At once, he’s exactly the same and completely different as the last time I saw him. Years ago, when I made the decision that ultimately landed me in prison. He’s a little rougher around the edges, and I notice a scar running up his left forearm, disappearing under the pushed-up sleeves of his button-up.
But in everything else, he’s the same. Same dusty brown hair, same salt and pepper stubble. Same dark brown eyes, the kindthat make his romantic prospects melt on the spot. Disarming, too much like a woodland animal for them to realize he’s the fox.
And even now, I fight against the spark of joy, of familiarity inside me at the sight of him. Maybe there will always be a little girl inside me who wants nothing more than to run to her dad.
“Isn’t this all…” I lift a finger and twirl it to indicate the warehouse, the single folding table at which my father sits, the creaking wood and filtered sunlight through filthy windows… “a bit dramatic?”
His grin only grows. “I see things have been boring for you, here in Wisconsin.”
“I can’t believe they let you into this country.”
“Who isthey? Come on, Dubs, you know better than that.”
I swallow, glance around. “So, what’s the big job? What can’t you pull of yourself?”
Something flickers over his face—that ego rising up inside him—but he banishes it quickly, smiling up at me like an actor determined to play his part.
“Phone on the table. Face up, you know the drill.”
I take my phone from my pocket and place it on the table, out of his reach but with the face up. Reaching over to hold the buttons, I power it down in front of him.
“Perfect.” He laces his fingers together, leans back in his chair, and gestures to the chair across from him. “Sit down.”
I’m loath to follow his instructions, but I do. My heart riots in my chest, my head a mixture of relief and pure hatred for myself. After all that work, everything I did to get out of this life, how could I allow myself back to this place?
“It was very clever,” Dad finally says when I don’t offer to speak first. My question still hovers in the air—whatisthe job?—but he seems much more interested in drawing out this conversation first. “Getting yourself out there online. Always the strategist, you. Not willing to answer my phone calls, but finding a way to communicate, anyway.”
My face flames. Maybe another example of how relaxed I’d been, to think that Luca and I showing up online wouldn’t trigger my father into coming here. I’d lulled myself into a false sense of security, thinking my dad wouldn’t dare come to a city this small.
Somewhere like New York or L.A. is more his speed. He’s even spent time in Miami, schmoozing with land developers and running cons amongst the palm trees. But the Midwest? He never really liked going to Chicago, turning his nose up at the Windy City and wanting to leave as soon as possible when we were there.
Not that we were ever in the U.S. that long anyway. He preferred to be somewhere else, like being in our home country would increase our chances of being picked up and locked away.
Again, he’s the one to talk when I don’t say anything.
“I’ll tell you about the job, but first, you tell me what you’ve been up to with that team.”
My father smirks, bringing his hands up and setting them on the table, steepling them like I’ve seen him do a million times before. The gesture is so familiar to me that it sends a little shock through my body, the realization that I haven’t seen it in years, and yet recognize it so immediately.
“I’m a strategist,” I say through the gravel in my throat, then look up and meet his eyes. “But you know that. You got me fired.”
He doesn’t even bother feigning surprise. “Well, someone on the outside might have thought you were getting a little too comfortable, Wren. Like you really weren’t planning to come back.”
I bite my tongue to keep from defending Luca’s intelligence. That’s the bait—my father wants to figure out how much I like him.
“You leaked our strategy to the other teams. How?”
“Always so detail-oriented,” he laughs, rolling his eyes. “I’ll tell you if you agree to the job,andnot to be pissed off about it. I was just looking out for you, making sure you didn’t get sucked in. You were putting on a little bit too good of a show with that airhead hockey player.”
Shrugging, I pray I’ve maintained my poker face and lean back in the seat, forcing myself to relax. To use all the tactics I’ve been taught through the years. Don’t look stressed. Find the upper-hand. Use a power pose.
“That’s why you need me, I guess,” I quip, meeting his eyes, preying on his narcissism. “Someone who can makeanyonebelieve.”
Dad’s face morphs into an expression I can’t quite parse, and he cracks his neck from side to side before popping each of his knuckles. Another familiar move. “Paris. Fashion week. A certain designer would like another’s clothing to disappear.”
I blink at him, barely stifling my laugh. “Really, Dad? I didn’t realize you were a man for hire now.”
He bristles, but keeps it under control. “When you see the pay, you’ll be a full-time employee, Dubs. But I need to hear you say that you’re going to do it before we get into the details.”
