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“Well, that’s for you to figure out, isn’t it? I can’t hand you everything on a silver fucking platter. Do not fuck this up.”
Sly Fox is a bully. Always has been. Always will be. Even to Ethan. I contemplate the question of nature vs. nurture. If he’d been kinder to Ethan, would Ethan be less of a shit now?
The woman closes the door and turns, gasping when she sees us. “Oh, goodness. You’re quiet.”
“Didn’t mean to scare you, ma’am,” I say. “Mr. Fox is expecting us. Silas Cruz.”
Her eyes skip between mine, and I know she knows I’m Sly’s son even though he has only acknowledged Ethan as such.
“Of course. Just a moment.”
“Let them in,” comes Sly’s voice before the woman has even knocked on the door.
I nod to the woman in thanks and walk into the office to find Sly leaning back in his chair, feet up on his desk, looking casual and relaxed. It’s an act. Ethan is standing at the window sipping on a whiskey and giving me a death glare.
I think about Ophelia the other night. What she said. Of course, they’ve been intimate. I know that. Why it bothers me now, though, is what I’m trying to make sense of.
“Would either of you gentlemen like something to drink?” Sly’s assistant asks.
Ethan snorts, mutters something about the use of the word gentlemen.
“They’re fine,” Sly says. “Close the door behind you, Lydia.”
“Yes, sir, good night,” Lydia says and leaves.
Sly’s eyes never leave mine as he straightens up and puts his dirty shoes on the floor. I take a seat. Nigella sets her briefcase on his desk and opens it.
“Silas. Heard about Esmerelda’s passing. My condolences.”
“Keep them.”
“No reason we can’t be polite.”
“I’m not here to be polite. I’m here to lend you the money that’s going to keep Hart & Fox Enterprises afloat.”
“At rates of a loan shark,” Sly says with a smile.
“You can get your money from the bank if you prefer,” I say, standing. “Oh wait, they won’t lend to you.”
“Sit down, Silas. Fucking dramatic.” He shakes his head.
Ethan snorts again, refreshes his whiskey.
“Don’t be rude, Ethan. Offer our guests a drink,” Sly tells Ethan.
I look over at him, seeing Ophelia every time I do. Hating that he’s had his hands on her.
Ethan carries the whiskey over along with two glasses and slams them down on the desk.
“Careful, son. That’s expensive shit,” I say, pouring a glass for myself when Nigella declines.
Ethan grits his teeth but a glance from Dad, and he keeps his mouth shut. They need me—and I’m going to enjoy every moment of it.
Nigella lays out the paperwork. “I have the NDA, which we’ll need both your signatures on,” she says. “Followed by the contract you already reviewed.”
Sly pulls the NDA over, picks up a pen and skims the document, his mouth a sneer.
“Was it you?” he asks, as he turns the page.
