Not like us Ivers men can ever truly be forgiven.
“I’d rather talk about Mom.”
He rolls his eyes. “I know you would; you love deflection. But we need to hash this out already.”
“Fine. What about him?” I ask, forcing nonchalance into my tone and knowing my father can see right through it. You don’t get to be the CEO of a tech empire and an associate for the mob without learning a few tricks along the way.
“When’s the last time you visited him?”
“Earlier this week, maybe? I don’t know, Dad, I do a lot of different things. It’s hard to keep up.”
His mouth works into a thin, firm line, and he leans forward, clasping his hands together. They’re meatless, striped with the blood pumping beneath his almost translucent skin, but they hold the weight of his deepest transgressions.
Kind of like how mine live in the slump of my shoulders, the shadows in my mind.
“Jesus, Kieran, you know you’re supposed to be going there daily. What if something happens to him?”
Even though I know he means Murphy’sgrave, something pinches in my chest at how protective he seems over his dead son. The actually evil one, the real monster; it’s as if he forgot I only pulled on the wolf’s costume in light of his death and that I wasn’t born this way.
And how I’m being raked over the coals for not visiting his empty resting place.
“About that—when and how did that become my responsibility?”
“Who else would you propose do it? Do you honestly trust any of the fuckers around here to keep watch?”
I shrug. “You could do it.”
His dark eyebrows raise, wrinkling his forehead. “I’m almost sixty-years-old, Kieran. What am I supposed to do if there’s an ambush?”
“You’re right.” I match his expression with an exasperated one of my own, eyes widening and mouth scrunching together. “If only there was something you could use, some kind ofweapon, that’d make defending yourself easier.”
A knock sounds at his door, and his assistant Lisa’s voice comes in over the intercom. “Sir, Mr. Kelly’s here for your two o’clock.”
“Send him in.” There’s a loud click behind me, the sound of several locks unlatching at once, and then Boyd’s entering the room, a manila envelope tucked under his arm. He takes a seat in the chair beside me, giving me a curt nod, and I raise an eyebrow back in acknowledgment.
Out of principle, we don’t interact much in the municipal Ivers International building, because doing so draws attention to the shift in our friendship dynamic. Highlights how Boyd Kelly, son of a groundskeeper and a third-grade teacher, leveraged his friendship with me to steal my position at my family company.
Of course, that’s just how the town tabloids phrase it; Boyd didn’t—wouldn’t—willingly take anything from me. He’s a different breed of asshole than the rest of the men in our circles; secretive for seemingly no reason, as though the skeletons in his closet are any dirtier than my own.
Still, to keep the peace, we rarely discuss Ivers International, so sitting next to him in the CEO’s office in the middle of a workday is slightly daunting.
My fingers grip the plastic chair between my legs, envy at how much he looks like he belongs here—in his navy suit and moussed hair, the general air of comfort swirling about him—making my body itch.
“What’ve you got?” My father grunts, shooting me a look that says our conversation is far from over.
“Just the Stonemore financial audit you asked for.” He pulls the envelope from under his arm and slides it across the desk. “It looks like you’re right, they’re funneling money in from somewhere, and it doesn’t appear to be coming in through the more common illegal routes in this part of the state.”
“So, they’re not trafficking drugs.” My father pulls the files out, spreading them across his desk and scanning them, eyes darting along each page in time with his pointer finger. “At least, not anymore. The Montaltos are the last ones they skimmed?”
“Yes, and it looks like it stopped right around the time Dominic Harrison… committed suicide.”
Swallowing over the sudden dryness in my throat, I shift in my seat, aware of their eyes on me as I lean forward, pulling a sheet closer. “They got caught stealing from Elia and switched tactics. So what? That kind of shit happens all the time.”
“Not with organized crime, especially a unit so widespread and established.” Boyd pulls out another envelope, fishing a handful of tickets from it. He slams them on the desk, shoving them in my direction. “You remember when Harrison was trying to sell you, Caroline?”
I roll my eyes. “Of course. First time I ever considered paying for pussy.” My father glares at me, and I shrug. “What? I didn’t do it, did I?”
“You don’t have to be so damn crass,” he mutters, gesturing for Boyd to go on.