Emil Moreau led the pack, continuing forward to the single chair facing us, while the rest flanked him.
He wasn’t the oldest. I’d studied the dossier extensively and knew each one by heart. Kaiser was born first. He stood farthest to the right, his dark hair thick and rising a couple of inches off his skull, while Valentin and Victor came next, followed by Hadrien, the second youngest son next to Micah, and then Eslem, the only girl off to the far left. They were all in order by age behind Emil, their hands clasped behind them like drones.
Except for the daughter. Hers were in front of her.
“Welcome,” Michael said, gesturing to the chair. “Please.”
Emil took the seat, crossing one leg over the other, his russet hair parted on the right and slicked back, the hollows of his pale cheeks making him look elven. He cast his eyes to Micah, taking note of his youngest brother on the other side of the table. The tension in the air thickened.
“I’ve heard a great deal about you.” Michael took his seat, and so did the rest of us. “You sculled for Oxford before competing in the Olympics.”
“And finishing sixth,” Emil offered, his accent unplaceable.
Their father was French and Syrian, but they were from a variety of mothers. Only Micah and Eslem were from the same Serbian girl.
And I say girl, because she was sixteen when Micah was born. Eighteen when Eslem was born and died in childbirth.
“But in the Olympics,” Michael pressed. “Your father must’ve been proud.”
“He was.” Emil nodded, leaning back in the chair. “My father approved of failure. It meant only our best was ahead of us.”
“I hope that still rings true,” Michael told him. “We’ve had pleasure doing business with him the past ten years.”
Emil smiled tightly, and my stomach sank, knowing already it wasn’t going to be that easy.
Micah owned part of the resort, but we all knew where the money came from. We justified it, because Stalinz Moreau didn’t run drugs and he didn’t run women. Over the years we got comfortable, because he had no interest in complicating the arrangement. He collected his twelve percent, his name was on nothing, and we got to keep Micah—and by extension, Rory—free and clear. Everyone won.
“You tolerated my father for Micah’s sake,” Emil said, “and because he invested in you.”
Michael inhaled, already breaking his poker face. “It’s…no secret we saw eye to eye on very little. But we were able to work together. Mutual cooperation was nothing but good for our businesses.”
“Good, but not great,” Emil retorted, his voice eerily calm “My father was getting old. He thought he had enough money, and he lost sight of what we were building.
“Which was?”
“A legacy that survives,” Emil replied. “He should’ve stepped down ages ago.”
Micah shifted in his seat, and I trailed my eyes over the faces of his siblings, Kaiser looking stern, Valentin staring at the floor, Victor gazing at Winter, cocking his head like she was a meal, and Hadrien and Eslem with their eyes unfocused, listening.
“Your share has been fair,” Michael said. “Fair keeps us friends. Do you not like friends?”
“We’re not like our father.”
“Cooperative?”
“Weak,” Emil fired back, not missing a beat. “Friends are unpredictable. Secrets, on the other hand, always have value, and your family is rich in those, aren’t they?”
“As is yours,” Michael answered.
Emil’s eyes flashed to Micah, disdain and a promise written in them.
“We’ll increase your percentage to twenty-four percent,” Michael stated. “That keeps us friends.”
“I think you’ve been mistaken.” Emil’s lips pursed in a smile. “We require half. Half keeps us polite.”
I lifted my chin, trying to appear unshaken, but my eyes darted to the girl again, seeing her gaze on the top of the wooden table unfazed.
I didn’t think she’d even blinked yet.