Broken Kingdom (Corium University Trilogy 3)

“I wanted to discuss a matter that’s better handled in person. Quinton, my friend, Roman, and his son, Ren, happened to be with me when we decided to stop by.” My father’s lie rolls off his tongue smoothly.

“Of course.” Valentine smiles. “Let’s sit and have a drink, catch up.” He motions for us to follow him to the sitting room. I don’t particularly want to sit down, but as my father has explained many times, it’s better to play the game. I disagree. Why put up this fake front? No one is trying to win an Oscar for best actor.

“Can I offer you a drink? Whiskey?” Valentine asks, taking a seat on one of the large leather chairs. Ren and I sit down on one of the sofas while Roman and my dad sit on another.

“No, I’d rather get straight to the point,” my father answers. “Your son, Matteo. I want him dead.”

Valentine leans back in his chair. If he’s shocked, he doesn’t give anything away. “Is that so? What did he do to piss you off?”

“He hurt someone who is under our protection.”

“What? He wouldn’t do that. Who is that supposed person?”

“Aspen Mather.”

This time, Valentine’s eyes widen in surprise. “Her? You never announced she was, and why would she be? How should my son have known that?”

“He fucking knew!” I growl, earning a warning glare from my dad.

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you will hand over your son.”

“Fuck, I will. This is a bullshit accusation, and you know it.”

“You know what else I know? I know you like to dress up as a little girl and get your ass fucked by some well-hung black guy. What was his name again? Bernard?”

I almost choke on my own spit. The fuck? I think my father is bluffing for a split second, making up some rumor to spread, but when I see Valentine turning pale, I realize this has to be true.

“How… how do you know about that?” He hasn’t even finished his questions when my father pulls out his phone and plays a video recording.

“Squeal for me, little piggy…” A man’s voice with a French accent fills the room. “Let me hear how much you like getting your ass rimmed by my fat cock.”

“Turn that off!” Valentine gets up from his seat, puffing his chest as he reaches for my father’s phone. Of course, Dad is faster and easily evades his hand.

Casually, my father stuffs his phone back into his pocket and looks up at Valentine, completely unfazed. “I want Matteo, or this video will be released.”

“Are you asking me to sacrifice my son to save myself from being publicly humiliated?”

“Yes, and we both know that you are that kind of man. Just imagine the way your men would look at you. How your peers would laugh at you. How much power you would lose—”

“All right, all right, I got it. I’ll tell you where Matteo is.”

“No, you are going to have him come here. We’re not leaving without him.”

“He is not stupid; he won’t come here now. He probably already knows you’re here.” Dick pulls out a handkerchief from his pocket and pads his sweaty forehead.

“Not my problem. Get him here.”

“Look, how about as a gesture of goodwill, I’ll make sure the video of the Mather girl is destroyed.”

“Video?” my father asks. “From the other night?”

“Yes.” Valentine nods and clears his throat. He looks beyond flustered, his eyes scanning the room as if he is trying to come up with an escape plan. “My idiot sons took a video, but I’ll make sure it never gets out.”

“Did you just say sons, as in plural?” I grit through my teeth, ready to rip someone’s throat out. Valentine knows he’s fucked up. His face goes from pale to white, and thick beads of sweat form on his forehead.

“Fuck,” Valentine curses. “I mean, he was there, but I don’t think he touched her.”

“I want to see the video,” I demand. Getting up from where I’m sitting, I take a step toward Matteo’s father. He instantly takes a step back. “Now!”

“I don’t have it, but I’ll get it—” I don’t let him finish the sentence. I close the distance between us and wrap my hand around his throat, slamming his body backward onto the coffee table.

“Give me your fucking phone!”

He shakes his head and opens his mouth, but no words come out, only a pained wheeze. His eyes flicker to somewhere in the room, probably to my father, hoping he’ll hold me back.

He slams his fist into my ribs a few times, but his punches are so weak I barely feel them. His other hand claws at my arm, but even the deep scratches on my skin hardly register.

Only when he is turning blue, and his eyes start bulging out of his sockets does he reach into his back pocket and pull out his phone.