Just like I remember him.
It's edging 5 p.m., and Clay still isn't home, so I'm not sure why his father is wandering the halls. Not that it's any of my business what the comings and goings of a man like him are, or—
He turns to acknowledge me; blue eyes not unlike Clay's settle on me. Matching chilling orbs of power and indifference like a fallen angel might have. Beautiful, yet heart shattering.
His muscles are larger than Clay's, his form monstrous even within a black suit, and there wouldn’t be much left of the person who decided this suited man was gentlemanly in nature.
The last time I saw him, he was watching my ultrasound with entitled interest in the baby in my belly. An interest I didn’t quite understand like I do now. He is my dad's enemy. Just like Clay.
The baby—me—we were bait.
I wonder what I am to him now…
"Fawn," he says my name without emotion. A polite acknowledgement of sorts. "I was looking for my wife." I expect him to ask if I have seen her, but he doesn't.
"Oh." I glance around the empty corridors, which is ridiculous because it's as though I must prove I haven't seen her by indicating her absence around us. I shuffle awkwardly, saying, "I haven't seen her."
Ugh. Clever girl, Fawn.
He smiles tightly and nods his response and his farewell in that gesture, but before he can turn to leave, I step towards him, my mouth rushing as my mind struggles to catch its heel. "Mr Butcher?" He stops, and I take a step closer to him. "Tell me about my dad."
"Luca," he insists, casually turning to face me as though I didn't just drop a bomb of a statement on his arse.
"Okay. Luca. Can you tell me about my dad?"
"You should ask my son."
"I'm askingyou," I press, unsure at what point I became so ballsy that I'm ready to stand my ground while literally standing on his. Maybe it was Aurora… I can still feel her hand on my shoulder. A humming reminder to be myself. That, of course, doesn't stop my hands from shaking, so I reach for my hair, twirling a golden ribbon around my finger to avoid the idling tremors. "You said that you have known my father for many years—"
"My son will decide what you—"
"But you didn't tell me that you meant to use me and my baby to lure him out for your revenge, which might have worked if he cared enough about me, but he doesn't, does he?" I take a big breath and say, "I'd like to know why?" I hold that breath when the last word leaves my lips. Realisation settles. I interrupted him and poked at him without any knowledge of the kind of man he is or how he would respond to my surfacing contempt. I don't hate him. I don't think I like him though. Which only lumps him in with almost everyone else I've met.
They lie.
They use.
He did both.
He remains neutral, eyeing me with scepticism shifting over his rough, hard features. Then a hint of approval taps at a corner of his mouth—a tick of a grin. "Okay. Let's discuss your father. But if you are set on talking business with an old man then it would be customary to offer him a whiskey."
I breathe out my relief, nodding at him in agreement. "Okey dokey. I can do that. Clay keeps his whiskey in the office."
His grin slides a hint further, and his arms widen, indicating that the next move is mine. That I should lead the way. It's a kind of act because, I am certain, he knows exactly where the whiskey is kept.
Even though I know the way to Clay's office, I second guess myself at a few corners in the hallway, but Luca pretends not to notice.
When we enter the rich navy-blue office space with the delicate wooden trimming around the recessed ceiling, I rush towards the glowing cabinet and cringe as I try the glass door, hoping it's unlocked.
It is.
I pour into a short glass, stopping at about halfway up the globe, but as I go to screw the cap back on the bottle of whiskey, Luca says, "And one for yourself, my girl."
I look at the carpet and notice the cream-coloured fibres entwined with slightly darker ones, the image of me on my knees as I tried to rip the miss-coloured fibres out flashes behind my eyes.
I clear my throat.
Pouring myself a glass that matches his, I ignore the memory. I sit down on the sofa opposite him, setting his glass down on the table between us. And his silence is so powerful; I bet men and women spill all their secrets and show all their cards as he assesses the scene in effortless pensive silence. "I don't know what to ask because I don't know anything about him. All I know is that he is my blood, and everyone hates him, and I can't help but feel— Were you ever…friends?"