He led me into the building and past a bar where the lackeys were enjoying their booze after a long day of criminal activity. Most of them looked me up and down like I was a plaything they would enjoy sometime that evening.
Not gonna happen.
I was led into a private room. With black walls and black-framed mirrors, it looked like a private room in a club. There was a bar in there too, but instead of having a bartender, there was just an older man in a black suit. He sat on one of the curved leather couches that faced a black coffee table. There were three glasses of scotch on the surface.
I was certain one of them was for me.
The goons shut the door behind us, leaving the three of us alone.
“She’s damaged goods,” Damien announced as he sauntered into the room. “But she didn’t give me much of a choice. Pulled a samurai sword on me. She was pretty good at wielding it too.” He approached his boss then turned to me. He snapped his fingers like a man calling to his dog.
I refused to cooperate. I probably would have sat of my own free will because booze was exactly what I needed to mask the pain. But comments like that weren’t well received. My eyes narrowed, full of murder.
The man in the suit studied me with an unreadable expression. He had a gray beard that matched the hair on his head. His skin was tanned and tight, but he looked to be in his fifties. His age hadn’t slowed down his muscularity, and he filled out the suit well. He still possessed enough strength to be a formidable opponent. “We treat our guests better than that.” He rose to his feet then indicated the leather couch across from him. “I’m sure she’s thirsty after the day she’s had. Damien, get her a few painkillers to take with her scotch. No need for her to suffer.”
If this guy were trying to kiss my ass, it wouldn’t work. If he had a demon like Damien on his payroll, he definitely wasn’t trustworthy. But the booze and pills were calling my name, so I took a seat. If they wanted to kill me, they would have done it already, so I knew their offering hadn’t been poisoned.
I took the pills and washed them down with the scotch. I drank the entire glass, needing every drop to steady my nerves. Like my father, I didn’t show fear in the face of danger, but a good glass of booze always made it a little easier. A drop dripped from the corner of my mouth, so I wiped it away with my forearm. “Let’s skip the power plays and the bullshit. I need my father, and you need me. Elaborate.” I rested my elbows on my knees as I stared at the gentleman sitting across from me. He seemed harmless, like a grandfather who only punished you when you really deserved it. But I wouldn’t let the false kindness in his eyes overshadow who he really was.
He held his glass in the hand resting on his knee as he smiled at me. “Like father, like daughter.”
“Not sure if that’s a compliment or not.” I’d inherited my father’s hardness but not his lack of morality. I also had his eyes, but that was as far as our shared attributes went. Everything else I had I received from my mother, who’d been dead for many years.
“I’ll let you decide.” He took a drink before he set the glass on the table.
Damien sat beside him, his predatory eyes glued to my face. Lust and hostility shone in his gaze. He wanted to shoot me again just to get off on it. He was a demon without a leash. There was no telling what he might do.
They obviously needed me for something. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be alive. If they wanted to torture my father and punish him, it would make sense to execute his only daughter. But I was still sitting there, the painkillers kicking in. “On with it.” Perhaps I was bolder than usual because I knew I had some sort of power in this game.
“You know Damien well, obviously,” he began. “But we haven’t had the pleasure of meeting. I’m Micah.”
“And you know who I am,” I said, not bothering with an introduction. “Where is my father?”
“In the building.” Micah wore a gold ring on his finger with a green emerald in the center. His hands showed his age, the veins mixing with the wrinkles. He must be a few years younger than my father. “The specifics don’t matter.”
“They matter if you want my cooperation.” My father taught me to always be strong, regardless of the opponent I faced. Earning your enemy’s respect was the only saving grace you would ever receive. And if your fate was unavoidable, it was best to go out with honor. I was too proud to kneel for anyone—because that was how I was raised.