The roller coaster was inching its way up that first hill.
“You told me not to worry. You didn’t say ‘don’t talk to your friend.’”
“You haven’t changed in the least,” he snapped.
Actually, I’d gone up a cup size since I was sixteen. But that didn’t feel relevant in this conversation.
“And you’re a completely different person than you used to be,” I pointed out.
“I have work to do, and you’re annoying me,” he said.
“I talked to Nash, your friend, and he isn’t too thrilled about you becoming BFFs with the FBI.” Nash’s exact words had been something along the lines of “it gives me fucking heartburn.”
“I don’t care.” Lucian’s tone was just flippant enough it made me want to march into the living room, pick up one of the scratchy pillows, and hurl it at him.
“We both couldn’t help but wonder if it was Anthony Hugo’s men who went after Holly,” I said.
“It’s none of your business. But if it was Hugo’s men, then I just proved my point. I do things that get people close to me hurt,” he snapped, that beautiful facade cracking just enough for me to catch a glimpse beneath.
“Lucian,” I said softly.
He held up his hand. “Don’t. I’d like you to go.”
I crossed my arms. “Not until you tell me where the investigation stands. Are you in danger? Are the rest of your employees taking precautions?”
“I’m not discussing this with you,” he said and headed out of the kitchen.
I followed him into the hall. “You said the guy who sold Hugo the list turned up dead. Felix Metzer, right?”
Lucian stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “How did you know that?”
“It’s not that hard to search the news for dead bodies pulled out of the Potomac.”
“The news didn’t identify him,” he countered.
“I’m a fucking librarian. I have literal resources.”
“You’re not getting involved in this, Sloane.”
His tone was icy and hard.
“I’m not asking to be involved. All I’m asking for is answers. Is the FBI close to making an arrest? Is Hugo going to retaliate again, and if so, are Lina and Nolan targets? If the guy who sold Duncan the list is dead, does that mean it’s a dead end? Is the FBI looking into financial crimes because those carry more charges? It’s not as sexy as convicting him for murdering people, but it’s usually easier to prove—”
“This is none of your business. I am none of your business.”
“Just convince me that you’re smarter and faster and more diabolical than some mob boss who’s managed to operate the family business for forty years without getting arrested once. Then I’ll leave you alone.”
“I don’t have to convince you of anything except getting out of my house, Sloane.”
He looked like he was edging past mad straight into fury.
“Look. Since you don’t seem to have a pack of family or friends giving you advice, you’re stuck with me. Messing with Anthony Hugo is a bad idea. He’ll retaliate. Let the FBI build their case, and stay out of it.”
I didn’t know why it was so important to me that he heard me. But it was.
“Your opinion is noted,” he said coldly.
I stood. “Why are you doing this?”
“Why?” he scoffed. “He tried to take from me.”
I planted myself in front of him. “So you’re going to spend your life doing what? Taking down every single person who ever wronged you?”
“I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
I blew out a breath and tried a different tactic. “I get that your father made you feel powerless, but—”
“Not another word.”
He used his scary voice on me. But it only succeeded in riling me.
“You can’t spend your entire adult life righting the wrongs your father committed. He’s already behind bars—”
“Not anymore.”
“What? He got out of prison?” My voice escalated into dog-whistle octaves.
“No. He died.”
I blinked rapidly and brought a hand to my forehead to stop the hallway from spinning. “He died?”
“Last summer.”
“Last summer?”
“You don’t need to repeat everything I say,” Lucian pointed out.
I rubbed my temples. “Why wasn’t I notified?”
His brow furrowed. “Why would you be notified?”
“Because as a victim of Ansel Fucking Rollins, I’m supposed to be alerted every time he’s moved or up for parole or fucking dead! Because I testified before the parole board every single time he was up for release to make sure that monster stayed where he belonged.” I threw my hands up in the air. “What the hell kind of justice is him just dying? Tell me it was at least horrifically painful.”
“You testified?” His voice was a strangled rasp. Hands reached out and closed around my biceps in a warm, firm grip. Gone was the unflappable Lucian, and in his place was a man on fire.
“Of course I did. Dad went with me every time. I was worried about going back without him this year, but I would have done it.”
“No one asked you to do that. It wasn’t your responsibility to keep him in there,” he said, still sounding as if he were about to erupt.
“How did it happen?” I asked.
He took a deep breath, let it out. “A stroke in his sleep. I’m told it was painless.” The words landed bitterly.
“Painless.” I choked out a humorless laugh. My father had spent his last weeks on earth suffering, and Ansel Rollins escaped peacefully in his sleep.
“Your father didn’t tell me you went before the parole board,” Lucian said.
“Why would he?” I asked, pulling out of his grip so I could pace. I thought better when I moved. “I can’t believe this. They should both be here.”
“Who?”
I stopped my frenetic pacing to look up at him. “Our fathers. Mine should be here because he was good and kind and smart and wonderful. He should be here playing with his granddaughter, planning a Mediterranean cruise with Mom, and helping us get Mary Louise out of prison. And that vile excuse for a human being who called himself your father should be here suffering every minute of every day for what he did to you.”
“And you,” Lucian said quietly.
I ignored him and marched into the living room. There I picked up one of the scratchy throw pillows, held it against my face, and let loose the scream that had been building in my throat.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, having the audacity to sound almost amused.
I tossed the pillow back on the couch. “I don’t know. It’s something Naomi does. I thought it would help.”
“Did it?”
“No. I am so enraged right now, you should probably leave.”
“This is my house,” he pointed out.
“Fine,” I huffed. “I’ll go break my own stuff until I feel better.” I headed for the front door.
He caught me just as my hand closed around the doorknob and planted his palm against the door, holding it shut.
“Back off, Lucian,” I hissed without turning around.
“Why are you so angry?” he asked.
I whirled around to face him. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“Sloane,” he said almost gently.
“I’m angry because he hurt you and your mother. He ruined you. And he gets to just, what? Escape it all? Peacefully?”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. One hot, angry tear spilled over and carved a path down my face.
He took me by the shoulders. “Don’t you dare shed a single tear over him.”
“Don’t you dare tell me how to feel about this.”
“He didn’t ruin me,” he insisted. “I didn’t let him stop me from building this life.”
“Lucian, what life?” My voice cracked.
“I have more money and power than—”
“You have things. You have millions of dollars and acquaintances in high places. You work every waking hour of the day. But none of that made you happy. You rescued the family name so it would never be associated with him, and that’s great, but that name ends with you. You got a vasectomy because he made you believe you were damaged.”
His beautiful face turned to stone. “Not everyone gets to be happy, Sloane.”
“See? That right there.” I shoved a finger in his face. “He ruined you. He ruined us.”