I don’t want to show him the pain I experienced. He doesn’t deserve my pain.
Enzo holds out his hand instead of taking mine like he usually does. He’s going to let be the one in control today. If I don’t want Enzo with me, all I would have to do is ask him to leave. He’ll be right by my side if I want him to, or he’ll remain only as a guard protecting me but not interfering.
I want to face my father on my own. But I could use Enzo’s help getting to that point.
I take his hand that instantly warms me.
We walk up the decks of the yacht and meet Langston and Zeke on the top deck. Both of them are solemn in their dark jeans and black T-shirts. They look like they are about to do battle. And I have no doubt they know as much as I do about my father, possibly more.
I notice the other yacht anchored next to us and the ramp that leads from ours to theirs that Langston and Zeke have been guarding.
Enzo give
s them a nod, and they silently traipse across the ramp. Enzo and I follow with my hand still gripped in his. When we reach the yacht my father captains, all the men stop as if we are royalty. They practically bow at us as we walk.
I don’t feel like a scared little girl anymore. I feel like a woman about to deliver her vengeance.
We reach a door, and our group stops. Langston and Zeke face away like they are ready to jump in front of a bullet to protect me. All the men on this yacht work for Enzo, so I don’t know what we have to fear here. I think they are more likely here to intimidate my father.
“Your father will meet you here,” Enzo says hesitating outside the door waiting for me to invite him in. But he already knows I won’t. I need to face my father on my own. Enzo doesn’t protest or ask to enter with me.
He leans down and kisses me on the cheek. “You got this.” He doesn’t say he’ll be here if I need him. The confidence in his voice tells me he doesn’t think I will need him.
I open the door and leave the only men who care about me outside while I enter the room where I’ll face my father.
The lock of the door behind me sounds like a closing to my soul. I’m trapped in this room that smells like blood and musk and men. A room my father and the rest of his crew enter to handle business and probably beat the shit out of each other when one of them fucks up.
I take a deep breath in and out, filling my lungs to prepare to speak to my father. My neck still throbs, but my voice is easier to use now. I don’t even have to wear the gauze covering anymore, but the stitches are starting to itch like a motherfucker.
There is a large oak desk with an executive chair I know I’m supposed to sit behind. It would give me control over the situation. Sitting behind that desk would make it clear I’m the boss and my father is nothing but a peon who needs to follow my orders.
But he’s still my father, and I don’t want to face him with a desk between us. So I pull the two chairs on the opposite side of the desk apart until they are facing each other and take a seat in one and wait.
My stomach does flips while I wait, which isn’t long. The door opens, and my father is standing in the doorway only minutes later. His face is bruised, and there is dried blood on his nose and the collar of his shirt. His hair looks disheveled, and his neck is heavily bruised.
He looks like he got in a fight mere hours ago. I notice Enzo standing behind him, staring at him with intense disgust. Like he wants to put a bullet between his eyes, instead of letting him into this office.
My eyes return to my father. Enzo did this. It has his mark all over him. He met with my father before he let me speak with him.
I should be angry at Enzo for controlling my life, but I’m not. I’m grateful. My father deserves every bit of pain he’s in and more, and I’m not strong enough to deliver the same level of punches Enzo can.
“Take a seat,” I command, not getting up from my own chair.
My father stiffens before the door is closed behind him. Then he takes a seat opposite me, crossing his legs like we are meeting for a casual lunch instead of meeting to discuss why he sold me.
He folds his hands in his lap, and for the first time, I realize how old he looks. He’s in his late sixties and still working, but I doubt he can handle the physical nature of this job much longer.
Questions fill my head—so many questions. But I don’t ask them. I let the silence fill the room, letting the silence stretch and unnerve him.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
I cut my eyes to him. “Thinking of all the ways I could kill you.”
“You wouldn’t kill your own father.”
“Maybe not, but I’m not sure I consider you a father anymore. Fathers don’t sell their daughters. Fathers don’t lie to their daughters their entire lives.”
“That’s what you are pissed at? That I didn’t tell you about the stupid game? The empire you could inherit if only you were strong enough?”