We sat down at the long table, a table that could easily seat fifty people for dinner.

I couldn’t even name fifty people that I liked.

The men left the room.

My father sat at the head of the table. With a perfectly straight back and an aggressive nature, he was ready for whatever this meeting would involve.

I was still in the dark about everything. This could be a new client. This could be an enemy. This could be a friend. I really had no idea. “Who are we meeting?” My voice was minimized by the size of the room, the high ceilings that held several chandeliers. Instead of windows showing the outside world, it was just painting after painting.

“Martin Chatel.” My father continued to stare straight ahead, his fingers resting on the mahogany of the table. As if he were the one who had called the meeting, he sat with perfect poise, still as a statue.

Chatel. I recognized the family name.

French.

They had family relations all over Europe, a bloodline that traced back through kings. The wealth displayed on every wall had been respectfully inherited through superiority. My father was no longer in the criminal hemisphere, so I had no idea what our purpose was tonight. Unless he’d had a change of heart? “And why are we here?”

“Martin said he had an offer I wouldn’t refuse.”

I didn’t ask any more questions, knowing my father’s patience for talking had officially expired. My eyes moved to a painting on the wall, a portrait that stood out from all the others because it clearly didn’t belong there. Displaying a modern hand and new paint, it was a piece of art created recently, not hundreds of years ago. A young woman with brown hair the same color as this rich table sat in front of a dressing room mirror, gazing at her reflection as she prepared for whatever production she was about to perform. A brush was on the table, along with makeup supplies. She wore a tight dress and a diamond necklace. She was young, with rosy cheeks, painted lips, and eyes so blue, they were each their own ocean. She looked directly into the mirror, directly into the admirer of the piece. She seemed intelligent but innately innocent. She seemed kind but also callous.

But most of all, she was beautiful.

It was rare for the beauty of a woman to impress me, but I did appreciate art. The piece was special because it seemed so vulnerable, as if she didn’t want to sit for the painting but was forced to. I saw two sides to her—a young girl and a woman.

There was nothing else in the room more entertaining, so my eyes stayed with the painting until our host joined us.

Martin Chatel entered the room, thin and pale. He seemed like a man who hadn’t seen the sunlight in years, either because he was too busy working to make the time—or he preferred darkness. He sat at the opposite head of the table, even though that meant he was several feet away.

I ignored the interesting painting and stared at the man who had summoned us here.

Martin drummed his fingers against the table somewhat anxiously. “Caspian, it’s been a while.”

“It wouldn’t feel that way if I had a drink in my hand.” My father’s presence was suffocating at times. He could saturate your mind with words, choke you with his derisive looks. He was a strong and fearless man—which made him terrifying.

Martin paused before he released a chuckle. “This isn’t that kind of occasion.”

“I’ve never heard of an occasion where drinking wasn’t involved. Even at my wife’s funeral, I drank like an ox.” My father stared at Martin across the table, burning him with his coffee-colored eyes, before gesturing to me. “This is my son, Maverick.”

Martin looked at me, his eyes sizing me up. He stared at my blue suit, my well-kept hair, and the priceless watch that sat on my wrist. When he was satisfied with his assessment, he turned back to my father. “I know who he is.”

I suspected my father brought me to these meetings because he wasn’t as focused as he used to be. Now he was more reckless, more unpredictable. I seemed to ground him, to give him a second sight. Most importantly, I was stronger. Age had made my father weak, but youth made me limber and strong.

My father tapped his knuckles against the wood. “So, what is this offer I won’t refuse, Martin? You summoned us here without offering us a drink, so you better not have completely wasted my time.”

“And mine.” Sometimes my presence was dwarfed by my father’s, but make no mistake, I was definitely his son. I was just as cold and just as calculating. Ever since we ended our illegal activities, I’d been living a quiet life running the legitimate family business. But prior to that, I made heads roll.

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