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Corporate interests maneuver behind the scenes, using their influence to stall progress. Father has all his henchmen working, paying off all those favors he already paid for, and generous contributions to self-serving fundraisers and political contributions.
There are many billionaires in the world . . . show me one that is not ruthless.
Well, the daggers are sharpened, and I am ready for war. This is my legacy. What would it be its worth if I wasn’t prepared to give it my all . . . give it my life!!!
Chapter nine
THE DATE WITH THE DEVIL. TAKE TWO.
TONY
My phone buzzes against the kitchen counter, a stark interruption to the silence. It is Wednesday morning, and we are waiting for the hospice intake nurse to come. This is a very somber morning as this simple, necessary activity solidly hammers the last nail in the coffin of hope. Hospice usually means one thing and one thing alone. It is the end of time.
The patient is kept comfortable until they pass. Nobody is trying to make them better, and nobody is offering hope of any kind—like I said, a very somber moment. The alert on my phone now jingles, letting me know that I have a text message. I glance at the screen and cry inwardly in order not to scare Mom; it’s from Liam.
Tony, the message begins casually, as if we’re old chummy friends.This is Liam.That date last Saturday shouldn’t count. Your siblings spent the whole evening attacking me, I didn’t have a chance to say what I paida million dollars at the auction for. I think a do-over iswarranted.
I stare at the words in disbelief, each one a tiny jab straight through my aching heart. My fingers hover over the screen, hesitant, unsure whether to respond or call the brigade first. The memory of our last dinner, with my brothers and sisters grilling him like a suspect under hot lights, brings a small smile of satisfaction to my face. They had spunk; I’ll give them that.
Liam went through a horrendous episode with my siblings. Why on earth would he want another “Date?” Reasonable, sensitive, and compassionate aren’t words anyone of sane mind would use to describe Liam Dexter. Entitled, maybe. Presumptuous, definitely. Kind? . . . most definitely not, so here he is, asking—no, demanding— a second go at it.A redo on his terms.
How much pain does he feel the need to inflict on our family . . . on me? Could he really be so insensitive to recognize that the mere act of looking at him, even from afar, causes excruciating pain? How can anyone be so oblivious? This wound had healed. Why is he opening it up again . . . and now, of all times?
An angry sigh escapes me as I type out a response, feeling every bit the reluctant participant in his charade. I recognize that there are monsters on this planet that you can only kill with a direct approach, kind of like a vampire . . . up close and personal.
I will go meet my monster and put this thing to bed once and for all, though only God knows what “this thing” really is. What does he want from me? Redemption? Absolution from his sin? I don’t have the power nor the bandwidth to give him either. That is between him and his God, though I wonder: Does the Devil pray to God, too? I text back.
Fine. But be prepared to answer my questions, too.
My finger hovers for a little while, uncertainty gripping me at the very last minute, and then I press send before I can second-guess myself out of responding. There’s a part of me— buried beneath layers of skepticism and hurt— that needs to hear what he has to say.
What could be so important that he had to pay one million dollars for just to have my ears? One million dollars. That’s no small price to pay for a conversation. I smash my index finger on the send button, then stop breathing as I wait to see what will happen next.
The reply comes quick, almost immediately, as if he had been holding his phone in anticipation.
Thank you. Please confirm if Saturday 2 PM will work for you, and I’ll send a car.
“Of course you will,” I mutter under my breath, locking the phone and tossing it onto the table. It skids across the surface, an apt metaphor for how I’m sliding into a situation I’m not sure I want any part of.
I push back from the table, the chair scraping loudly against the tile, scaring my mother and her aide half to death, the sound ricocheting off the walls, filling the room with an echo of my frustration.
“Baby, are you alright?” my mother asks in a weak, almost pained voice.
“Oh, yes, mama. Just an annoying gnat on my phone,” I say, walking over to drop a loving kiss on her head.
I walk back to the kitchen area and start pacing around the kitchen island, my steps measured and heavy, wondering if I should tell Dick, Jenny and Lola what’s happening. With each lap, the anger I feel toward this loathsome man simmers. The indignation I feel toward his arrogance; his belief that he can orchestrate everything in his own timeline and to his liking.
I could have said no, wishing I had the guts to use some very colorful language like Dick used on him, but I didn’t. Curiosity has gotten the better of me, so here I am, playing into his hand because of this slippery something that gnaws at me—a question, a what-if that just won’t leave me alone. What did he want to say? What could possibly be worth a million dollars and a second attempt through the minefield of my family’s disdain? What the heck did Father O’Malley mean?
I stop pacing, leaning heavily on the counter top. My own reflection stares back at me from the polished granite—a woman caught between the need for answers and the weight of a past that refuses to stay buried.
“Let’s see what you’ve got, you mongrel,” I whisper to my mirrored self. The challenge is there, in the set of my jaw, the fire in my eyes. Whatever game he’s playing, it won’t be an easy win—not for him, anyway.
The car will be here soon, according to the confirmation I just received from you know who, and so will the truth—or some version of it, filtered through the lens of Liam Dexter’s ego, I am sure. I steel myself for the encounter, for the clash of wills that seems inevitable.
The sleek black sedan purrs to a halt in front of my house, its tinted windows betraying nothing of the world inside. I slide into the backseat with a knot in my stomach, the leather cool and unyielding beneath me. “Good afternoon, Miss,” the driver nods in the rearview mirror.
I manage a curt nod, my fingers fidgeting with the hem of my dress. As we pull away, my gaze lingers on the familiar streetsof Miami, knowing with each passing moment that I’m diving deeper into whatever web Liam has spun this time.
