously, sir, where are you taking me? Canada?”
“Mr. Dexter ordered discretion, Miss,” is all the driver says, and I am unable to pry any more words from him.What must it be like to work for an arrogant, insufferable man like Liam?
His face graces all sorts of high-fashion magazines, and there, he is all smiles and good cheer, but there is chatter all-around of his true personality: Arrogant, mean, grumpy, domineering, A-hole, in one word . . . the Devil himself.
Discretion, huh!!! What distance could guarantee him that in Florida, if not the whole of America? No amount of distance is enough to keep Liam Dexter, or any other Dexter for that matter, out of the spotlight. Last time, cameras flashed before we could even push our chairs in. I snort at the irony of him picking a location so far away from Miami. We are still on I-95, driving at high speed. I wonder if he’s booked an entire Canadian province for privacy this time.
The car finally stops—thank God— and it’s a restaurant so quaint and isolated it might as well be in another country. The paparazzi would have to be borderline psychic to find us here.
“Good luck, Miss,” the driver nods as I step out, and there’s something about his tone that feels like he feels sorry for me.
“Thanks,” I mutter, my heart pounding against my ribs.I don’t need luck. I need poisoned arrows.
The maître d’ leads me through a labyrinth of linen-draped tables to where Liam waits, his smirk already etched into place like he’s won some unseen round.
“Tony,” he greets smoothly, standing with hands firmly clasped behind him as if to say, “I come in peace.”
I nod my salutations, looking him straight in the eye, determined to assert that I am not afraid of him while trying to block out the scent of his cologne that seems to be interfering with my electrical systems.
“Here I am, Liam,” I say, sliding into my seat with deliberate calm. "Why did you want to see me?”
“To talk,” he replies, gesturing for the waiter to approach, “Something we couldn’t do properly last time.”
“You and I couldn’t possibly have anything to talk about. You killed my father, but that was fifteen years ago. Why now? Why bring it all back upnow?” I ask, my voice icy and my hands clenched beneath the table.
He studies me, and there’s a flicker of . . . something before he schools his features back to that infuriating aloofness.
“Your father—”
He starts to say, then stops as the waiter brings our appetizers. I take advantage of the pause to say,
“Is dead because of you,” my voice rising despite my control. There is something about his voice that is a terrible trigger for me. Each time I hear it, in any medium, I just want to scream.
“How can you sit there and act like this is just some minor inconvenience?” I shoot at him, not bothering to disguise the hate I feel toward him. I don’t want to be here. I don’t have to play nice.
“Tony, your father’s death was an accident,” Liam insists, his eyes hardening. I’ve paid for it in more ways than you will ever know.”
“Paid?” I scoff, bitter and sharp. “Are you referring to the measly twelve years in prison or the million dollars you dropped at the auction that buys your entire family good graces and bottomless PR? You can’t buy my forgiveness, Liam. It is not up for sale.”
“Even serial killers who have done their time get forgiven at some point,” he says, his own tone rising to match mine, a challenge thrown down between us.
Dear Lord . . . the audacity of the man.Serial killers being forgiven? In what world does this oaf operate?I can’t believe what I’ve just heard, and the cold, hard stare I face before me makes me believe that an apology of begging for forgiveness is certainly not what Liam intended.
I turn to look at him again, and my vision is now blurred. I try to block out the sound, but Liam's audacious statement churns round and round in my head like a toxic typhoon. My eyes narrow into slits, trying to force them to focus, but I still can’t see him. I feel my lips tightening, betraying the storm of anger brewing within. With burning nostrils, I draw in a sharp breath that struggles to keep pace with my rising blood pressure, and only then do I regain my sight, high on Oxygen.
I want to cry, but tears won’t come; I want to scream, but I seem to have lost my voice. I want to pull his eyes out, but I seem to be glued to the chair. His words are an affront to everything I hold dear, an arrogant attempt to equate himself with those who have paid their dues.
Anguish clenches my jaw, muscles tensing as if to contain the surge of disbelief and disdain threatening to erupt. Every fiber of my being resists the urge to unleash the torrent of hate I feel.
I bite my tongue, the metallic taste of blood and frustration mingling with the bitter cocktail of anger and grief as I struggle to breathe, and that’s when I snap, the last thread of composure shredded by his callous words.
I grab the bowl of gazpacho soup in front of me and fling it at him, the red liquid splattering across his pristine thousand-dollar white shirt, looking like a bloodstain where his heart should be.
“Go to hell, Liam Dexter,” I scream, standing so quickly that my chair topples over. Finally, the tears I thought would never come sting my eyes, hot and furious, as I storm out of the restaurant. I don’t look back, not even when I hear my name being called.
