“Fuck.” He opens his door and faces me, his eyebrows bunched together. “Ed or Francis?”
“Ed.” My father, not my grandfather.
He mutters another curse and grabs a black button-up shirt and black pants. Lucky for Troy, he gets to wear the same casual outfit each day. I’m expected to be in a suit, or at the very least, a button-down shirt and slacks.
Twenty-five minutes later, we pull up to Rendsell, a mansion on the outskirts of San Esteban. It’s at the far end of the Salding District where the homes are monstrous, tacky, and expensive as hell.
We go in through the kitchen because the ostentatious front door is manned by my grandfather’s butler, Roy, and we hate each other’s guts. He’ll have already seen us driving up, but at least this way we don’t have to talk to each other.
Troy takes his station outside my father’s office door. I walk in. A large wind-up clock sits on the shelf at the window behind my dad, ticking away. The sunlight coming through the curtains is weak. It might even rain later today.
My dad stands to greet me with a handshake. His gray hair matches the clouds outside. His cool blue eyes look me over, searching me for weakness. No doubt he’s already catalogued a dozen things wrong with my appearance. He opens a cigar case and offers it to me.
I fight to keep my lip from curling in disgust. “No, thanks.”
He selects one for himself, cuts it, lights it. “How was Patrick Aseyev’s party?”
“A shitshow.” I affect a casual tone. “Cops were called. The family turned on each other. Looks like Patrick’s going down for sexual assault. Sergey’s furious.”
“I see.”
He already knows all of this. Jon probably reported, last night or early this morning.
Which makes me wonder why I’m here.
Like usual, I feel about three inches tall when standing in front of my dad. He’s actually an inch shorter than me, but he’s stockier. He has presence.
He puffs on his cigar. Fuck, that stinks. “And your interlude with their daughter after?”
I jolt. A mistake. “How the fuck do you know about that?”
Another puff. He closes his eyes, savoring it. “Jon.”
Of course. I should’ve guessed Jon would tell him that, too. Jon is loyal to my dad and only my dad.
I clench my fists. Why did I fucking react? I wish I could be more like Troy. Calm. Unflappable.
Dad probably wishes I could be more like Troy, too.
Never gonna happen. I feel too much.
Fuck.
Nails clicking fast against hardwood alert me to the incoming eighty-plus pounds of clingy Doberman barreling toward me.
Dad snorts in disgust as Arky puts his paws all over my pants and whines for attention. I let my hand curl around the back of his head, scratching behind his mercifully uncut ears.
Arky is two years old. He was meant to be a guard dog, kept out in the yard, but he didn’t get as big as his brothers. My father wanted to drop him at the animal shelter, but my mother convinced him to let the dog stay.
My parents have fucked things up many times over. But letting Arky live in the house might make up for the rest of their faults. They even let me name him after one of my favorite Pokémon characters.
Dad clears his throat, pointedly looking away from the dog. “Tell me about Danica Aseyev.”
“Her last name is Montrose.” I continue scratching Arky’s ears. His tongue lolls and he looks up at me with worshipful brown eyes.
Dad waves a hand. “She’s an Aseyev, we all know it.”
“She isn’t even aware of her grandfather’s business interests, as far as I can tell.” I channel Troy for the next bit. Calm. Uncaring. Placid. “She’s useless to us.”
