The entire drive there, I tried calling Da and Cillian. Finally, I called Mom and told her to try to reach them and not stop until she found them and told them not to go to the refinery.
“But why?” she asked for the millionth time.
“Because fucking stop asking questions, Mom. Just do it!”
I parked in front of Syllie’s place in Charlestown, a ten-bedroom Jacobian-style mansion, stark white over black windows, with a lush front yard I currently wanted to set on fire. I slammed the driver’s door shut and tromped my way to the entrance, banging on the door, then punching the bell five times for good measure. It was way past visiting hours, but if I wasn’t going to get some sleep tonight, fuck if anyone in his family would.
Syllie opened the door with a scowl, wearing a purple burgundy house robe. I swear my libido bled to death the second I saw him.
His face turned from deadly to pleasant in an instant.
“Hunter, what a lovely surprise. I thought you were supposed to be on your way to Maine?” he asked innocently.
“God, terrible acting. I’m talking Harrison Ford in The Frisco Kid. Just terrible. We need to talk.”
“Something happened?” He grimaced.
I wanted to punch his teeth in. I smiled instead. I’d asked Aisling to work on Mom and convince her to give me the private plane to get to Maine—not that my mother wouldn’t give me a limb if I asked for it, but I didn’t want to talk to her if I could help it.
“Just playing catch-up.” I shrugged.
“At midnight?” His eyes nearly bulged.
I inclined my head, buying time. “What can I say? I missed you so.”
He invited me in, hesitantly, and motioned for me to follow him to his office on the third floor. He opened the door to the balcony after pouring us two timbers of whiskey. I knew better than to put my lips to any drink Syllie gave me, but swirled the golden liquid in its tumbler for show.
“I know about your plan.” I let the drink slosh over the rim. “And I know who’s helping you execute it.”
That part was a lie, but if there was one thing I was good at, it was having a poker face. It had saved my ass countless times.
“Of course I studied for the test.”
“Of course you’re the only girl I thought about this week.”
“Of course I’m not too intoxicated to operate this heavy machinery.”
“I have no idea what you mean.” He leaned on the bannister, taking a sip of his drink. It was the little things that gave him away: the beads of sweat gathering at his temples, the way his lips twitched, how deeply he leaned against a high balcony. He was nervous.
I leaned against the doorframe, far from the bannister, studying him. “I hope you have a better line of defense when you get arrested, Mr. Lewis. Because trying to blow up a refinery with dozens of people inside, including the three major shareholders of Royal Pipelines, is no kiddie game.”
None of those things were confirmed, but his face twisted in horror as the words left my mouth, and I knew I was spot-on. He quickly rearranged his features, placing his timber of whiskey on the marble railing.
“Who fed you this nonsense, Sonny-boy?”
“Your partner in crime,” I replied. Another lie.
“I have no such thing.”
“Would you continue singing this tune if I told you every single time you used burner phones to call him, he recorded both of you?” I quirked an eyebrow.
Lies, lies, lies.
His face fell.
He thought I had something I wasn’t in possession of.
“Boris should know better,” he gritted out.
Boris, huh? I was sure Sailor’s dad knew who he was, and made a mental note to check.
Syllie continued, “But you have one thing wrong. I knew you weren’t going to be there. I never wished you harm.”
“Please don’t take offense when I call all the bullshits in the world on that.”
He shook his head, rushing to me. I raised a hand, motioning for him to stop where he was. He did.
“Look, I knew this thing with your father and brother was going to blow up sooner or later. I knew you wouldn’t accompany them to Maine. And you didn’t. The truth is, Sonny-boy, I would never wish you harm because…”
God, not this.
“Because I’m your father.” His throat worked around the admission, the words spilling out between us, toxic.
“My father is some Eastern European underwear model,” I countered.
“That’s what Gerald told everyone so he could keep me on his payroll, because he knew I was too important to let go of. And it’s what your mother unfortunately went along with to keep the peace in the Fitzpatrick household. But think about it, Sonny-boy. Who took care of you over the years? Who did you rush to when you needed help? Who cleaned up the mess for you? Me. Always me. I was practically a father to you without being a father to you. I took care of you. And now, I’m telling you, this is the beginning of a new era. We can take this company and run it together. We can do great things. Be a team. They will never respect you, Hunter. You are not a blue-blooded Fitzpatrick, a true heir. Your father put Cillian on the pedestal, and you will never reach his level—not because you’re not as good, but because Gerald would never allow it. You are looked down upon. They are not your family.”