And if Dad knows Milly and I are together, he knows she means something to me.
Dad is really, really good at weaponizing the things and people I love.
I move my hand over Lucy’s velvety head in an effort to stay calm. “Reese and I decided to end our engagement, yes. It was mutual, and it was pretty damn amicable as far as breakups go. Before you freak out, our business agreement with the Nobles still stands, so you have nothing to worry about.”
“Oh, but I do, son.” He glances over his shoulder. “So do you, from the looks of it.”
I give Lucy’s ears each a gentle tug. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Quit the bullshit,” he hisses, suddenly feral as he looks back at me. “We needed this wedding to cement our reputation.”
“Our reputation is solid as ever, thanks to me.”
“And thanks to you, everything’s at risk.” Spittle flying from his mouth, he jabs a finger toward the ground. “You can’t tell me this ain’t gonna hurt us. Once people hear about you and Reese splittin’ up, rumors are gonna start. People’ll wonder if there’s bad blood. They’ll start pricing risk into their dealings with us. Because if there’s a chance the Nobles pull out of Kingsley Distilling, we’re fucked.”
I grit my teeth. “I already told you, Chris and Reese are solid. They aren’t going anywhere.” I look down at Lucy, whose eyes are closed as I scratch her neck. “These ‘dealings’ you’re talking about—you mean you’re worried your bookies are adding extra points to the money you owe them?”
“I don’t owe anyone jack shit.”
“Good,” I bite out. “Then we really do have nothing to worry about.”
Dad stands there, his mouth quivering in anger. I have a bad feeling about all of this. Dad’s cagey as hell, but this kind of vehemence is new.
He’s scared, which means he’s in trouble.
God-fucking-dammit.
“You’re making a mistake, son,” he says at last. “It’s not too late to ask Reese to take you back. Beg if you have to. Make this right, or I will.”
I see red, but somehow I’m able to keep my voice deadly calm. “I love you, Dad. God knows why. But I respect you as a craftsman, and I’ve dedicated my life to the heritage you’ve passed on to me. But if you so much as lay a finger on someone I care about, I will kill you.”
The words settle between us, heavy and cold. For several charged beats, we stare each other down. His chin tilts up in defiance, his eyes mean little slits in his head. I’m shaking—did I really just threaten to murder my own father?—but the adrenaline brings with it a kind of relief that has me walking through the steps in my head. First, I imagine putting Lucy down, keeping her behind me. Then I would charge down the steps and take the collar of Dad’s ridiculous suede jacket in my left hand. I picture delivering a solid blow to his cheek with my right, his head snapping back.
Would it take that kind of violence to show him I’m not messing around?
Would Silas help me bury the body?
I push those thoughts from my head, along with the highly satisfying image of blood gushing from Dad’s nose. I’m not the kind of man who settles scores with my fists. We all know how West Side Story ends.
I can’t deny the joy it brings me, though—not the blood, but the idea of being done with Dad forever. Because there’d be no coming back from that. Dad is proud as they come, and he’d never speak to me again. He wouldn’t work with me either, which means one of us would have to leave the distillery.
The idea of leaving all that behind is scary, sure. But maybe it’s not as scary as the idea of putting up with this man’s bullshit for the rest of my life.
“I see how it is,” Dad says, nodding slowly. “Gettin’ a little big for your britches, aren’t you? You seem to forget you’d be nothing without me. The distillery, the business, all of it—you have it because of me, son. You’re nothing without the name I gave you.” Now he’s jabbing his finger into his chest. “You lose me, and you lose everything. Remember that.”
I stare him down. “Because of you, I lost everything once. I’ll be damned if I make the same mistake twice.”
“You,” he spits. “You’re my biggest mistake.”
I know he’s baiting me, but his shot still lands with devastating accuracy in the center of my chest.
“Get the fuck out of here.”
He smiles, a wicked little thing. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Milly
“You happen to have any extra oyster shuckers at your place?”
Tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder, I frown. “Samuel, why the hell would I keep extra oyster shuckers at my home that is approximately three hundred miles from the nearest ocean?”