Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
“I abide by your rules and don’t use trafficked labor,” he said. “So the cost of business is higher. Surely, you must understand that.”
“That sounds like an excuse to me,” Luca said. “Take him.”
My men grabbed him, zip-tied his wrists, and dragged him out of the warehouse and into one of the vehicles.
No one said a word.
I surveyed the men who stared. “Select a replacement by tomorrow, or I’ll select one for you.”
It was nine in the morning when I walked into BlackBird Coffee, one of my mother’s favorite places to have breakfast. I’d been up all night and was dead tired, but I never showed anyone how exhausted I was. Not when it was a sign of weakness.
My mother was already seated at the table with her coffee and raspberry croissant.
I ordered a black coffee at the counter then took the seat across from her. I was dressed down in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, whereas she was in a taupe cashmere sweater, dark pants, and boots. A gold bracelet was on her wrist, and a diamond necklace hung around her throat. My mother preserved her beauty with every intervention at her disposal, so while she was in her golden years, she looked like she could be in her forties.
I took a drink and let the tension steep like a hot tea.
She didn’t want to break the silence first, but she knew I was far more stubborn than she was. “Your brother won’t speak to me.”
“He’ll come around.”
“He’s not as level-headed as you.”
I scoffed. “Then you don’t know me that well, Mother.”
“But I know your brother better than you do.” She drank her café crème then ripped off a piece of her raspberry croissant before she placed it in her mouth. She was thin as a rail, so I knew this was all she would eat for the day, maybe a salad for dinner. She had her own gym at the house, and she’d told me she did nearly two hours of cardio every day. “As you’ve been estranged from him for many years…”
“I’ve been estranged from him because of the shit he does—the shit you should care about.”
“I support my children in whatever their endeavors may be.”
“I bet you’d feel much differently if you had daughters rather than sons.” I didn’t raise my voice with my mother, tried to be as respectful as possible, but it was hard not to lose my temper sometimes.
“Well, fortunately for me, I don’t.” She took another bite of her croissant.
“You’re a woman. Shouldn’t that be enough of a reason?”
She looked down at her coffee and stirred it with her spoon, even though she’d already done that when I sat down. “I would never allow myself to be in that position.”
“Not everyone is as privileged as you’ve been.”
Her eyes were elsewhere as she drank her coffee. “I asked you to breakfast because I want to see my son, spend time with you, appreciate the man you’ve become. But if you’re only interested in critiquing my parenting, then perhaps you should go.”
She excused all of Godric’s behavior, like the issues were merely a matter of opinion rather than right or wrong. It was fucking infuriating. She refused to pass any kind of judgment on his activities, refused to even give an opinion about it.
She interpreted my silence as cooperation. “What’s new with you?”
“Nothing but work. But what about you?”
“I’ve taken up embroidery.”
“That’s nice.” What the fuck was embroidery?
“And I’ve started yoga. There’s a new studio down the street from my house. Met a few girls there.”
“Good for you, Mom.”
She took another bite of her croissant, most of it gone at this point. She sat perfectly straight without the chair for support, behaving like a typical rich French woman, all elegance all the time. “Are you seeing anyone?” She tore another piece off the croissant, her eyes down like she expected me to give the same answer I always gave when she asked this question.
This time, I gave a different response. “I am.”
Her eyes flicked up from what she was doing, her fingers still gripping the croissant. “You are?”
“I am,” I repeated.
She left the croissant where it lay and wiped her fingers with a napkin, her eyes locked on mine with a hint of elated surprise she did her best to hide. “Is it serious?”
It seemed serious whenever Fleur let her guard down, when she let me fully into her heart and mind. She told me things that other women were too afraid or proud to say, put her cards on the table because she thought she was out of the game. I caught her stare, the depth deeper than the flesh. And when she came back to me and begged for my forgiveness, she finally showed what I meant to her—that I was the best thing that ever happened to her. “Not yet, but we’re headed in that direction.”