Part of me thinks it matters, though, because I want her to hate her father the same way I do. I want her to see him for the devil he is.
Sometimes I still feel the press of his gun against my temple. My mind tracks back to the day of my mother’s funeral, and I’m that twelve-year-old boy again, unable to do shit to Riccardo to defend myself. I hate that prick so much. The thought of Emelia thinking the sun shines from his ass makes me sick.
At the same time, she’s dirty by association to him. She’s his daughter. It’s enough for me to destroy them both. It’s enough for me to want to cut them down like grass. His empire and his precious daughter.
If only I didn’t want her.
Four days, and this is me.
Last night, when I mentioned the charity ball and watched confusion settle onto her pretty face, I felt sorry for her. Sorry for her and more disgusted at Riccardo for taking her to something like that. The Syndicate is a band of powerful men. They have a shit load of money. When you have money like that, it comes with certain privileges. Dark, arcane powers that normal people would never have access to, or ever conceive.
The charity ball is an example of that. Dressed to look like a fundraising event where members of the associated companies can indeed raise money for their sponsored charities, it also masks other activities. Things people class as dark and label the Syndicate as such.
Activities like auctions of virgins and the sale of young women are just some examples. Take your nineteen-year-old daughter to an event like that and dress her in black, and that opens the floor for bidding. While the Syndicate provides the facilities for darker tastes like that, they don’t monitor it. So, Ricardo could have dealt with anyone.
Emelia was like a lamb led to the slaughterhouse. Unknowing why she was really there and probably thinking it was some privilege. Innocent. She shouldn’t have been a part of that.
I woke this morning with her still pressed up against me. Naked and perfect. My cock is still hard from the memory of her. My heart still warmed from the way her fingers fluttered over my chest as she curled into me, her hair sprawled out on the pillow, like we’d spent the night having wild sex.
I was being serious when I said I was curious about her too. I shared a secret I shouldn’t have by telling her that.
For things to go the way I want, I can’t under any circumstances show emotion. This whole ordeal is a war between families that started years ago. The moment her father thought he could steal from mine and try to ruin his life.
The thing is, doing all this won’t change the past. Not a damn bit. It won’t do shit. It won’t bring my mother back. I know deep in my heart that my father’s life was ruined the moment he knew my mother killed herself.
Riccardo is the enemy, and so is Emelia. I can’t allow myself to feel for her.
I park on Andreas’ drive and get off my motorcycle. This visit was a long time coming. I should have made it already. Things are not okay between us. I can feel it, and I can’t allow the shit to continue if I want to be the kind of boss I hope to be.
Setting my helmet on the handle, I make my way past his convertible, which is open. Inside I notice a pair of panties.
He lives in a condo. He has the smallest house of all of us because he’s never in. When he’s not working at D’Agostinos, he’s sailing. At least we share that similarity with our love for anything to do with the water.
I walk up the steps to the door and notice that it’s open. It’s fucking nine in the morning, and he’s got his car and door open without a guard in sight.
Given the circumstances, I feel for my piece in my back holster.
It’s not like him to be so sloppy.
I make my way upstairs to his bedroom and instantly regret opening the door the moment I do.
In his bed are two naked women, fast asleep on top of the covers. Standing beside them is Andreas, getting a blow job from a naked blond woman.
“Fuck!” He winces when he sees me. I back away, closing the door.
Shit. I’m already in his bad books. Fuck, do I know how to make a situation worse than it is.
I walk into the kitchen and stand by the door, noticing bottles of wine and other bottles of liquor. Empty and full.
He comes in minutes later wearing a pair of joggers and one of his old college T-shirts.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize.
“Don’t mention it,” he replies and looks over the mess in the kitchen.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
“Came to see if you were alright.”