Dom lowers himself into the chair, leans back, and crosses his arms. His dark eyes, nothing like mine, thank God, never leave my face.
“It’s been fucking years, and you still don’t know how to leave that girl alone.”
“I don’t take orders from you anymore.”
“And yet you’re here asking for my help.”
Impasse. Because I won’t beg for that help. I have other ways to learn what I need to know, but this should have been the quickest way to get all the answers I’m looking for today.
“When did you spill to Karas? And why?”
“You’re not part of the family anymore, Cav. What makes you think I should share a damn thing with you?”
To hear my father tell me I wasn’t part of the only family I ever had should hurt, and maybe it would if I hadn’t been immune to his barbs since I was a kid.
“She’s my woman. I’m keeping her. So I might not be part of the Casso family, according to you, but I’m going to be part of the Karas family. Just wait.”
“Karas will never let it happen. He’ll do everything he can to keep her from you.”
“He can’t hide her forever.”
“He will when he learns the rest of the truth.”
My entire body stiffens in shock. “He doesn’t know already?”
Dom shakes his head slowly from side to side, one corner of his mouth curving in a way that is more malicious than friendly.
“No, but he can learn the rest of the story anytime I want him to. So think long and hard about whether you want to push me, son.”
He says son to bait me, but Dom doesn’t realize I’m beyond caring about my paternity. I refuse to allow his threats to sway me from tracking down Greer. Either way, it’s clear I’m not getting any help here.
“That’s what I thought,” Dom says, triumph edging his tone. “Now, get your ass out of my city and back to Hollywood where you belong with all those other California nuts. Don’t come back to New York.”
He hasn’t even answered the question I asked about Karas, which makes this visit even more pointless.
“I’ll leave New York when I’m damn good and ready. And I’ll stay out of your way, if you stay out of mine.”
Without waiting for a response, I turn and head for the door, knocking my shoulder into one of his henchmen on the way out.
Next stop, the best friend.
Sunlight streams through the window and I roll over in bed, seeking the warmth of the man beside me. The heat isn’t there.
Is Cav already up? My eyes still closed, I reach out—and feel nothing but the soft bumps of a quilt. Reality invades like a bitch slap to the face, and my eyes snap open.
The sunlight streaming in through the window isn’t the blindingly beautiful Belizean sun. No, it’s . . . Where the hell am I again? My head aches and my mouth tastes like days-old caviar. Blech. For the record? I hate caviar.
I take in my surroundings while moving as little as possible. Delicate white wooden furniture, lilac wallpaper, and lace curtains. The room of a girl, not an adult.
Right. Kentucky. Creighton stashed the sister who can’t keep her shit together in Holly’s gran’s house in the backwoods.
Noises come from the kitchen below, along with the scent of bacon. Creighton? Cav? No, not Cav. Because that son of a bitch lied to me from the beginning.
Squeezing my eyes closed against the prick of tears, I can see his face right before Creighton stormed in on our little haven. Determination. Sadness. Guilt.
“I love you. You’re mine. And not even Creighton Fucking Karas is going to keep us apart.”
Sorry, Cav. That’s where you’re wrong.
Everything else that happened after is a blur courtesy of my screwed-up emotions and vodka.
Lately, I’ve become all too familiar with the state of hungover as hell. Do I have a problem? I don’t even know if I’m in denial because I’ve never thought about it. Clue number one that I should back off on the booze solves all ills school of problem-solving is how crappy I feel right now.
And then I remember the Twitter stunt.
Shit.
Did I delete it?
Searching the surface of the small nightstand next to the bed, I come up empty when I look for my phone. Oh crap. Did I lose it?
More noise comes from downstairs, and I decide that even with the pounding headache and questionable stomach, I need to get my ass out of bed and downstairs to find out what the plan is and when I can actually go home. I know I’m going to face another lecture about drinking and tweeting, but I can face that as long as the reward is breakfast.
A small bag Creighton liberated from my apartment rests on top of a desk, and I grab the necessities and make my way into the small connecting bathroom.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m showered, dressed, and making my way downstairs.